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fellowshippers2002-12-01 04:36 pm
viva-gloria.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2002-12-01 04:36 pm
FIC: Morningstar (SB/various, NC17, 1/1)
TITLE: Morningstar
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
PAIRING: various. Featuring SB.
RATING: NC17
SUMMARY: 'Fair is foul and foul is fair'.
WARNINGS: Hmm. Het sex; group sex; light bondage; drug use; unclear consent issues; references to the supernatural; Northern opinions; spoilers for Macbeth; actor/character blurring; non-standard vocabulary. May cause drowsiness: if affected do not operate heavy machinery.
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction: I made it up.
ARCHIVE: List archives, Imagin'd Glories, BTF only please
AUTHOR NOTES: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cinzia, most wondrously attuned of betas, without whom this would not have been written.
The first witch blindfolds him with black silk, knotting the slithery fabric firmly above his ear as her cool, slippery skin slides against his back. He feels her nakedness and grins, still confident.
The second binds his wrists with skin-soft velvet, and her tongue laps catlike at his throat as she winds the Mobius bond around itself. Her arms are long and warm against his bare torso as she twists another loop between his wrists and around the metalwork of the headboard. He writhes obligingly, and laughs.
The third witch unbinds: undressing him, her tongue his only gag, as he begins to realise that - fantasy or not - they're pushing the game, the play, the scene much further than he'd have let them, if they'd asked.
They hadn't asked. The invitation had mentioned drinks and introductions. Arriving to find the three waiting for him, still in their black slashed satin, in an otherwise-empty hotel suite, he'd thought he knew what to expect. He'd grinned, laughed, drunk down the heavy red wine they'd poured for him. Somewhere, there, he had acquiesced.
Now blood rises in his cheeks as the last of his clothes are gently drawn away. He's naked, blind, bound, aroused, with three young women working their pagan magic on him. There is nothing unnatural about his body's response: soon enough the blood's drawn back down from his face by their insistent hands, their lips, their tongues, their simple strength. He is outnumbered here, and that amuses them. They're giggling as they work him.
Cool fingers press against his lips after one deep kiss. He opens wide to lick thick, sweet liquid from a witch's hand. It tastes of honey and cloves, but there's a bitter chemical layer underneath. He licks carefully down the length of each finger: thinks that makes him familiar, her familiar, and chuckles.
What is it they've given him? He's suddenly dizzy and hot, his skin tiled with preternatural sensitivity. It feels good. He's grinning again without knowing why. Though their cool hands, their hot lips are all over him, paying homage to the king he's played ... teasing him until he writhes and arches under their tripartite ministrations, groaning and laughing as a mouth encircles his erection, a mouth encircles his nipple, a mouth circles and lands on his, sealing his voice underneath.
Long hair tickles silkily on the tender skin behind his knees as he shifts, tugging at his restraints: if he lies flat on his back, the knot of his blindfold rests comfortably against his skull. He's achingly hard, but none of the soft bodies sliding against him seems interested in engulfing him. A tongue runs deliberately up his shaft, with a teasing flick underneath the head that makes him groan. He opens his mouth to beg for more, and he's being kissed again, tasting the salt of his own skin on the witch's lips. A long-nailed hand strokes up his back, scratching ever so lightly through the layer of sweat, and he shivers. The temperature of the air is a palpable thing, like a coat, and the hairs on his skin horripilate as someone breathes, soft and warm, against his bare neck.
They're chanting now, singing softly. One of them is off-key and that dizzies him. He can't make out the words, though the melody is achingly familiar. Summoning? Soothing? Suddenly Sean's afraid, afraid that this isn't just the game that's been out of his hands since he let them tie him up. Afraid that something unreal, too real, is about to happen and that he'll be powerless before it. Afraid that everything he knows is a lie.
A soothing hand strokes his face, strokes the brief panic away, in time with the other hands on his body that aren't soothing at all. If they are speaking to him, his racing pulse drowns out their words. He could almost drown, himself, in the surge of his own blood: in the heady clove-flavoured kiss that mimics the action of that other mouth on his cock. His hips thrust up helplessly, but the witch is faster and her mouth slips off him. Bedsprings creak as she sits back.
The third witch is still chanting. The unknown words flutter against his belly as she presses her soft breasts against his thighs, wriggling up until his erection is enveloped and he's pumping up into her cleavage, dry soft skin rubbing and yielding against him. His cock touches her throat and he can feel the words, the spell, vibrating in her larynx. It's almost too much, almost enough: so of course she draws back, denying him. He groans.
One of the witches has short fingernails, a fact for which he's profoundly grateful as her mysteriously slick fingers work their way slowly and prosaically inside him, pressing expertly, opening him up for an invasion he can't imagine. He envisions rubber and leather, silicone-slick, hermaphrodised witch turning the tables and making him take it like a woman. His breath shivers in his throat, and that soothing hand is back again, telling him (more clearly than words could) not to panic.
"We're giving you to our master," a witch murmurs in his ear. "To the Devil." They all giggle.
It is vitally important (he realises through the chemical haze) that he says something, that he acknowledges their intention ... that he consents. His cock twitches in enthusiastic semaphore even as he wonders who the witches have entangled in their scheme. Who's their master? Who's their Devil?
"I'm hardly a virgin sacrifice," he manages at last, mouth freed from another deep, slow kiss.
"You are."
"Oh, you are."
"In the only way that matters here, you are."
The witches laugh again. There's a sudden cold breeze from somewhere, blowing their long loose hair free over his skin. Their hands withdraw from him, as synchronised as puppets'. There are sounds of kissing and sharp inhalations. There are sounds of bare feet padding over a wooden floor. There's the sound of another person breathing, deep and regular. Fabric sighs against fabric as the witches retreat.
Sean writhes, not caring if he is watched. They've left him on the edge, and with bound hands he cannot even minister to himself. His head's back and he's breathing fast and shallow, almost gasping, though it's not enough to cover the chuckle of his unseen companion. It's a man's voice. It's their master, their Devil.
"Who are you?" Sean says, turning his head towards that gentle laugh. His voice is rough with excitement: there's no point hiding it. He tries to breathe more steadily, but he's lost his balance.
He's falling, briefly forgets which way is up ... thrashes around on the disordered bed before warm limbs, not a witch's, enfold him. He's read somewhere that the Devil's prick is as cold as ice, but the hard cock pressed against the curve of his ass is burning hot. The Devil smells ... good. Familiar.
"Just call me Lucifer," the Devil whispers to him, and presses wet lips to the wet hollow underneath his throat.
Seems the Devil is American. Seems the Devil is pulling him back, parting his legs and laying him on his side, long lubricated fingers pressing against him again, stretching him more than before. Two fingers, scissoring inside him: Sean convulses with the newness of it, distracted for a moment from remembering where he's heard that voice before. He's sure the Devil never did this to him: no one ever did this to him, voice or not. He'd remember this. He pushes against those two wicked fingers, and grunts when a third, cooler finger works its way inside beside them.
He's moaning continuously now as the Devil's other hand cradles and weighs his balls. He can feel the stubble on the Devil's chin as a hot, wet tongue inscribes sigils across his chest. Sean's words have all been stolen, and he's left with "Please" and "Oh" and "God". The Devil chuckles against his heart when he says "God", and bites at his skin. Sean regains the word "Fuck".
And at last, at last, it's the end of time. The Devil's twined around him, lifting his leg, pushing and slipping inside agonisingly and slowly. He's enough of a gentleman to wait for the pain to expand and dissipate, cloudlike, before he pushes further into Sean. All the while he's whispering in Sean's ear, whispering of lust, and greed, and wasted waiting time.
They're falling together. The Devil's broad, elegant hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking in implacable rhythm with the thrusts that he's pushing back against. The Devil's other hand caresses Sean's hot face, like a witch, like a lover. The Devil's mouth is on the juncture of throat and collarbone, moving lazily, teeth nipping at the tender skin. There is nothing lazy about the rhythm of their hips together. The Devil's hot inside him, slowly dragging out of him, driving back in fast and relentless. Sean twists against his bound hands, swearing and gasping, so far out of himself that he doesn't stop to be amazed by how good it feels to be taken. Rainbows pour out behind the blindfold as a thumb presses, just so, under the head of his cock. He chokes on words as he comes.
The Devil's breathing is as ragged as his own: his rhythm falters and crumbles: his hands press against Sean's hip-bones like a sculptor as he sobs Sean's name and slams into him, freezing, burning, still.
Time stops.
They fall to earth, or through earth, and wind up wrapped around each other on a bed that's moist and cool with drying sweat and semen.
"Macbeth's been taken by the Devil," murmurs that familiar, precise drawl. Careful hands release Sean's wrists, thumbs rubbing stickily across the base of his palms.
"'Not in the legions of horrid hell can come a devil more damned in evils to top Macbeth'," Sean quotes, grinning. He is astounded that his brain can put together any three of those words.
The Devil, his lover, his friend, is laughing helplessly. "You're saying Macbeth should top the Devil instead?" he says, still chuckling, and kisses Sean hot and hard. "I'm game."
Sean runs his tongue across parted lips and tastes the cleft in Viggo's chin as he's wanted to, it seems, for years. Later, perhaps, they'll talk about this. Later, they'll look at one another.
-end-
FURTHER NOTES / ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The basic premise (witches+Sean) occurred to me when I first saw the Edward Hall production of Macbeth. Further inspiration was provided bycinzia's wonderful De Amore, and by cruisedirector's stunning Prophecy slash fic, Blasphemy.
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
PAIRING: various. Featuring SB.
RATING: NC17
SUMMARY: 'Fair is foul and foul is fair'.
WARNINGS: Hmm. Het sex; group sex; light bondage; drug use; unclear consent issues; references to the supernatural; Northern opinions; spoilers for Macbeth; actor/character blurring; non-standard vocabulary. May cause drowsiness: if affected do not operate heavy machinery.
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction: I made it up.
ARCHIVE: List archives, Imagin'd Glories, BTF only please
AUTHOR NOTES: For
cinzia, most wondrously attuned of betas, without whom this would not have been written.The first witch blindfolds him with black silk, knotting the slithery fabric firmly above his ear as her cool, slippery skin slides against his back. He feels her nakedness and grins, still confident.
The second binds his wrists with skin-soft velvet, and her tongue laps catlike at his throat as she winds the Mobius bond around itself. Her arms are long and warm against his bare torso as she twists another loop between his wrists and around the metalwork of the headboard. He writhes obligingly, and laughs.
The third witch unbinds: undressing him, her tongue his only gag, as he begins to realise that - fantasy or not - they're pushing the game, the play, the scene much further than he'd have let them, if they'd asked.
They hadn't asked. The invitation had mentioned drinks and introductions. Arriving to find the three waiting for him, still in their black slashed satin, in an otherwise-empty hotel suite, he'd thought he knew what to expect. He'd grinned, laughed, drunk down the heavy red wine they'd poured for him. Somewhere, there, he had acquiesced.
Now blood rises in his cheeks as the last of his clothes are gently drawn away. He's naked, blind, bound, aroused, with three young women working their pagan magic on him. There is nothing unnatural about his body's response: soon enough the blood's drawn back down from his face by their insistent hands, their lips, their tongues, their simple strength. He is outnumbered here, and that amuses them. They're giggling as they work him.
Cool fingers press against his lips after one deep kiss. He opens wide to lick thick, sweet liquid from a witch's hand. It tastes of honey and cloves, but there's a bitter chemical layer underneath. He licks carefully down the length of each finger: thinks that makes him familiar, her familiar, and chuckles.
What is it they've given him? He's suddenly dizzy and hot, his skin tiled with preternatural sensitivity. It feels good. He's grinning again without knowing why. Though their cool hands, their hot lips are all over him, paying homage to the king he's played ... teasing him until he writhes and arches under their tripartite ministrations, groaning and laughing as a mouth encircles his erection, a mouth encircles his nipple, a mouth circles and lands on his, sealing his voice underneath.
Long hair tickles silkily on the tender skin behind his knees as he shifts, tugging at his restraints: if he lies flat on his back, the knot of his blindfold rests comfortably against his skull. He's achingly hard, but none of the soft bodies sliding against him seems interested in engulfing him. A tongue runs deliberately up his shaft, with a teasing flick underneath the head that makes him groan. He opens his mouth to beg for more, and he's being kissed again, tasting the salt of his own skin on the witch's lips. A long-nailed hand strokes up his back, scratching ever so lightly through the layer of sweat, and he shivers. The temperature of the air is a palpable thing, like a coat, and the hairs on his skin horripilate as someone breathes, soft and warm, against his bare neck.
They're chanting now, singing softly. One of them is off-key and that dizzies him. He can't make out the words, though the melody is achingly familiar. Summoning? Soothing? Suddenly Sean's afraid, afraid that this isn't just the game that's been out of his hands since he let them tie him up. Afraid that something unreal, too real, is about to happen and that he'll be powerless before it. Afraid that everything he knows is a lie.
A soothing hand strokes his face, strokes the brief panic away, in time with the other hands on his body that aren't soothing at all. If they are speaking to him, his racing pulse drowns out their words. He could almost drown, himself, in the surge of his own blood: in the heady clove-flavoured kiss that mimics the action of that other mouth on his cock. His hips thrust up helplessly, but the witch is faster and her mouth slips off him. Bedsprings creak as she sits back.
The third witch is still chanting. The unknown words flutter against his belly as she presses her soft breasts against his thighs, wriggling up until his erection is enveloped and he's pumping up into her cleavage, dry soft skin rubbing and yielding against him. His cock touches her throat and he can feel the words, the spell, vibrating in her larynx. It's almost too much, almost enough: so of course she draws back, denying him. He groans.
One of the witches has short fingernails, a fact for which he's profoundly grateful as her mysteriously slick fingers work their way slowly and prosaically inside him, pressing expertly, opening him up for an invasion he can't imagine. He envisions rubber and leather, silicone-slick, hermaphrodised witch turning the tables and making him take it like a woman. His breath shivers in his throat, and that soothing hand is back again, telling him (more clearly than words could) not to panic.
"We're giving you to our master," a witch murmurs in his ear. "To the Devil." They all giggle.
It is vitally important (he realises through the chemical haze) that he says something, that he acknowledges their intention ... that he consents. His cock twitches in enthusiastic semaphore even as he wonders who the witches have entangled in their scheme. Who's their master? Who's their Devil?
"I'm hardly a virgin sacrifice," he manages at last, mouth freed from another deep, slow kiss.
"You are."
"Oh, you are."
"In the only way that matters here, you are."
The witches laugh again. There's a sudden cold breeze from somewhere, blowing their long loose hair free over his skin. Their hands withdraw from him, as synchronised as puppets'. There are sounds of kissing and sharp inhalations. There are sounds of bare feet padding over a wooden floor. There's the sound of another person breathing, deep and regular. Fabric sighs against fabric as the witches retreat.
Sean writhes, not caring if he is watched. They've left him on the edge, and with bound hands he cannot even minister to himself. His head's back and he's breathing fast and shallow, almost gasping, though it's not enough to cover the chuckle of his unseen companion. It's a man's voice. It's their master, their Devil.
"Who are you?" Sean says, turning his head towards that gentle laugh. His voice is rough with excitement: there's no point hiding it. He tries to breathe more steadily, but he's lost his balance.
He's falling, briefly forgets which way is up ... thrashes around on the disordered bed before warm limbs, not a witch's, enfold him. He's read somewhere that the Devil's prick is as cold as ice, but the hard cock pressed against the curve of his ass is burning hot. The Devil smells ... good. Familiar.
"Just call me Lucifer," the Devil whispers to him, and presses wet lips to the wet hollow underneath his throat.
Seems the Devil is American. Seems the Devil is pulling him back, parting his legs and laying him on his side, long lubricated fingers pressing against him again, stretching him more than before. Two fingers, scissoring inside him: Sean convulses with the newness of it, distracted for a moment from remembering where he's heard that voice before. He's sure the Devil never did this to him: no one ever did this to him, voice or not. He'd remember this. He pushes against those two wicked fingers, and grunts when a third, cooler finger works its way inside beside them.
He's moaning continuously now as the Devil's other hand cradles and weighs his balls. He can feel the stubble on the Devil's chin as a hot, wet tongue inscribes sigils across his chest. Sean's words have all been stolen, and he's left with "Please" and "Oh" and "God". The Devil chuckles against his heart when he says "God", and bites at his skin. Sean regains the word "Fuck".
And at last, at last, it's the end of time. The Devil's twined around him, lifting his leg, pushing and slipping inside agonisingly and slowly. He's enough of a gentleman to wait for the pain to expand and dissipate, cloudlike, before he pushes further into Sean. All the while he's whispering in Sean's ear, whispering of lust, and greed, and wasted waiting time.
They're falling together. The Devil's broad, elegant hand is wrapped around his cock, stroking in implacable rhythm with the thrusts that he's pushing back against. The Devil's other hand caresses Sean's hot face, like a witch, like a lover. The Devil's mouth is on the juncture of throat and collarbone, moving lazily, teeth nipping at the tender skin. There is nothing lazy about the rhythm of their hips together. The Devil's hot inside him, slowly dragging out of him, driving back in fast and relentless. Sean twists against his bound hands, swearing and gasping, so far out of himself that he doesn't stop to be amazed by how good it feels to be taken. Rainbows pour out behind the blindfold as a thumb presses, just so, under the head of his cock. He chokes on words as he comes.
The Devil's breathing is as ragged as his own: his rhythm falters and crumbles: his hands press against Sean's hip-bones like a sculptor as he sobs Sean's name and slams into him, freezing, burning, still.
Time stops.
They fall to earth, or through earth, and wind up wrapped around each other on a bed that's moist and cool with drying sweat and semen.
"Macbeth's been taken by the Devil," murmurs that familiar, precise drawl. Careful hands release Sean's wrists, thumbs rubbing stickily across the base of his palms.
"'Not in the legions of horrid hell can come a devil more damned in evils to top Macbeth'," Sean quotes, grinning. He is astounded that his brain can put together any three of those words.
The Devil, his lover, his friend, is laughing helplessly. "You're saying Macbeth should top the Devil instead?" he says, still chuckling, and kisses Sean hot and hard. "I'm game."
Sean runs his tongue across parted lips and tastes the cleft in Viggo's chin as he's wanted to, it seems, for years. Later, perhaps, they'll talk about this. Later, they'll look at one another.
-end-
FURTHER NOTES / ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The basic premise (witches+Sean) occurred to me when I first saw the Edward Hall production of Macbeth. Further inspiration was provided by
cinzia's wonderful De Amore, and by cruisedirector's stunning Prophecy slash fic, Blasphemy.
no subject
no subject
What a splendid way to spend New Year's Eve!
no subject
I know, I know. That's not much feedback. But it would take me hours to write everything I think and feel about this. Let's just say that even though I did not see Macbeth, I was fascinated from the very first line. Of course, I've heard about Sean Bean and that particular play so....
I found the premise for this completely fascinating. You managed to create an atmosphere of surreality that kept me on the edge of my seat until the end. I did not quite know what to expect until the arrival of "The Devil". And even then, I was still waiting to see whether it was Viggo or just "The Devil", lol. It was quite gripping.
And beautifully written, with a mastery of the "show-no-tell" that leaves me in awe of your writing skills.
Absolutely adored it.
no subject
...groping around on floor, trying to locate jaw...
(This has been an incoherant Pecos review) (Two thumbs up, per hand)
Er, about these chains ...
The Devil made me do it.
Glad you enjoyed! Will do my best re the next 100 stories ...
*raises hand to play the part of a witch--have red hair! :D
Am very jealous of all those in London who get to see this man in this role. :p