Summers in a Dungeon
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tamingthemuseTitle: Summers in a Dungeon
Author: tigerstriped86
Fandom: Original fiction
Rating: Mature (for vague use of sexual objects and references to dom/sub relationships)
Prompts: 155-lip sync and july summer challenge
Disc.: Names have been fiddled with to protect the not-so-innocent. Any resemblance to your life gets my commiseration and are coincidental. We should go out and have coffee. I don't own the song either. But I do a killer rendition.
Summary: My birthday present was late. Thing is, I wasn't quite sure what the present was at that point.
“Anthony?”
My words do nothing more than to echo through the room. He is still there, though he never promised he would stay. Its muggy without being too brutal, seeing as how dungeons are not famous for their air conditioning. The heightened presence of shadows and mysterious groans do no better than to keep me on edge.
Anthony had been tying the metaphorical knots for long enough. But when the time came, two others were upon me. His stepson and his boy sent in to do his bitch work. I was merely another minion to him without the notice that my will was not my own. But I didn't need a notice for that.
When writing fan fiction, a lot of authors write vampire courts, especially for Angelus, as dark places full of the mythology of old kings and warlords. That mythology in many places still exists and you can see it in Anthony's eyes, or at least once. Once is always enough when you offer yourself.
Those eyes can turn as dark and ferociously seductive as the room itself. He does not hold the knots and the control itself should belong to me. But I watched him flit far too closely, knowing he would hang on the edge and he would flirt with my disaster as he waited, waited to structure me into the minion I deserved to be.
It was summer then and muggy enough. My birthday present extended much longer than I had ever thought. It wasn't hope, that feeling in the pit of my stomach that followed the nausea and the courage of the bottle of Morgan that burned through my system. Every touch was heightened and every fantasy bemusing. Rough hands, the wood of the Andrews cross, and those damn real knots.
“Good luck.” Anthony's step son had wished me luck with those eyes that did nothing but remind me of a puppy waiting to be bought. I had tried loving him, satiating him, to get close to Anthony. That had failed. Garnering attention from the leather king had failed. Every attempt had been met by a witticism, a challenge, a hateful prop, or a colorful story. And there was the threat, veiled behind a promise of something I didn't understand.
But I knew I was walking down the road, maybe by my own terms. I think his name was Andre and his tools of torture were numerous. Beads and clamps for every orifice, manner upon manner of cage and texture. The heat stifled my bare back, prickly and itchy bumps already forming.
In my mind somewhere, there was a snarl of a response as Andre tried to force my eyes and will upon him. But I would not bend. A crack of the whip and I would not turn my eyes from the space over his shoulder. Words cut my chest, my beating heart exposed with a whimpering tear that I defiantly tried to shake away with the sweat.
“Anthony!” My bleats were vague. But it wasn't fear of pain. No, there was plenty of pain that was supposed to reach into intoxicating pleasure. But this deep voice resounding without answer was pain, and denial, and anger, and childhood. It was the glass through which the minion shook his fist.
I did not talk nor grow. My jeans remained without twist, no static charge inside of them. Andre tried, mercilessly. Paddles and cages, leather dog tags and humiliating postures. I tuned them out, muscles raging and fires fueled. Even his own body pressed against mine, releasing a human howl of instinctual protection. Anthony stood there, waiting to mock or laugh. Perhaps I could never make him proud of me. Perhaps that wasn't what I wanted.
I loved Angel even then and writing about Angel because he saw people for who they were and their own possibilities as they grew before him, for good or ill. At least, that's how I saw him. The truth is probably more bitter.
“Water.”
“How do you ask, boy?” Andre snarled at me, patience broken. The last of the table at the far end waited, gleaming, to play.
“Give him his precious rum.” Anthony's voice hissed from far away.
I was sweating then, delirious with my own tears. I relaxed against the Andrews cross and found the syrupy drink of rum and coke upon my lips, sloshed about violently. I saw Angel in the bottom of that cup. But I didn't want his rescue in my delirium, the rescue I did want made my body shrivel and my soul ache. But Angel was there, wanting to help and desperate to end that part of my pain. Was I turning then? Who could tell?
“Anthony.” A dominant master's will is usually shown by a lock in the place of a locket, Masters keep the keys. I was to be locked up. The thing I had spent my entire life fighting for was the one thing I was losing. I was losing my will and my freedom to the darkness of the dungeon.
I began laughing at the absurdity of the pain, the planning, and the heights which we had all reached in our own wretched humanities. Each bit player had brought me here from the rolling doctor at birth who tried to protect my infant body to a teacher from kindergarten who had been far too hot for her own good, to a drill sergeant wanting me in his platoon knowing that I would do a damn fine job.
The cross is known to bear weight and pain, but I doubled over in laughter instead. The beams shook, all noises ceasing. They believe I have fell and am ready to be twisted. But I believe in that white hot point inside of myself craving a freedom that was touched once, long ago. That part of myself that can only really be reclaimed by realizing the worth inside my power.
I shake my head as Andre tries to clasp the lock. I shake my wrists and my arms against the weights of the nylon rope. I surge forth, an angry feeling stirring near my cock. Being trodden on enough causes one to lose one's patience.
My voice cracks. “Anthony?”
I shut my eyes and sigh, realizing the futility of this. I can't be free of him, but I can never be his either. I don't belong to him, I belong to a different world in a time that shifts between the present and the past, fictional character and strange beast. In a world where Angel's redemption live and the Powers that Screw You are replaced by the one who bears the golden rule.
Andre holds me down but can't seem to clasp the lock. I am scarred, burnt on the inside. I am alone in the crowded room. I am insane, but I feel so alive. And I begin to sing. Somewhere inside my body, the words break free from their normal scared lip sync and are borne from a deep and truly honest part of myself. I fly on those eagle's wings past the dungeon and the alcohol.
What good is sitting all alone in your room
Come here the music play
Life is a cabaret old chum
So come to the cabaret
“We can't have this. You're disturbing the others.”
I chortle at Andre. “What do you care? You didn't even know what you were facing when you met me. You just thought I was gonna roll over into a lustful grave and be yours because I was hung up on Anthony?”
“I was told you came because you were curious.”
I sigh, hanging my head. “I suppose I am. I suppose I always wondered about the comfort of the beads, why someone who subject themselves to the punishments in the cave. But that wasn't my curiosity. I wondered how far he would let it go.”
Andre furrows his brow, stepping away. “There are lots of reasons people become like us.”
I shake my head. “I'm not you, Andre. Untie me.”
Andre snarls, grabbing for the paddle. “I'll teach you that you're just like me.”
“No.” Anthony's voice sparks behind me. His shirtless body pressed against the other side of the cross. “He's just like me, only too young.”
I close my eyes, leaving Andre from my sight. “I'm not that young and you know it.”
Anthony shrugs. “Not in straight years, maybe. But we both know I've fought for so much fucking more. What gives you the right to think that I would ever...”
I shake my head. “I'm foolish. I admit that. I also admit that I don't understand because my most successful relationships pale in comparison. But that doesn't mean I can't want you, can't flirt with you.”
“You are hopeless.”
“Am not.”
“Shut up.” Anthony hisses. “I'm gonna make you regret everything.”
He's pretty good with his word. He knew he didn't need weapons or fresh ideas. The scrape of his nails against my skin is enough. The heat of his breath, lined with stale alcohol and that spicy scent of Marlboro from so long ago. He traces the vein from my neck, downward.
I've always seen myself as nothing. He didn't even have to thrall me. He just had to be himself, carry me into the center of his universe. I was content to sit, acknowledged for serving. But maybe the skill of a true leader is recognizing another with potential rather than skill.
“I'm gonna show you what's beneath the pain.”
I gulp. “Only this time, don't be nice about it.”
Anthony smirks. “She's not here to stop me. Happy birthday.”
Whether late or not, his teeth still graze my skin the same way. That familiar burning regret with the taste of sweat on my skin rises up. The glorious, frightening pulsing of bone against vein. He's looking for his spot. And with his nose bearing down upon my neck, I feel that living spot inside of me grow brighter.
“Anthony.”
The first biting down from the sire is a strange mixture of pain and carnality. You can bleed into it from your body, your soul, anywhere. It makes every inch of you melt into desire and a fused fury of confusion. Your entire body pants like a Pavlovian dog and your murmurs go nowhere on the wind.
In that intimate moment, I find exactly what I want. He is close, but still so independent of me. And I can feel his body as mine shakes away from its past shackles, but it is only enough to reach a certain high. I sheltered my spirit from danger. But when I finally was untied, I was not locked away. I was an equal.
Author: tigerstriped86
Fandom: Original fiction
Rating: Mature (for vague use of sexual objects and references to dom/sub relationships)
Prompts: 155-lip sync and july summer challenge
Disc.: Names have been fiddled with to protect the not-so-innocent. Any resemblance to your life gets my commiseration and are coincidental. We should go out and have coffee. I don't own the song either. But I do a killer rendition.
Summary: My birthday present was late. Thing is, I wasn't quite sure what the present was at that point.
“Anthony?”
My words do nothing more than to echo through the room. He is still there, though he never promised he would stay. Its muggy without being too brutal, seeing as how dungeons are not famous for their air conditioning. The heightened presence of shadows and mysterious groans do no better than to keep me on edge.
Anthony had been tying the metaphorical knots for long enough. But when the time came, two others were upon me. His stepson and his boy sent in to do his bitch work. I was merely another minion to him without the notice that my will was not my own. But I didn't need a notice for that.
When writing fan fiction, a lot of authors write vampire courts, especially for Angelus, as dark places full of the mythology of old kings and warlords. That mythology in many places still exists and you can see it in Anthony's eyes, or at least once. Once is always enough when you offer yourself.
Those eyes can turn as dark and ferociously seductive as the room itself. He does not hold the knots and the control itself should belong to me. But I watched him flit far too closely, knowing he would hang on the edge and he would flirt with my disaster as he waited, waited to structure me into the minion I deserved to be.
It was summer then and muggy enough. My birthday present extended much longer than I had ever thought. It wasn't hope, that feeling in the pit of my stomach that followed the nausea and the courage of the bottle of Morgan that burned through my system. Every touch was heightened and every fantasy bemusing. Rough hands, the wood of the Andrews cross, and those damn real knots.
“Good luck.” Anthony's step son had wished me luck with those eyes that did nothing but remind me of a puppy waiting to be bought. I had tried loving him, satiating him, to get close to Anthony. That had failed. Garnering attention from the leather king had failed. Every attempt had been met by a witticism, a challenge, a hateful prop, or a colorful story. And there was the threat, veiled behind a promise of something I didn't understand.
But I knew I was walking down the road, maybe by my own terms. I think his name was Andre and his tools of torture were numerous. Beads and clamps for every orifice, manner upon manner of cage and texture. The heat stifled my bare back, prickly and itchy bumps already forming.
In my mind somewhere, there was a snarl of a response as Andre tried to force my eyes and will upon him. But I would not bend. A crack of the whip and I would not turn my eyes from the space over his shoulder. Words cut my chest, my beating heart exposed with a whimpering tear that I defiantly tried to shake away with the sweat.
“Anthony!” My bleats were vague. But it wasn't fear of pain. No, there was plenty of pain that was supposed to reach into intoxicating pleasure. But this deep voice resounding without answer was pain, and denial, and anger, and childhood. It was the glass through which the minion shook his fist.
I did not talk nor grow. My jeans remained without twist, no static charge inside of them. Andre tried, mercilessly. Paddles and cages, leather dog tags and humiliating postures. I tuned them out, muscles raging and fires fueled. Even his own body pressed against mine, releasing a human howl of instinctual protection. Anthony stood there, waiting to mock or laugh. Perhaps I could never make him proud of me. Perhaps that wasn't what I wanted.
I loved Angel even then and writing about Angel because he saw people for who they were and their own possibilities as they grew before him, for good or ill. At least, that's how I saw him. The truth is probably more bitter.
“Water.”
“How do you ask, boy?” Andre snarled at me, patience broken. The last of the table at the far end waited, gleaming, to play.
“Give him his precious rum.” Anthony's voice hissed from far away.
I was sweating then, delirious with my own tears. I relaxed against the Andrews cross and found the syrupy drink of rum and coke upon my lips, sloshed about violently. I saw Angel in the bottom of that cup. But I didn't want his rescue in my delirium, the rescue I did want made my body shrivel and my soul ache. But Angel was there, wanting to help and desperate to end that part of my pain. Was I turning then? Who could tell?
“Anthony.” A dominant master's will is usually shown by a lock in the place of a locket, Masters keep the keys. I was to be locked up. The thing I had spent my entire life fighting for was the one thing I was losing. I was losing my will and my freedom to the darkness of the dungeon.
I began laughing at the absurdity of the pain, the planning, and the heights which we had all reached in our own wretched humanities. Each bit player had brought me here from the rolling doctor at birth who tried to protect my infant body to a teacher from kindergarten who had been far too hot for her own good, to a drill sergeant wanting me in his platoon knowing that I would do a damn fine job.
The cross is known to bear weight and pain, but I doubled over in laughter instead. The beams shook, all noises ceasing. They believe I have fell and am ready to be twisted. But I believe in that white hot point inside of myself craving a freedom that was touched once, long ago. That part of myself that can only really be reclaimed by realizing the worth inside my power.
I shake my head as Andre tries to clasp the lock. I shake my wrists and my arms against the weights of the nylon rope. I surge forth, an angry feeling stirring near my cock. Being trodden on enough causes one to lose one's patience.
My voice cracks. “Anthony?”
I shut my eyes and sigh, realizing the futility of this. I can't be free of him, but I can never be his either. I don't belong to him, I belong to a different world in a time that shifts between the present and the past, fictional character and strange beast. In a world where Angel's redemption live and the Powers that Screw You are replaced by the one who bears the golden rule.
Andre holds me down but can't seem to clasp the lock. I am scarred, burnt on the inside. I am alone in the crowded room. I am insane, but I feel so alive. And I begin to sing. Somewhere inside my body, the words break free from their normal scared lip sync and are borne from a deep and truly honest part of myself. I fly on those eagle's wings past the dungeon and the alcohol.
What good is sitting all alone in your room
Come here the music play
Life is a cabaret old chum
So come to the cabaret
“We can't have this. You're disturbing the others.”
I chortle at Andre. “What do you care? You didn't even know what you were facing when you met me. You just thought I was gonna roll over into a lustful grave and be yours because I was hung up on Anthony?”
“I was told you came because you were curious.”
I sigh, hanging my head. “I suppose I am. I suppose I always wondered about the comfort of the beads, why someone who subject themselves to the punishments in the cave. But that wasn't my curiosity. I wondered how far he would let it go.”
Andre furrows his brow, stepping away. “There are lots of reasons people become like us.”
I shake my head. “I'm not you, Andre. Untie me.”
Andre snarls, grabbing for the paddle. “I'll teach you that you're just like me.”
“No.” Anthony's voice sparks behind me. His shirtless body pressed against the other side of the cross. “He's just like me, only too young.”
I close my eyes, leaving Andre from my sight. “I'm not that young and you know it.”
Anthony shrugs. “Not in straight years, maybe. But we both know I've fought for so much fucking more. What gives you the right to think that I would ever...”
I shake my head. “I'm foolish. I admit that. I also admit that I don't understand because my most successful relationships pale in comparison. But that doesn't mean I can't want you, can't flirt with you.”
“You are hopeless.”
“Am not.”
“Shut up.” Anthony hisses. “I'm gonna make you regret everything.”
He's pretty good with his word. He knew he didn't need weapons or fresh ideas. The scrape of his nails against my skin is enough. The heat of his breath, lined with stale alcohol and that spicy scent of Marlboro from so long ago. He traces the vein from my neck, downward.
I've always seen myself as nothing. He didn't even have to thrall me. He just had to be himself, carry me into the center of his universe. I was content to sit, acknowledged for serving. But maybe the skill of a true leader is recognizing another with potential rather than skill.
“I'm gonna show you what's beneath the pain.”
I gulp. “Only this time, don't be nice about it.”
Anthony smirks. “She's not here to stop me. Happy birthday.”
Whether late or not, his teeth still graze my skin the same way. That familiar burning regret with the taste of sweat on my skin rises up. The glorious, frightening pulsing of bone against vein. He's looking for his spot. And with his nose bearing down upon my neck, I feel that living spot inside of me grow brighter.
“Anthony.”
The first biting down from the sire is a strange mixture of pain and carnality. You can bleed into it from your body, your soul, anywhere. It makes every inch of you melt into desire and a fused fury of confusion. Your entire body pants like a Pavlovian dog and your murmurs go nowhere on the wind.
In that intimate moment, I find exactly what I want. He is close, but still so independent of me. And I can feel his body as mine shakes away from its past shackles, but it is only enough to reach a certain high. I sheltered my spirit from danger. But when I finally was untied, I was not locked away. I was an equal.
