Another Word for Alive

Movieverse. Victor/Remy. NC-17. ~5000 words. Dubcon/coercion.
Too long locked up in a cage like an animal and the first bit of kindness from the real animal here has fucked with his head.

Most of the others slept. Brought on by exhaustion, boredom or drugs, sleep served to pass the time. Even without windows, it was easy enough to tell the passing of days by the comings and goings of their jailers. Life outside the labs went on as normal.

Remy isn’t sure how long he’s been here. Long enough for the wounds he’d suffered during his capture to close, slowly turn to pink and begin to fade. The stubble on his jaw became a beard, vanished between one waking moment and the next, then began to grow again.

The drugs they’d pumped into him for that first hazy however long had crept under his skin like the crawl of hundreds and hundreds of ants. He would’ve clawed himself bloody if they hadn’t sapped his strength as well, left him dazed and agonised, as helpless to stop his body’s fitful twitching as the garbled prayers that fell from cracked lips.

But practice makes perfect, and the endless months give the good Major plenty of time to find a cocktail that keeps him weak enough to control without the danger of nearly killing him. With barely enough energy to maintain the beat of his own heart, he’s useless. It takes him weeks to realise he can’t remember when last he felt the cruel dig of a needle into his arm.

An illusion of kindness. They’d taken to lacing his food instead.

The cages offer no place to hide. He’d estimated two, maybe three days before they noticed, and hoped it would be more than enough time to metabolise the last dose he’d eaten. He hadn’t factored in withdrawal. With his system saturated, it leaves him dizzied, suffering through cold sweats and a tight fist squeezing breath from his lungs. The day-old food crushed into the corner beneath the wad of his shirt offers false relief and still, he craves it.

“Not too bright, are you.”

Glint of light on old, battered metal. Remy’s hand lifts on reflex. They’re dog tags, small, compact, not enough to free him but even small victories are worth the chance he might have a fraction of control left over his abilities. He knows those tags and the bastard that wears them. He’ll have the scars on his belly for the rest of his life from the wicked bite of Victor’s claws.

Victor catches his wrist, grinds delicate bones together in a steel grip. “I have something for you.” A syringe taps the cage near Remy’s face. “Say please.”

The curse Remy slings is met with a smile. Victor yanks his arm through the hole torn in the mesh, smile growing as the jolt of pain it sends radiating through Remy’s shoulder spills out in a pathetic moan. “Don’t think I’d hate to see you die,” Victor says, and uncaps the needle with his teeth, careful to spit the bit of plastic far from Remy’s reach though it’s likely to do him no good anyway. “It’s just more fun for me if you don’t.”

Remy barely feels the harsh stab of the needle. The drugs push like ice into his veins, cooling the fever in his blood even as he shudders with the warmth chasing away the chill of his skin. He closes his eyes, hating the heady relief that slackens his arm in Victor’s grasp.

“Better?” Victor asks, running the tip of one claw over the tangled veins of Remy’s wrist.

Swallowing doesn’t relieve the dry itch of Remy’s throat. “Why don’t you tell me,” he rasps, startled into opening his eyes as a weak tug gets Victor to release him. “Be happy to stick you with it.”

“Feisty,” Victor says. He raps at the cage’s frame with a knuckle. “Good boy.”

For the first time in what feels like days, sweet sleep drags Remy down.

*

Hours, days, weeks later, Remy wakes to the gentle push of fingers through his hair. He opens bleary eyes, unable to make out more than a dark shadow looming above him. Rough fingers graze the side of his face, tug his arm free from the protective curl of his body. Protest dies in his throat as the needle pierces flesh.

“Not the same,” Remy says, tongue thick, clumsy.

Victor tosses the syringe aside. “Don’t blame me for that,” he says, lifting Remy’s arm to sniff at the blood beading in the crook of his elbow. “I’d enjoy this more if you weren’t limp as a dead fish.” A tentative touch of Victor’s tongue to tainted blood brings a noise of disgust rumbling low in his throat. “And didn’t taste like one.”

Sluggish with the chemicals fogging his brain, Remy tries to form the words to get Victor’s attention. A claw pricks at the wound on his arm, slices delicately through layers of skin, so dangerously close to opening his veins for real. Panic and drug-fuzzed adrenaline give Remy the strength to roll onto his back, his arm slipping through Victor’s grasp until thick fingers tighten on his wrist.

Leaning close, unnatural heat of his body pressing cloyingly into Remy’s lungs, Victor asks, “What was that?”

“Don’t,” Remy breathes, shadows swimming in front of his eyes.

“Think I will anyway.”

“Wait.” Gravel scrapes Remy’s throat as he swallows. “Jus’ wait, an’ I make it better.”

Strong fingers flatten Remy’s palm. Icy cold fear churns up the hot sting of bile. He’s seen the others mutilated, bits and pieces hacked off for God only knew what, more experiments or to keep them in line or both. His hands have gotten him out of all the trouble they’ve ever gotten him into and then some.

Victor’s quiet chuckle answers Remy’s pleading whine. He traces the lines on Remy’s palm with a claw, so soft as to be ticklish, encouraging the twitch of Remy’s fingers. “This way could be more fun than I thought. Weak as a little baby bird, aren’t you.”

“Better,” Remy insists. “Remy make it good. So very good.” He fights to focus on Victor’s face, gauge the interest there through the fog. He’s no stranger to gambling with his life. Only stake he had for a long while. Victor could’ve brought him down in minutes instead of chasing him wildly through the streets, and he hadn’t been slow to learn what it meant to be the mouse in Victor’s eyes. A mouse that made the game worth playing lived to play another day.

“How?”

“Fight, y’want.” Out of time, the black rises steadily up, inkdrops in water blotting Remy’s conscious. Truth or wishful thinking tells him Victor’s hold loosens. “Be good, let you, anyt’ing.”

Too late.

*

The wonderful smell of fresh, hot food brings Remy around. His gut clenches greedily, saliva floods his mouth. He struggles to sit up, the breath knocked out of him as the pain comes crashing in, sends him straight back to the cold concrete. Gritting his teeth, he forces his hands up, unable to focus through the searing ache.

“You’re fine,” Victor snorts.

Awareness creeps slowly in. The pain doesn’t lessen but he can flex his fingers, breathe through it. He’s alone in his prison except for the food dumped onto the floor just inside the door. Victor sits a few feet away, legs lazily stretched out and his back propped against the reinforced glass of another cell. The mutant inside is hunched as far away from Victor as she can get, tucked into a scared little ball, face hidden in her knees.

“You’ll eat what I bring you.”

Though it feels as if glass shards are tearing through his throat, Remy says, “Oui.”

“Now.”

Remy squeezes his eyes shut before tears can fall. This is already far more mercy than he’d expected, and even if he knows not to trust it, the desperate need for respite clouds his judgement. “Please, non-”

A trickling, warning growl silences him. For a moment he just breathes, skin prickling under the threat in Victor’s narrow gaze. When he tries to move again, he doesn’t fight the sounds of pain that slip free, in part because he doesn’t have the will and in part the foolish hope it’ll satisfy Victor’s vicious need to hear him suffer.

What had been the welcome thought of warm comfort in his belly turns to a sick lurch. He chokes back the urge to vomit as he drags himself close to someone else’s leftovers, torn chunks of beef and bitten vegetables lodged in a paste of mashed potato.

“No drugs,” Victor assures, not bothered to lower his voice in concession to the rules he’s breaking. “You’d better make this worth my while.”

Nodding slowly, Remy lifts the tiniest piece of meat to his lips with a quivering hand. If Victor’s lying, there isn’t much worse than can do to him now except kill him, and that would be an escape all its own.

Remy chews, swallows. Fights the roil of his guts. Victor makes a pleased sound and rolls smoothly into a crouch, slings one arm across his knee. “All of it.”

Buying time for his stomach to settle, Remy says, “They don’ make this food here.”

“Slop,” Victor sneers. “We had tastier leather in the ditches.”

“Streets?”

“War. You’re not eating.”

Ducking his head, Remy scoops two fingers through the potatoes. It’s all ash on his tongue. He waits for Victor to tire of watching him struggle, realises slowly that will never happen.

Pain fascinates Victor, and he knows Victor feels it the same as anyone else. Saw that first hand when he’d blown a chunk out of the man’s arm. But it hardly slowed him down; spurred him on, snarling in thunderous rage, ripping through stone and flesh alike to get to Remy.

“Give me your hand.”

Instinctively, Remy curls away. He’d thought Victor would force him to lick up the smear of food left on the floor but the needle glinting delicately between brutish claws is worse. “No drugs. You say-”

“No drugs in your food.” Victor holds up the syringe. “Plain sedative. Give me your arm or I’ll tear it off.”

Pure insanity to trust him. But Remy has no choice. He doesn’t doubt Victor will follow through without a second’s hesitation. Easier to beg forgiveness than permission, though Remy can’t picture Victor showing any remorse to those stupid enough to believe they hold his leash.

Remy closes his eyes against a fresh sickness in his stomach. The last thing he needs is to throw up at Victor’s feet. It lingers, and rather than risk Victor’s ire at his hesitation, Remy scoots closer to the cage wall, rests his cheek against the blessedly cool metal. “No need to be hurtin’ me. I do what you say.”

“More fun when I don’t need to,” Victor says. His claws hook into the mesh, drag slowly downward, metal shearing like paper. He curls the ragged edges back and waits for Remy to offer an arm before grabbing it at the elbow, hauling Remy roughly flush to the wall.

Needle in hand, Victor skims the backs of his knuckles up Remy’s arm. He breathes deeply, slow curl of his lips revealing the sharp points of his teeth, and bends to follow the path of his hand with his nose, breath hot as he scents Remy’s skin. “Smell better already,” he says, pressing his face to the crook of Remy’s arm. His whiskers are startlingly soft, even softer compared to the rasping drag of his tongue. He lifts his gaze, eyes dark and heavy with a lust that chills Remy’s blood. “Like prey.”

“Be that for you again,” Remy says, and means it. Prey is only prey when it’s free to be chased. “Offer you a prettier stake.”

Claws pierce skin. Aside from the quick hiss of his breath, Remy fights not to react. Let Victor grow a taste for wounding him if the bastard likes. Wounded is just another word for alive.

Victor inches closer to the cage, pulls Remy even sharper against it, forcing the metal cruelly into his flesh and baring his throat. “And what’s that?” Victor asks, and sniffs at the fluttering pulse in Remy’s neck, bares his teeth, jaw quivering as if he wants to feel it caught between them.

“You want to bleed me, you bleed me.” Remy drags in a shuddering breath, feels the echo of it ripple through the hold Victor has on him. “Fuck me too, if that’s to your liking.”

“Could do that now.”

“Make it good.”

“Oh, it’s always good.” Victor licks at his neck, fills the air with an animal’s hungry growl as Remy’s heartbeat trips over itself. Hesitation makes the choice for Remy when he isn’t sure which urge of Victor’s to play to, fight or fuck, and the fear of those teeth tearing at his throat takes over. The drugs are partly to blame for throwing him off but most of it is Victor, savage in his wants and as happy to have Remy twisting beneath the bite of his claws as from the push of his cock.

Victor scents the stink of his fear, nuzzles at his throat. Before setting needle to skin, Victor caresses the wound he’d carved into Remy’s arm, possessive and so tender Remy frantically gulps air to keep his supper down.

“For me,” Victor promises.

*

The island is always cold and damp. Maybe not an island at all despite what the guards say. Underground would be Remy’s bet. Things are hardest to find when they’re right under your feet.

He’s being moved again and tries to lift his head to see where. He can’t remember how many times they’d shuffled him around after he’d first arrived, only that every time was worse than the last. They’d cut deeper, shot him up with drugs that burned like chunks of ice squeezing through his veins, let him scream himself mute.

The air smells different, cleaner. There’s no metal gurney cold against his back but someone’s arms holding him close, someone that smells of warm forest earth and blood. His heart leaps into his throat and Victor’s grip on him tightens.

“Scream if you like,” Victor says. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

When Remy realises his arm is around Victor’s neck, fingers curled into the collar of that fucking coat and metal rivets rest cool beneath his fingers, he grabs on, tries to focus. Opportunity like no other and it’s too soon to take it. All he gets for his trouble is an ache at the base of his skull and Victor’s easy chuckle too close to his ear.

Victor walks on, seemingly unconcerned with the cameras tucked into the ceiling at every corner. Left, right, then left again. It’s a pointless effort without knowing how far they’d come from the cages before he’d woke, and only makes his head hurt worse.

Still, Remy keeps one eye to the cameras and the other to Victor, and if Victor has a problem with his captive staring holes in the side of his face, he doesn’t show it.

Remy has a problem, and it’s called being carried like a lamb to the slaughter. If it were anybody else, he could appreciate the strength in Victor’s arms, and the solid muscles of Victor’s chest pressed against his side would have his mind flying off in all directions, wondering at the shape of it beneath those clothes, how it would feel against the slope of his back, what it would be like to have that weight bear him down to the softness of a bed.

He knows what it’s like to be pinned beneath Victor’s body and it isn’t something he’d care to repeat.

Voice as rough as old rust, Remy says, “I can walk.”

Sharp pain jolts into his spine as Victor dumps his legs, the arm still around his back forcing him flush to Victor’s front. He tries to shove away and stumbles when Victor allows it. Would’ve gone down except Victor’s hand settles on the back of his neck, claws threatening to sever head from body if he doesn’t keep his feet.

“So walk,” Victor says.

Turns out to be a short walk, and thankfully so, because Remy’s sure Victor wouldn’t appreciate the small talk running circles round the inside of his head. Fancy meeting you here. Buy you a drink, cher? Walk this way, let Remy show you a good time.

They turn a final corner to the blank face of a door. Remy balks at the sight of it and Victor reaches past to pull it open, shove him through.

Inside is all bright white lights and sharp, pristine lines. Urinals line one wall, a bench another. The third sports stunted partitions between showerheads, seats built into each cubicle. Everything is clean, shiny. Even the grout between the tiles looks new.

Remy turns slowly from the room to find Victor leaning casually against the door.

“They usually hose you down while you’re out,” Victor says. “Can’t have you stinking up the place.”

Raped and gutted in the showers like some sad, sick cliché, just his fucking luck. Not even a damn mop left in the corner for a weapon, though it’d do more for his peace of mind than to keep his hide intact.

Despite himself, and to Victor’s obvious enjoyment, Remy backs up a step. “So, what is this, then? Fond memories of the service, you want Remy to be an old friend? Be the bunkmate good for a steady fuck?”

The smile almost slips from Victor’s face. Shadows darken it, turn it twisted and cruel. One of these days, if he’s still breathing, Remy’s going to learn how to keep his fool mouth shut.

His instincts scream run but Remy holds his ground as Victor closes the distance between them. One of Victor’s hands comes up to grip his throat and Remy flashes back on how it’d been so easy for Victor to lift him off his feet, shake him like a rag doll. Could’ve crushed his neck and left him for dead.

This time, Victor just holds him. Lets him think about what could happen.

“You’re as fun to chase as you are to catch, LeBeau,” Victor says, the flutter of Remy’s pulse against his fingers lighting his eyes. “But you still stink like drugs.”

Wetting dry lips, Remy says, “No sport.”

“No sport.”

Wary of Victor’s quicksilver moods, Remy lays a hand gently against his wrist. “You do me a favour,” he says, stroking his fingers beneath the cuff of Victor’s coat, “I do you one. More than one kind of sport.”

“This isn’t a favour.”

“So I do you one first.”

Victor’s grip loosens, his hand sliding back to cup the base of Remy’s skull, deadly fingers carelessly pushing through the tangle of his hair. One quick jerk has his throat stretched long, exposed and vulnerable. Remy twists against it to keep his eyes on Victor. If this is where it ends, he’s going to see it come.

Claws scrape feather-light and teasing up Remy’s throat, settle on his face. “And what favour would you do me?”

“Best you have in a long time.”

“Is that so.” Leaning down, Victor yanks him close, keeps his face tipped up as if for a kiss. Remy’s blood runs cold. Victor hadn’t seemed the type to bother, just up and take, find a better use for Remy’s mouth. He doesn’t want to taste more of Victor than he has to.

Whiskers brush Remy’s cheek, spark a rush of sensation after so long without, and he hates how he relishes the feel of something other than pain. “Only one problem with that.” Victor’s breath is warm on his lips, smells faintly of alcohol and an uneasy sound bubbles up in Remy’s throat. He’d expected something savage, the staleness of old blood, not the hint of a good whiskey. He waits for the rough push of Victor’s tongue, gets instead, “Too easy,” and a brutal bite to the mouth, fangs easily tearing through his lips.

Remy jerks back with a strangled curse, hand flying up only to be caught halfway in Victor’s sickeningly-familiar grip. The taste of blood is iron-sharp in his mouth, thick and warm as it trickles down his chin. Victor’s smile is gruesomely red as he ducks back down, follows the wet smear back up to Remy’s mouth to lick it straight from the stinging wounds.

Victor shoves him away, tongues the point of a fang. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

*

Days flitter by like hours. In and out of consciousness, and the only constant is the ache in his skull. Sometimes, he knows Victor’s there, watching and waiting, and he slips back into the black before he can muster up a proper insult to give the fucker something to really smile about.

The one time he wakes and doesn’t slide away again, he tries to hide it. Keeps his breathing slow, even, but his heart’s kicking at his ribs and that’s as clear and loud as Pavlov’s bell to Victor’s sharp ears.

Victor makes a quiet tsk-tsk noise. “Seems like you’re always passing out on me.”

Breathing slowly, Remy hauls himself up to sitting, vision swimming as he looks around. Still in the cage and Victor’s on the wrong side of the bars, crouched in the corner, playing at nonchalant but that’s the last thing Victor ever is. Creed’s always angry at something, always waiting for an excuse and more than ready to make do without.

“Consider it the company’s fault,” Remy says. He coughs to clear his throat, gags at the taste of dried blood.

Victor just keeps on smiling. Happiest guy Remy’s ever seen, except there’s never anything good in the curve of Victor’s mouth. “On your belly.”

An icy wave of panic freezes Remy’s breath in his lungs. He pushes it down, locks it away. He’s had more than half a hand in making this bed, coming out alive and free on the other side is all he’s after. “Not better just for me if you’ve something squirreled away.”

“I’m curious how you think this is going to go.” Crooking a couple fingers, Victor beckons Remy close.

As far as Remy’s concerned, the only worse place to be than in the lion’s den is in the lion’s claws and that’s exactly where Victor is fixing to put him. No choice left so he crawls on hands and knees though neither one of them need the reminder of who holds all the cards, to where Victor points, and slides his hand up Victor’s thigh. Strong muscle flexes beneath his palm as Victor settles down, long legs bent at the knees to bracket him.

“My debts get paid,” Remy says. His shaking fingers fumble Victor’s belt as a hand comes down on his neck, squeezes. More than a healthy dose of fear but with a thrill snaked through it. Born with a pair of die in one hand and his cock in the other the old father used to say, always and only after one too many private communions. Victor’s the ultimate fifty-fifty and one thing Remy knows best is how to stack the odds. “What few I have.”

“Better not to owe any.” Victor brushes hair out of Remy’s face, tucks it into the grip he has on Remy’s neck. A moment later his hand comes back, rubs hard over Remy’s lips, brings back the ache from the healing bite. The pad of Victor’s thumb is soft compared to the claw scraping Remy’s cheek, not yet breaking skin.

Doubting the wisdom of it, Remy turns his head anyway, takes that claw between his teeth. Tentatively touches his tongue to the savage tip.

A quiver goes through Victor. He’d like to think it’s from the effort of holding back and hopes Victor sees it as reward as he opens his mouth wide, takes Victor’s thumb a little deeper into his mouth with that clawtip dangerously close to slicing flesh.

Victor pins his tongue, breathes a quiet, “Careful,” as a gentle prick makes Remy jerk. “Shame to ruin it now when I’m just starting to appreciate it.”

With effort, Remy stills. Saliva pools in his mouth, the urge to swallow almost as strong as the need to get away. He fights off both and goes for Victor’s zip. Quick tug and he has Victor’s cock in hand, already thick and growing thicker, flushed hot with blood.

“Going to suck me?” Victor asks, fingers curled over Remy’s chin to hold his mouth open. Spit drips onto Victor’s hand as he ducks his head, tongue fluttering uselessly though he tries to stop it. He squeezes Victor’s cock, not so much an answer as a tease. And while taunting the beast should be the last thing on Remy’s mind, there’s power in it, heady thrill of having Victor in his grasp. He hadn’t counted on it going quite like this.

Victor’s thumb slips from his mouth, smears his face wet with his own spit. Of all the things Remy should do–like keep his fucking head and mind that it stays attached to his shoulders–following the urge to rub his slippery face against the head of Victor’s cock isn’t at the top of the list. Victor’s reaction is instantaneous, shameless; growl like a purr and jump of thigh muscle under Remy’s hand, greedy push for more.

The grip on Remy’s hair tightens. His mouth falls open, ready for the rough shove of Victor’s cock down his throat and instead it just grazes by his lips. Belatedly, he licks at it, turns to chase as it skids over his cheek. Victor makes another quietly pleased noise and the sound slithers its way under Remy’s skin, quickens the pound of his pulse.

Touch-starved. Too long locked up in a cage like an animal and the first bit of kindness from the real animal here has fucked with his head. Disgust at the heavy weight of Victor’s dick in his hand doesn’t come. He can’t find it ugly, or repulsive. Can’t even deny the sharp smell of Victor’s skin is good. Clean, warm, something he can’t name scenting the air and growing thicker as he drags his hand from root to tip, tongues at the slit to hear Victor make that noise again.

Victor guides Remy’s mouth down over his cock, not so gently but not meant to choke him, either. Remy’s breaths comes fast and hard, twist of nervous anticipation in his gut for the slow fuck of Victor’s hips to become cruel, punishing. “Not so out of it now, are you?”

Truth hits like a lightning jolt. His head still aches like after a grand night out, and he’s weak, tired, probably concussed knowing his run of luck lately, but compared to before, he’s alright. Before the thought even finishes forming Victor grabs both his hands, yanks him off balance, as unconcerned over gagging him as the sudden scrape of his teeth on delicate flesh.

Victor transfers both of Remy’s hands to one of his, grinding the bones in them together. He hauls Remy back by the hair, just enough to let a sweet lungful of air rush in before his cock fills Remy’s mouth again. “Suck,” he snarls, and Remy sloppily complies, choking on his own spit more often than not as Victor pumps into his mouth.

All he can taste is warm, salt-sweet flesh. His jaw begins to ache, his lips slowly numb. Victor begrudges him each shallow breath he manages to draw, forcing him down harder, holding him there longer with his throat fluttering around the width of Victor’s thick cock. He knows the noises he’s making are just egging Victor on and he can’t help it, isn’t even sure he’d hold them back if he could. There’s a fist squeezed tight in his chest trying to tell him this is almost good.

Victor hauls him off, his neck stretched painfully tight, and growls, “Keep your mouth open.” Some of the others are staring, they have to be. The weight of their attention crackles all along his skin. When his hands are put to Victor’s cock he doesn’t even hesitate to jack it hard and fast, inviting the warm shot of come on his face.

Victor seizes his chin, takes one of his hands and uses it to smear come into his own skin. The cages are eerily silent except for his harsh breaths and he’s sure he doesn’t want to open his eyes to see the sick smile he knows is twisting Victor’s face.

“Five guards,” Victor says. He pulls Remy close by the grip on his face, sniffs at the mess on him with a purr of satisfaction. “All human, except for the one at the exit. You can’t beat him so you’d better run fast.”

Remy swallows tightly. It can’t be that easy.

Victor licks at his cheek. His laugh is cruel and hungry as ever, laced with anticipation for the hunt. He shoves Remy back, rolls smoothly up to his feet and slashes the lock, kicking it open as it sparks and sputters. And just stands there, waiting.

Cautiously, Remy stands. He presses the back of his hand to his sore mouth and it comes away wet with spit and come, no blood. The first time Victor’s touched him and not drawn it. “Just like that, you let me go?” There’s a catch, there’s always a catch, and it’s Remy’s own foolishness that has him hoping the price of freedom is being Victor’s mouse. “What about them?” he asks, looking to the rows of cages. “They see.”

“They all bleed as easily as you do.” Victor strokes a lazy hand over his cock, lifts that hand to his face to lick come from the circle of his fingers. Remy’s guts twist up tighter.

“Run, run, Remy, run,” Victor purrs.

Remy runs.

End

One Response to “Another Word for Alive”

  1. Doomflower Says:

    I loved this, really twisted and hot ^_^

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