samson-hart

[samson-hart]

The shaking head makes Samson only want to cling tighter: refusing to let go. He can’t even tell he draws blood from the beast. It all mingles together in a heedy, copper smell. So much that he starts to feel sick. Light–headed. That may be due blood loss. The fight leaves him all at once. Claws rake down the back of his neck: slicing through skin wouldn’t be bad but it digs deeper. Hits bone, maybe. Samson can't tell. He lets go: Arms flailing to reach for himself, to finally stop trying to fight back and instead attempt to hold is now shredded skin together.  The moment he’s let go of, Samson will go limp. All his energy and rage focused on keeping himself breathing, on holding in the hot blood trying to drop down his back and that’s successfully blinding him. At some point Samson will hit the ground, at some point he won’t be able to hold onto his own wounds. For now he's a dying animal in a trap, with no help in sight.

If he were still man, this would be a fair fight. Perhaps, the beast tried to think, Clemens would even have an advantage. If he had proved nothing else throughout the night he had watched, he had stalked, it was that he was far more durable than your average man or mutant. And while Abel, the man, still had his shades of superhuman durability and stamina, it was not this advanced. And he was not filled with the same mortal rage of Clemens. Even upon nightfall, his rage was nothing but His will. The blood that spilled upon his handpaws, blood that was bound to mat his fur, was more than satisfying. The flesh the claws tore through when Clemens failed to protect his face was like... peeling wallpaper, perhaps. No, no -- skinning a deer. Now, that was all that Clemens was -- prey. Prey that was not complacent. He began shaking his head back and forth, an attempt at a non-violent solution to get Clemens to let go of his snout. Where Clemens stood, the inconvenience succeeded in a light trickle of blood, a light strike of pain. Where he stood, the inconvenience succeeded in nothing more than fueling the fire. He ripped his handpaw from the side of the man, hoping to see more blood flow as the block drifted away. Hoping to see vengeance for the semi-successful attempt at retaliation, he wrapped his arm around to dig his claws into the back of Clemens's neck -- to drag it down as far as he could without killing him.

[samson-hart]

Samson smiles, enjoying the doctors quick answer. It helps when someone has a sense of humor, he thinks. "Clemens. Samson Clemens." He though he'd still be going by Richard Hart. Those were dreamier, easier days, when Sable still believed he could change. When Samson still though he had a chance, too. Looking at the table, he frowns. "Sam's a nickname, you need my full legal name or?" "I'm, well. You know in the beginning the mutations started with... anger?" he eases into it, embarrassed to be asking for what he needs. "I still got that. Not always. Not right now. But I need to... I need help."

"Technically I do mutant-specialized genetic diagnostics and maintenance, but that's certainly a snappier way to put it. Maybe I should get that on the plaque, save a little space and all." Adonis laughs, replying good-naturedly as they arrive at his office, locked only for a few minutes before he goes back inside again. Waving at the empty chair to sit, he taps a few things on his hard-light tablet and smiles at the man, wondering why he would need Adonis' expertise of all things. "Now, you came to me for a reason, so I would ask what you want from me, Mister—"

[samson-hart]

Samson’s near delirious as Victor doesn’t relent. Not even for a moment. He keeps talking and grinding and he’s emptied himself deep inside him already. Samson tenses against his binds, shaking with the overwhelming feeling. He keeps talking, keeps asking in that pretty fucked out voice. It’s the gentle thumb on his face that makes Samson tense up again, near painful as he wants to keep going.

“Please—” he whines, "—come for me. On me. Come on me, Vic.” He’s lost in a soft, sweaty place. No-one rides Samson like this, no-one makes him want to beg or writhe or be used like this. No-one except for Sparky.

Enjoying himself has always been his strong suit—hedonism and stardom always went hand in hand, and he enjoyss the luxury, the opportunity, and even sometimes the power that it brings. He knows he looks good, Victor always knows how to make people look at him, even when he was someone before the money, but the entire brunt of it, of his charisma and charm and sex appeal was directed towards Samson. It's a good time all around, feeling that cock inside him, filling him as he rides the man like the last train out of Sol City, but he's a little surprised when he hears the loud moans and the feeling of Samson coming inside. A devilish smile comes across his face as he leans over, grinding back against the man's shaft, thoroughly pleased with his work. "Don't think you should make requests anymore, Sammy—God." He knows he's sensitive, blissed out, and he wants to stretch it for as long as he can. "Am I that good? Do I fucking—do you want me to cum?" He puts a hand on his chest, tracing the sweat, the skin, before he strokes his cheek in a moment of lucid tenderness. He wonders about him—even unclothed. Victor needs to get a grip. "I wanna hear you ask for it, now." He asks—a firm ask, of course, as he bounces harder and harder, trying to delay his own pleasure, just for this. Just to hear Samson speak. A thumb caresses his cheek again as he tries to hold off. "Come on, where was that pretty fuckign voice, Sam? You came so loud and pretty for me—and I'll do it for you—I will, I will. You just gotta fucking ask just as sweet."

[samson-hart]

The suggestion to be himself gets a laugh from Samson. Nobody, not even himself, wants that. "Whatever clients pay the most for..." he repeats, pondering as though it'll take a lot of thought. People are simple, his clients moreso. He can think of a few poses that would sell that particular image of him, "You ready for a new pose, then?" He'll have to lose a few more clothes for that.

"You could always be yourself?" Miju suggests, flashing his own fangs back. "Doesn't really matter for preliminary sketches. Though if you want to practice being a perfect model for me, feel free to be whatever it is that clients pay the most for. I assume Seth wants these portraits to bring in as much business as possible."

[samson-hart]

"Course you fuckin do," he grumbles out. It was an excuse she often used. The work of a fucking councilwoman was never done!

The mug is taken away. He has the violent impulse to knock them out of her hands, make some sort of mess. Another hole in the wall. His hands ball into tight fists: his own claws dig into his palms. Hard enough to cut. The only blood he'll draw today will be his own. The only blood he'll ever draw will be his own.

The small, human part of him won't let him hurt her. Richard, the man who'd fallen in love and fumbled it at every turn. His nostrils flare.

He doesn't bother saying anything else. He's said too much. Turn round, he storms out of the place. Richard doesn't mean to slam the door on his way out, doesn't mean to scratch the wood as he reached for the handle. The guilt will find him, for now it's only rage.

The expression on her face is fleeting, a miniscule drawing in of the brows, just the briefest tremble of the lower lip. For just that moment it's easy to see that she's about to cry. But then she glances up, blinking away the tears before they can form, and she picks up her cup, then Richard's. They're still warm, unfinished: that's how long they can go without problems. Not even enough time for hot coffee to cool.

"I have work to do. I think it's time you left." she says softly, taking his cup to the sink. His words are unfair. Cruel. She knows it, but she can't bring herself to say that because he knows it too. Somewhere, under the mutation-borne rage. He'll resent himself for this later more than she ever could resent him. Sable puts the mugs down in the sink, and flexes her fingers; her hands are shaking. It's not fair, the number of times he's been able to break her heart and still feel like she's the villain.

[samson-hart]

"Do we?" Seth tries to move. Samson knows Seth usually talks like he enjoys the upper hand, but Sam knows him better than that. When Seth tries to turn, Samson grabs both his wrists and pins them to the bed. Samson shifts so he's hovering over Seth's back. His crotch pressed against Seth's ass and he keeps kissing. Sam starts to slowly hump against Seth, a low rumbling growl building up. He keeps at Seth's neck like he's readying to eat him.

Still, he listens to him. Seth told him not to stop so he won't.

Seth melts, breathes deeply as Sam's overwhelming presence pins him to the sheets and works his muscles like clay. God it's good, hands and mouth working in tandem, a push and pull between the firm presses of his fingers and the light grazes of his teeth... each scratch from those wolfish fangs is a thinly-veiled threat of violence, a suggestion that the only thing saving him from an ugly, bloody wound is Sam's gentleness.

"Don't you dare stop," Seth breathes, his voice stretching thin as he tips his head to the side to accommodate Sam there: subtle and involuntary subservience to accept the power held over him, moving in response, offering vulnerability as Sam looks for it. Still, he can't keep his tongue from lashing, a nonsensical move in the chess game Seth plays with himself. "Listen to you, talking all tough... like we don't know who's in charge here, huh?" That familiar ache of need is boiling up fierce in Seth's middle now and he attempts to twist over onto his back so that he can get engaged properly.

[samson-hart]

The teeth pull out but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It leaves an almost pleasurable ache. That same soft whimper is pulled from Samson again as Miju moves, biting into the other side of his neck. Only this time he’s looking at Seth directly in the eyes when the fangs break skin. His eyelids waver but he holds his stare. When Miju whimpers against his skin, suckling, Thank you, daddy Sam can’t help the obscene moan. His eyes nearly roll back entirely as it shoots straight through him. Lightheaded from blood loss, what’s left is going straight to his now hardening dick. 

“You’re—welcome, baby,” he says breathlessly. Still looking at Seth. Sam’s hand moves, sliding up Seth’s arm. To his neck and he holds on tight, cradling the back of Seth’s neck as it takes everything for him to say conscious with Miju on him, taking from him so greedily and so prettily. There isn’t a single coherent thought: the rest of the world is dim, his limbs growing fuzzy but Seth like always is a constant presence.

( @all-cf-me )

The bite - no, the whimper - claws an icy hand right through Seth's center and for less than a split second he considers calling the whole thing off, but their shared relief is obvious: Miju's next breath is a sigh of pleasure and, after the initial shock of the bite, Sam's is too. Satisfaction spreads warm across Seth's chest, relaxes his muscles. He takes another swig... it's exceedingly rare that he gets to sit in on one of Sam's scenes (and really, if no one is pretending, can you even call it a scene?) and he intends to enjoy it. Like his own private show.

It's quiet as Miju laps languidly at the wounds he's bitten into Samson's throat and Seth finds himself becoming restless, and that dazed way Sam looks at him through it all doesn't help at all. So trusting, a faithful old dog who gives himself completely to whoever holds his leash (though only one person does).

Before he can reconsider Seth's standing back up, prowling back across the small space to sit with a grunt on Sam's other side. It's totally unselfish... Miju's paid for a one-of-a-kind experience, he doesn't need to worry about his blood bag falling over in the middle of his feast, does he? Seth volunteers himself as the body to help keep Sam upright. He uses a knuckle to lift Sam's chin a bit higher, finding his eyes. "Easy does it, huh?" he murmurs, and it's unclear if he's talking to Miju or Sam... maybe both.

( @miju-khan )

[samson-hart]

It’s obscene and cruel the way Samson can’t move. Tied up like this, his hands itch to touch Vic as his cock slaps against him every time Vic bounces on his cock. He’s beyond words as Vic talks: riling him up and being a tease. The words hardly sink in or matter as a leash materializes. He would recoil, normally, but Vic tethers his wrists rather than his neck. There's nothing other than a real wave of warmth and lust coursing through him. The leash, his words, the way he moans his name and keeps up such a relentless pace… Samson can’t hold out.Usually it’s easier: but not with Vic. Not tonight. Samson growls, eyes squeezing shut, trying to ignore Vic for a moment just to make himself last even a few moments longer. It doesnn’t work. Instead he can only growl as his hips stutter, his stomach tenses and he comes with a loud growl and body shaking orgasm. The deep growl peters into a higher pitched whine as he keeps coming and barely manages to grit out, “Keep bouncing, baby.”

Victor runs his mouth as fast as he grinds down against Samson's cock, his own slapping against the man's lower abdomen obscenely. The smell of sweat permeates the air as he rides him faster and faster, moaning as loud as he can, as if he could make the walls shake. God. He could—he'd shatter the glass moaning out Samson's name and not even care about cleaning up after. He'd do it over and over again, if he had the chance. His hands grip against the ropes around the man's wrist and brings all of it against him. A pleasurable burn, just like Samson enjoys.

"You want me to burst out into song about this dick, huh? That it?" He leans back against the man's cock, a leash forming against the ropes around his wrists, as he moves, as hard as Samson says. "Maybe my next hit's going to be about your cock. Every time it plays, makes you think about me like this. D'you want that, Sammy?"

Moaning loudly, Victor all but feels himself build up, enjoying the fullness that Samson gives him, the relief that the control he gives up offers. He doesn't want to push his luck, but if he could be on call or something? Definite game changer. "God. Your cock's—work of fucking art, come on." He sinks down again and again, moaning his name. "Samson," he says, the light ropes framing him beautifully. "Fuck, Samson!"

[samson-hart]

You can't take back the damage you've done Oh, you can hide, but you can't run No, you can't take back the damage you've done Afraid of what you might become A man or a monster

[samson-hart]

"Private's good." Samson follows Adonis through to the office. He wasn't going to complain about an audience. Although it somehow feels more embarrassing now it's just the two of them. Samson knows he's a councillor, something which he likes to think Sable would approve of as far choices for help go. He's gotta be a respectable figure to her! "You do... genetic treatments, don't you? For mutants."

"Well, seeing as you've found yourself in my presence, you already have one." A miracle of a clear schedule, and there's one last hangup that needs to be dealt with—of course. Adonis should expect no less. But even he has to admit, he does so enjoy seeing mutants come and go with their ailments. "Come and follow me to my office, I assume this is going to be a consultation, and I would rather not air out your private business—unless that's fine with you."

[samson-hart]

There's no satisfying crunch, no crack of bone. Samson's rage spills over into a yell and guttural growls at the sheer frustration. His knuckles hit on a snout. His own knuckles don't split or bruise. Teeth dig into his wrist. The sharp slicing of fangs into flesh, the thin bones in his wrist cut and sliced. His growls turn into crying out: a kicked dog. Fear spikes through. Through his blind rage. He doesn't want it too. For a wild moment, Richard wishes he was nothing but the rageful beast he thought he was. Distracted, he's pulling his arm in the beast's maw, and reaching with his other to dig out the claws in his side. He doesn't see the next swipe. Doesn't even flinch until the claw's dragging through flesh. It catches the side of his neck, his jaw, narrowly missing his eye. The jagged scratches bleed heavily. Blood dripping into one eye leaving him half blinded. Like an animal in a bear trap: he begins to violent throw himself about. Samson bites down on the creature's nose, attempting to rip through and make him bleed nearly as much as he is. Even if he doesn't he holds on, terrified.

He had faced many an opponent who believed they were worthy enough to fight back, who believed they were capable of a kill ( or, if nothing else, of escape before he allowed it ) -- it was no surprise that Clemens was one of them. He was tall and burly with yellow eyes -- a man who looked like he could take almost anyone in a fight. Almost. The fist hit his nose, but he paid it no mind. His body had been built in such a way that he could take many a hit and sustain no damage, could take many a hit and feel little to no pain. He was more beast than man like this, and what good beast could be brought down by a lone sinner? He took advantage of the fist so near his face and bit onto Clemens's wrist, teeth digging in deep -- not deep enough to puncture the artery and kill him ( that was not yet the goal ), but deep enough that he certainly hoped the man knew he was capable of that. While still with one arm in his mouth, he made a move to swipe at the side of Clemens's face.

[samson-hart]

If he weren't so tired, Samson likes to think he'd have managed to dodge. As it is: he doesn't.

He doesn't pull away from the claw in his side: Samson uses it as a way to keep a grip. One hand, sharp nails digging into flesh. Twisting towards the claw in his side, with a deep growl, he punches hard against the eye of the beast with his free hand.

The beast pounces. Fear is a fleeting feeling. Claws dig into his side: ripping through to his muscle muscle. The rage kicks in: heart racing, pupils blown wide, salivating.

Wanting to feel the socket crack against his knuckles: Samson keeps pummeling.

He began to pick up speed. He would not run, he would not walk faster than his longest strides could take him, but he would not linger. As brilliant as lingering was, as lovely as a slow pace was, the night was only so long and Clemens would not last under the nightfall forever. He shook his head when the cigarette hit his face, bouncing from his snout without much grace. The belief that that may deter him, the belief that Clemens's request may turn him around, was his cue. He went from a longer stride to a sprint, but the sprint did not last long before he pounced atop Clemens and dug his claws into his side. The blood would be sweet. The message would be clear. When morning broke, he would pray for his immortal soul.

[samson-hart]

He lays back and thinks a rare thought: he can’t believe he’s paid for this. Most of the time it does feel like work. Victor’s different in his eagerness, in the way he plays his part and performs so well for him it feels wrong sometimes. As long as he gets what he wants, Sam can’t complain.

He lowers himself on Sam like it’s a new experience: like he’s having to adjust the feeling of Sam filling him with shock. Sam hates the way that makes him groan, a heavy rumble in his chest. It’s all part of the show, gets Vic worked up and Sam will happily play along. 

Vic talks. Utter filth as Samson has to restrain himself from bucking up into Vic. Needs to let him keep the pace before he accidentally comes too soon. He holds his gaze and the eye contact makes him moan. “You’re talking enough for the both of us,” he says, maybe a little mean because his hands are tied and he can’t touch, “If my dick were really magic, you’d be singing.” Samson can’t touch, but he can thrust his hips up, ruin Vic’s pretty pace. “Harder for me, baby. Faster.”

Samson laughing is rare for Victor—he always seems dour, as if a penitent on his way to atone for something, but he could never understand what it meant. He play vapid, of course, but he sees more than he should, even though he would rather not. So he takes it with him, a kernel of something unnameable as Victor ties Samson's wrists overhead, leaning in close. Just a little, to check the knots on him, of course. Lying to himself was always preferable to the alternative. He did so love seeing Samson's rarer sides, for better or for worse, at least.

There's a moment where he hovers, sets himself upon Samson's dick like he's new, coquettish and definitely not thoroughly prepped, which he was, and he starts to sink down. The burn, the fullness of it a pleasurable thing that only few can match. He wonders if the person that gave him that ring also felt this way—but wondering for too long is going to kill his hard on, so he tries to focus on the feeling.

Victor leans down, looking at Samson as he moves up and down, shifting his weight and moaning breathlessly as he moves. "Fuck Sam, how d'you always feel so nice inside me? Is magic dick a mutant power?" He rides, starting to pick up the pace, locking his eyes with Samson's own piss-yellow. "Come on, I know you got a mouth on you too, Sammy."

[samson-hart]

Nothing. She means a lot by it, he knows. He hates the fact she wasn’t the one to fix him either. Life would be so much simpler if he could hold down a job that didn’t involved selling himself. Maybe if Seth ran a different establishment, maybe if Samson went back with his mother, maybe, maybe, maybe! 

At least she answers him. Not that he appreciated the answer: the very thing he immediately dismissed. His daughter seeing a therapist. It feels like a failure on his part even though it’s a win. She’s looking after herself, despite what her parents have put her through. Samson scared her with his temper and Sable led Delilah to take a file to her fangs. 

“A therapist.” He repeats back, growing more aggravated even as her voice grows small. He isn’t aware of the softening voice, only of the rage that bubbles up in him. It feels like its own beast: something outside himself, he only knows it works on keeping him somewhat level. That regret already builds in him pre-emptively ready even as he keeps talking and says something cruel, “Or does she need that cause she tried to file her teeth down? Got chemical burns from hair remover?”

"I-- nothing." Maybe she'd be more inclined to elaborate if he didn't start swearing, spitting the words out like bile. She's tried the arguing back thing, telling him not to fucking talk to her like that in her home. It doesn't help. He gets angrier, and then ends up beating himself up about it later. He's probably still going to beat himself up later, even for this, but Sable doesn't want to make it any worse than it already is.

It makes her feel sick the way he holds his hand up, interrupting her before she can respond. She might want to cry if she didn't have her pride. But she does, and she's not going to let him see how much the small gesture hurts her. She'll just head over to Stella's later with a bottle of wine and get it off her chest then. In a small voice, she says, "Yes. She's had issues like yours." It's been hard to tell really if it's mutation related, or just growing pains. Being a moody teenager, and now young adult, comes with its share of nasty mood swings anyway. "She's started seeing a therapist recently. Too recently to know if it'll help long term." Sable hates herself like this. Making herself small, and meek, to try and keep Richard's moods at bay. She hates herself, and her resentment towards him for making her feel this way simmers.

It had been a nice thirty seconds before she remembered why they'd not worked out.

[samson-hart]

Max is really just a contented (if rabid) house cat. Even his horns remind of a cats tooth: petite yet capable. He smiles, fondly, wishing he could have this sort of easy relationship with his daughter. He has messaged, but is now stuck in a no-man's land of waiting for a response and praying they don't bump into each other unless his girls want to see him. "Worm?" he repeats, laughing at the reasoning, "Couldn't you hug your own tail?" That doesn't mean he won't try for it! Samson waits by the booth. It's easy enough to pretend to ignore a slightly worried glance from a nearby parent and the openly gawking child at her knees. Samson taps his wallet against the payment port, the stall worker handing him three ratty baseballs. "You wanna have a go first? Make me look stronger."

most people don't know this about him, but max can actually purr—in fact, samson is the only person that's ever heard it. there's just something about him that's safe and warm—and really well-muscled. he can feel the power in that little squeeze. "don't worry about that, we'll just rig it right back." he grins, leading samson over toward the stall he'd been eyeing. "if you start slipping, i'll just headbutt you in the ass." just because his horns are small doesn't mean he can't put them to use! "get me the big worm. i need something to cuddle with and i'm too tall for anything else."

[samson-hart]

Samson inwardly winces. The fact he's the boss' favourite won't change the fact pissing off Miju would cause problems. Sucking up too much won't do it, he thinks, so he'll have to be a little honesty and flirtatious. A fine line to tread.

"I'm plenty nice without Seth's say so," he smiles, shows his fangs, before relaxing back into his pose for Miju, "But that's on you if you think a whore's nice to you 'cause they want to be." Honesty, hopefully, won't deter him too much. "Still, you're in charge. Want me to play nice? Flirt? Sit quiet and pretty?"

Oops. That had been the wrong question to ask, apparently. Samson seems annoyed by the implication that they'd talk about irregular shit-- maybe Miju is too much of a gossip for their industry. He just knows he'd not be able to shut up if he did what Sam does.

He can hear the distinct shift in tone as Samson purrs a question. "Oh now, don't flirt with me." Miju scolds lazily. "I'll only get flustered and distracted from my artistic prowess. And in any case, you'd have to work pretty hard to make me believe Seth isn't behind you playing nice."

[samson-hart]

It's not something they do: Seth sitting in on a session. He's no stranger to interesting asks, but this is a first even for them. It's meant to be a case of fulfilling a mutants request to get drunk, of all things, but even Samson can't deny the slow heat building in his gut as Seth - for once in his life - is silent.

Sam shows his own fangs in a small smile at the wink from Seth. It's comforting. Something he knows others don't always feel when Seth's attention is turned on them so single-mindedly.

Teeth break skin: Samson whimpers. He grasps at Miju's arm, almost afraid until the feel-good chemicals flood through him and that same whimper turns to a pleased moan. He holds on, the heady mixture, alcohol, and a new dizzying feeling of the blood leaving his body, make for a wonderful floating sensation.

He keeps his gazed fixed on Seth the single solid point in the room.

( @all-cf-me )

The shot goes down as easy as the others, and Seth's only idle for a moment before his fingers twitch and he takes a swig out of the rapidly-emptying bottle. They charted out Sam's dosage, the pace to get him the most drunk as quick as possible without knocking him out, but Seth's pace isn't anyone's business but his own. He holds that hazy yellow gaze, gives him a wink - don't you worry about a thing, Sammy, I gotcha - before stepping back to sink into the armchair opposite, leaving Miju plenty of room to do... whatever he needs to.

Miju slinks in to fill the space alongside where Sam lays draped, tilts his head to the side so that a sliver of low-light glances across the smooth plane of his throat. Seth attempts to make himself comfortable, crosses one leg over the other, rests his chin on a balled fist, but for how casual he appears his blood is in an agitated course. It's gotta be nerves... it's not at all from watching Miju coil himself around Sam like a serpent, the latter limp with drunkenness while the former sizes him up like a meal.

For once, Seth doesn't have anything to say.

(( @miju-khan ))