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unicornbitchface · 4 years ago

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DUDE. THIS IS A MASTERPIECE.

I mean, mind exploded!

This is a long one, so I’ll split it up into three parts. The Walker possession fic that nobody asked for but is happening anyway.

A Possession, part one: Convergence. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time.

Tagging @viking-raider @sometimesiwrite @iwillmakeyoucraveme @its--fandom--darling @mrsaugustwalker @emyearns @indigosaurus @raspberrydreamclouds @killjoy-assbutt-1112 @summersong69 @nuggsmum @wonderlandfandomkingdom @thelastsock @alexakeyloveloki @luthienaliceisilra @ijustlovetoreadalways @sadboyslogic @imneonpanda @october505 @seriouslygoodlookinggents @feralrunaway @hell1129-blog @takemeback-toparadise @mingming2wad @harlotforhenry @maximumninjavoid @connieisland @pirate-rhino @madbaddic7ed mea culpa.

Your body is a temple

—-

He doesn’t die, not quite. He finds something better.

It’s like this. You tried sitting on your hand once til it was numb, so that when you closed your hand around yourself it would seem like it belonged to someone else.

A face at the glass. The sensation of falling, of oil under your skin. Sharp pinpricks in every pore, a headache that threatened to split you in two. Stillness, for a moment. Then

Wake up.

Nobody there.

Wake up.

You push up on your elbows, look around. Everything looks the same as always. You’re alone, as always. Even Kal is asleep in the other room, and anyway if he’s started talking then you’ve got more problems than you thought.

Get up. Isn’t there a mirror?

There is, on the wall above the dresser. You rake your hands through your hair, making your bedhead even more pronounced. It feels good, so you do it again, tugging a little on your curls. And again, scraping one hand down through your stubble, over your jaw and down your neck. Press just a little.

We look good.

What?

Pay attention. I know you won’t want to miss this.

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is not your hand. The calluses are the same, the thick fingers are the same, but there’s static fuzzing the signal somewhere between brain and hand. You surprise yourself with the way you scrape your fingers down your chest, with the way you dig those fingers into the skin of your belly, nails raising red welts.

Hm, you really like that, don’t you? Look at you.

And yeah, it’s a little surprising, watching the blood pulse into your cock like that, watching it twitch and jump, but it is morning and you were dreaming—

Dreaming about what? Tell me. Give me your secrets. Was it something like

Your hand closes around your cock, stroking dry once, twice, before pulling away and you whine, you whine and want to touch again, it’s like your hand is your hand is not your hand and you grip the edge of the dresser, breathing just a little harder than you should.

like this?

And you open your mouth, shove the first two fingers of your right hand inside. Suck. Get them wet for me. What? You’re not sure where this is coming from but oh there’s a line of fire running down from your fingers to your cock and it’s so so so

Good. That’s a good boy.

Oh fuck. Your left hand slips off the edge of the dresser. You catch yourself on your forearm and that’s going to be a bruise for sure. And now, bent over like this, it’s just so easy to reach back behind yourself with your right hand, feel your fingers stroking cool and wet down the cleft of your ass. Feel the muscle of your hole twitch, just a little. But it’s not—

Not gonna work. Where do you keep the lube? Fucking tell me we have lube.

You do, and it’s right here, regular fucking boy scout aren’t you; you squeeze it sloppy onto your fingers and kick your legs farther apart, getting into position like you’re presenting your ass for, for what?

For me. Now, get your fingers inside yourself. You know how I like it.

Yeah, just a little too fast, a little too hard. You breach your entrance with one fingertip and it’s like fire; your head jerks up like someone’s grabbed you by the hair and there you are in the mirror, eyes just a little too bright, eyes on me, that’s good, oh you good boy. Look at you.

One finger becomes two becomes three, slopping more lube onto your hand like it’s going out of style, and the stretch, the burn of it has you gasping voiceless, breath fogging the mirror as you try to lean forward and reach back at once, as your strange tv-static fingers search for the spot that makes your vision white out.

There. Just like that. Oh you’re so greedy, aren’t you. You’d take my whole fist if I wanted, you’d take it and you’d like it.

Fuck, yes, god you can’t breathe, can’t think, because you’re hitting that spot with every press of your hand now, you could swear you feel fingers gripping at your hair, raking down your chest, closing around you and it’s impossible, impossible, it’s

Me. Come for me, now, that’s it. Don’t look away.

And oh, fuck, that’s all it takes until you’re coming hard, so hard it drives you to your knees, right hand wrenching free and you think maybe you’re dying. Is this what dying feels like?

Obviously not. Now get up. Get dressed. We have such a busy day ahead.

—-

Blinking lights and revelations

—-

He makes you lick your own semen off the dresser. Well, he doesn’t make you exactly; you have the sense that he’s more a passenger than anything, but fuck if it doesn’t get you going anyway. He says clean up after yourself in that weird way that’s like talking but not, like he’s right inside your brain (am I not? What do you think is happening here, boy?) And that weird static feel is ghosting down your spine, nerves firing in a fingertip pattern. So you lick at the wood and fist your cock which is somehow, impossibly, hard again already. Until

No.

“No?”

Drop it. I will tell you when you can touch yourself.

There’s that static again, bursting down your spine to your arm your hand your fingers. Your hand drops open and you breathe hard, pained, every nerve firing at once.

Maybe not just a passenger after all. There’s a rich warm sensation, curling under the skin behind your ear. Try again, pet. See where it gets you.

“Who even are you? Why is this happening, I don’t understand.”

You don’t have to understand. You just have to deal with it.

“But who—“

You don’t know? Even though we fit so well? I think maybe you do know, and you’re scared.

He’s not wrong.

Of course I’m not.

You dress, let Kal out and back in. He looks at you skeptically before disappearing to wherever he goes when he’s not lounging at your feet. You get out egg whites and chicken breast for breakfast which somehow becomes bacon and eggs and those weird American biscuits that are like scones except not. You certainly don’t know how to make them, and yet there they are being formed under your hands. You watch a little, feeling your mind disconnect from your body a bit. Static again.

Your body is a tool. You have to take care of it. And if you don’t, then I will. Now drink.

The water is halfway to your lips before you realize you can’t remember pouring it. The glass drops from your suddenly nerveless fingers.

Well, clean it up. And get another glass. Christ, we’re thirsty. What have you been doing to yourself?

You eat your ridiculous breakfast and drink your water, and you hate it but he’s right. You do feel better. You could almost forget what has turned out to be the weirdest morning of your life so far.

You flex your fingers, roll the stiffness out of your spine and

Oh, fuck. That feels good. Do it again.

What? You go through the motions in reverse, stretching your spine til it pops, shaking out your fingers, flexing them against the opposite palm until you feel yeah the coil of pleasure in your gut. And oh that drops a thought like ice into your veins. A little detail you thought up during one of those never-ending script rewrites, something you’d never shared and had in fact put out of your mind because it was so ridiculous. His hands hurt. They always hurt.

Walker.

This is ridiculous. It’s completely insane, completely impossible, and yet

And yet here we are. Funny, so I exist here too?

“You’re just a character. A figment. You aren’t real.”

Not real, huh? I saw how hard you came with our fingers in your ass.

And oh how your cheeks burn at that. You can still feel echoes of that stretch, that soreness that lingers.

“But if you’re here, then—”

uh-uh. You start to feel that static creeping down your spine—again?—come on, there’s a good boy.

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.”

You can. You think I don’t feel it? That ache, that burn, that little bit too much? Think I can’t feel what makes you weak?

“You’re deflecting.”

And it’s working.

Fuck, he’s right. You hate that he seems to know you as much as you know him. You’re frantically scrabbling through your memories, trying to pull up your sense of Walker-the-character but it’s been two years. Still, you reach bits and pieces, his confidence, his almost aggressive masculinity, his betrayal.

His—

Bright, blinking lights. Shouting. Begging. Asking why—

A burst of static drops you to your knees. It hurts him. This little bit of backstory you’d pulled out of your ass to try and keep Walker consistent in your mind when the script changed every damn day. It hurts him and you take it back, you take it back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t, I didn’t know.”

—-

“I got a hunger and I can’t seem to get full”

—Bright Eyes

—-

You prod at him like a bruise, a wound, a scab you pull off before it’s healed so you can see, just for a moment, the raw wet flesh before blood comes rushing in, feel the flare of pain as the last of the scab lifts away.

Knock it off.

“Come on. Please. I didn’t know, how could I? I didn’t even think you were real. If I’d known, I wouldn’t— Shit. This isn’t coming out right. Look, if something like that happened to me I wouldn’t want someone digging it up either.”

Something like that.

Something like that? Something like

Static bursting in your head again, loud and overwhelming, the signal lost and all you can do is writhe, all you can do is crawl as it takes you under. Because

The lights are bright, so bright, and the blood roars in your ears as they tie your wrists down tight, as they pull off your nails one by one. As they break your hands lovingly, bone by bone by bone. As they leave you to lie on the floor, gasping through tears and snot, clutching your hands to your chest.

And that was an easy day.

Jesus. The static fades, receding back up into your spine as you lie there gasping, trying to push down the memory because that’s what it was, wasn’t it. Not backstory, not theory, and oh your hands ache with it. So you rub them, thumbs pressing between bones, until the feeling recedes, until you feel a little spreading warmth work its way up your arms.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Don’t.

“I—“

Not happening. Now you know and that’s the end of it. Worry about it on your own time. With anyone else, you’d bring them something to drink, sit close enough that they could lean into you if they wanted. Give them space while offering up your own. Even knowing what kind of man he is, what he’s done, he’s still hurting and you always were taught to help those in need. But here you are more intimately connected than you’ve ever been with anyone before, with Walker so deep inside you, and there’s nothing you can do for him.

Phrasing, boy. Amusement, warm at the back of your neck. Besides, if I was inside you, I doubt you’d have the space to think about it. You feel that static again, radiating out from your spine. It curls around your hips, wraps around your inner thighs. It’s gentle, effervescent. And god help you, but you want more of it.

“Deflecting again?”

Obviously. Now shut up and let me take care of us. It’s nearly soporific, the way he curls around your mind. You can feel him picking at the seams of your worries, brushing them away and leaving an emptiness behind. Let me do this, I’ll make it good.

You’ve thought about it, haven’t you. Thought about the way Walker would fuck. You always do, when you’re feeling out a new character. After all, it’s the closest you can get to another person, the most honest and intimate you can possibly be with someone.

Almost, anyway.

Charles Brandon? Up for nearly anything, anywhere, with anyone. Likes to surprise his partners with a silk bow around his cock. Has a scar in his left armpit from a knifeplay experiment that nearly went very wrong.

Clark Kent? Gives and gives and gives. Always holds himself back, likes it out in the cornfields where he can smell the warm earth. His first orgasm blew out every window in a three-mile radius.

Napoleon Solo? Oh, you don’t really like to think about that one. He’s tried just about everything and enjoyed almost none of it. Would really like to be tied down and petted until he falls asleep, but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

And August Walker?

Come on. Tell me how I like it.

“You, oh Christ this is embarrassing.”

Mmm, is it? I can feel it, you know. You can’t hide from me, not really. Now be a good boy and tell me. I want to hear it from you.

“You—oh hell. You like to leave marks, alright? Cuts, bruises, it doesn’t matter. You just want them to look at themselves after and be reminded of you. You always make it good for them, it’s a point of pride I guess. But you never let go, so you’re never really satisfied.”

Clever. Go on. How do I touch them? I want you to show me.

—-

“And who is to say what flesh should do, and who is to have it for that use?”

—Built to Spill

—-

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is our hand. Show me.

“I— I don’t even know where to start.”

Same as anything. You start at the beginning. Here, I’ll even make it easy for you.

There’s that creeping, bubbly feeling again but this time it’s crawling up the side of your neck. You follow it with your fingers and yes, good, definitely the right choice. Press your fingers to your lips, try again, move your hand to your hair and tug. There you go. Show me your throat. You can picture him, can’t you, drawing your head back with a grip just the wrong side of too hard. Can feel him nosing at the point of your jaw, biting over your Adam’s apple.

“How in the fuck?”

Your nerves are my nerves. Keep touching. Mmm, yeah, like that. That’s your carotid artery, can you feel the blood pumping? Not too much now, follow the blood down.

And yeah, yeah you can feel your artery pulsing as you press into it with your index finger, hold it long enough to feel that thrumming in your skull, but

Not today.

Fuck but it’s good, it’s so good, hold it long enough and you could drop to the carpet, starve your brain of blood a little and you could

Don’t.

That static again, sharper this time. Driving your hand down, unbuttoning your shirt with one clumsy hand. It’s like you’ve never undressed yourself before. And it hurts, somehow, little prickles of pain at your fingertips with every button. But that creeping static is curling under your shirt as you work, running blunt little tendrils down your chest and circling your nipples until they pebble hard, until your hips make the tiniest movement, seeking any kind of friction you can get, until you open your pants and get yourself out in the open air. Until

“What the fuck?”

You can feel a hand on your cock, sure and strong, but it can’t be yours because by this point you’ve got one hand playing with your tits and the other wrenching your head back by the hair. And you try to speak but the angle of your throat crushes the words, rasps them out weak and strangled.

“Oh, that’s good.” Your voice is doubled, echoing on itself, flat American accent chasing your own. His words are hot in your throat and you can’t tell if it’s actually good or not; it’s like being in a hall of mirrors and not knowing which way is out and which way will break your nose against the glass. He’s like fire in your throat, under your skin, everywhere.

Fuck, you’ve got that tightening coil in your gut and this might be it, might be the first time you’ve ever come untouched

Untouched? Really? I’m insulted.

And then you feel it. That hot white spark inside, the one you’ve only sometimes managed to hit with fingers and a careful angle, the spark that makes your balls draw up tight and your cock pulse even as something just barely holds you back from the edge. Whatever it is, it’s

“Christ. I— what is that? How are you—?” You’re wound tight, so tight. All it would take is the smallest push; you’re so hard you’re sweating and your nails are tearing at your chest, at your scalp, everywhere except where you most need your hands to be. And when you feel the first tears start to prick at your eyes, you hear him.

Hey. He sounds— stretched, somehow. You ever come so hard you see God? And with a flare of fire deep inside, you do. You come harder than you ever have in your life, and it’s the last thing you know for a long, long while.

#henry cavill #august walker #i appreciate you #goddamn

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