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changehistorySome might have thought the first year would have been the worst. He'd been a newlywed, after all, with an eager, passionate bride at home. They'd rooms and surfaces yet to be fully broken in, parts of each other still unknown and unexplored. He'd had a lover, as well, of course, though fewer knew that, and if they'd long since thoroughly mapped each line and curve of the others' body, it only led to that much more savoring of the experience, with well placed touches and expertly executed maneuvers in and out of the bedroom. Gratification had been the least of his worries, and in a moment he was cut off from all contact, shut away from it like it had never been, both body and soul denied the comfort of release.
He barely noticed or thought of it, then, consumed by rage at the failure of his plan and the betrayal of his friends. Locked up like a rat in a cage, poked and prodded and twisting on their needles, he didn't give a thought to sex or lust or pleasure. He only thought of revenge. Taut and tempered, he waited, knowing that one of them would turn, someone would come, let him out, and then they would rain fire down on those who dared to think they could stop him.
But no one came.
By the time his imprisonment sank fully into his consciousness, he'd felt the fetters that bound him to sanity slipping free and madness was a bit of a blessing. He whiled away a few years that way, and let the pain and agony and bitterness mesh inside of him in intricate patterns of colors behind his eyes. But the luxury of the illusion of delirium could only last so long until his mind forced him to face that it had long since healed itself from any damage the snipping of its bonds had done, and when he opened his eyes to the reality of his life, he faced cold, sterile walls and a window to a barren hall and flimsy pajamas and a hard narrow bed with no one to share it with, and his body remembered what it felt like to be touched for more than tests and torture with an aching longing he'd been trying to ignore for far too long.
Everything he did was recorded, every move he made, every twitch of his body, and while he could close the blinds on his window to give himself the illusion of privacy, he knew that camera was always there. Exhibitionism had never really been his thing, but neither had he been shy. Too many years spent in close quarters with his men, in crew quarters on ships or in tents on a battlefield had robbed him of that. The first time he touched himself after so long, he came almost embarrassingly fast, in a heated rush of release and relief that left him shivering on the bed before he moved to the sink to wash his hands. The second time he took longer, and after that he found ways to make it last. It was a cheap pleasure, in some ways, to have only himself and his mind, but there were lovers enough in there to keep him occupied, and it was better than nothing.
Three centuries of women, and men, and he revisited the best of them, tracing over them again in his mind, remembering how they tasted against his tongue, the way they sounded when his mouth teased against them or swallowed them down, how they fit around him when he took them. Their heat. The feel of flesh against flesh. The taste of sweat. His teeth would bite down hard enough on his lip to briefly taste blood, just for the copper and salt as he arched on the bed and into his own hand and imagined it was one of theirs. In his mind, he could feel their hair winding around his fingers, and the slickness of their skin sliding against his. With practice, his recall got better, and what he couldn't remember he filled in, and as the years passed he even managed to forget the cameras were there, but the truth remained that when the flush of passion faded and the sweat cooled on his skin, he was left with a sticky hand on a narrow cot, alone.
And then she grew up.
He'd been in the cell for twenty-four years, and watching her for the last three as she started sashaying in with her curved hips and breasts, brushing just that much closer as she cut his hair, leaning against him when she talked to him, pressing herself against his body in blatant invitation though he knew she had to have little idea of what she was really offering. She was barely more than a child, he told himself, and he wondered if this was some new form of torture Bob had devised. The sparks from her fingers had always been one thing, dancing across his skin in a painful caress that he'd learned to sublimate to something else. It wasn't as if he'd ever had a problem with pain, and for three years, he found her slipping in to his fantasies, and the sparks, the pain, the scorching heat was followed by something else as her fingers slid over his newly healed skin. He wasn't kind, in those dreams, and it wasn't gentle, but the first time he reached for her, he tried to be.
There was something almost awkward for a moment about the slide of another tongue against his, the taste of someone else on his lips. He'd imagined it so many times, but reality was jarring, almost jarring enough to make him let her go. Instead he pulled her closer, and moaned when she fit herself against him eagerly. His fingers slid over her slowly, dragging against satin skin, almost whimpering at its softness and all the little things his memory had neglected to include in fantasy. She was hot to the touch, it seemed, burning everywhere they met, easing back the perpetual cold his skin always seemed to carry in here, and he flushed more with it. Perhaps he should have murmured something sweet, words of affection or at least need first, before his mouth was devouring her, but he let his hands do the talking as they eased under her shirt, pushing it up. After so long, he was a bit clumsy with the clasp of her bra, but he managed to get it undone, and when his fingers teased her nipple to a peak and she moaned, wriggling a bit on his lap, he could have laughed in triumph. He pulled his mouth from hers just to get her shirt and bra off, and stripped his as well, holding her eyes, watching them spark with excitement as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. Little sparks danced from her fingertips as she trailed them over his chest, but she was careful, they weren't to stop him, and he shuddered in pleasure at them before lifting her and carrying her to the bed.
Her legs parted for him, gaze still curious as his fingers ran up her inner thigh to brush over her panties under her skirt, and then his fingers were hooking in them tugging them down and tossing them to join her shirt. God knew how long they had before Bob sent a guard. Why he hadn't already, Adam didn't know, but he wasn't going to question. Instead he undid his pants and settled over her, kissing her hungrily again. There was a moment's regret he couldn't take his time, truly savor her, teach her, show her everything a girl should learn, but when he touched her again, she arched into him with a moan, and he found her hot and wet. With a murmur of apology, sure it would hurt a bit, he fitted himself to her and pressed in with one swift thrust, moaning her name and nearly coming there and then with how hot and tight she was around him. She cried and stilled out, freezing, and for a moment, he thought she was going to push him away. Somehow he found words, telling her that was the worst, it would be all right now, and managed to hold still to let her adjust to the feel of him before he began to move. After that it was heat. Heat and friction and everything he'd remembered, but so much more. Her mouth on his, her fingers trailing sparks over his skin here and there, and alternately, her nails digging in. Pleasure and pain and both of them moaning. There was an urgency to it, a knowledge that they were being watched, surely, someone would be coming, there would be repercussions, and then he forgot about anything but the feel of her under him, against him, around him, and the sound of his name on her lips as she begged him for things she barely understood. He slipped one hand between them to tease over her, adjusting his thrusts to accommodate, and when she arched, crying out, he watched in wonder the one thing he'd never truly been able to recreate in his mind--the face of a lover lost in their own completion--before his own hit, rushing up over him, tingling as much as any spark from her fingers, coiling and gripping as he spilled into her.
Catching his breath, he eased back, staring at her slightly. Her hair was damp, skin flushed, and she stared back, lips parted a bit in shock. Then she was pushing at him a bit, and he rolled off of her.
"Daddy's going to..."
"Elle..."
"I'll..." She bit her lip, even as she pushed her skirt down and reached for her other clothes.
"It's all right."
She tugged her shirt on, then hesitated for a moment ,before leaning in and giving him an awkward kiss. Then with a worried glance at the camera, and another at him, she fled. Adam let his gaze rest on the camera as well, speculatively, and then he waited for the fall out, for the guards or the scientists to come rushing in to punish him.
No one came.
[ooc: Not binding on any Elle-muse, though feel free to let it be or not, as you please. Just playing with prompt and what first time might've been like. :-)]
He barely noticed or thought of it, then, consumed by rage at the failure of his plan and the betrayal of his friends. Locked up like a rat in a cage, poked and prodded and twisting on their needles, he didn't give a thought to sex or lust or pleasure. He only thought of revenge. Taut and tempered, he waited, knowing that one of them would turn, someone would come, let him out, and then they would rain fire down on those who dared to think they could stop him.
But no one came.
By the time his imprisonment sank fully into his consciousness, he'd felt the fetters that bound him to sanity slipping free and madness was a bit of a blessing. He whiled away a few years that way, and let the pain and agony and bitterness mesh inside of him in intricate patterns of colors behind his eyes. But the luxury of the illusion of delirium could only last so long until his mind forced him to face that it had long since healed itself from any damage the snipping of its bonds had done, and when he opened his eyes to the reality of his life, he faced cold, sterile walls and a window to a barren hall and flimsy pajamas and a hard narrow bed with no one to share it with, and his body remembered what it felt like to be touched for more than tests and torture with an aching longing he'd been trying to ignore for far too long.
Everything he did was recorded, every move he made, every twitch of his body, and while he could close the blinds on his window to give himself the illusion of privacy, he knew that camera was always there. Exhibitionism had never really been his thing, but neither had he been shy. Too many years spent in close quarters with his men, in crew quarters on ships or in tents on a battlefield had robbed him of that. The first time he touched himself after so long, he came almost embarrassingly fast, in a heated rush of release and relief that left him shivering on the bed before he moved to the sink to wash his hands. The second time he took longer, and after that he found ways to make it last. It was a cheap pleasure, in some ways, to have only himself and his mind, but there were lovers enough in there to keep him occupied, and it was better than nothing.
Three centuries of women, and men, and he revisited the best of them, tracing over them again in his mind, remembering how they tasted against his tongue, the way they sounded when his mouth teased against them or swallowed them down, how they fit around him when he took them. Their heat. The feel of flesh against flesh. The taste of sweat. His teeth would bite down hard enough on his lip to briefly taste blood, just for the copper and salt as he arched on the bed and into his own hand and imagined it was one of theirs. In his mind, he could feel their hair winding around his fingers, and the slickness of their skin sliding against his. With practice, his recall got better, and what he couldn't remember he filled in, and as the years passed he even managed to forget the cameras were there, but the truth remained that when the flush of passion faded and the sweat cooled on his skin, he was left with a sticky hand on a narrow cot, alone.
And then she grew up.
He'd been in the cell for twenty-four years, and watching her for the last three as she started sashaying in with her curved hips and breasts, brushing just that much closer as she cut his hair, leaning against him when she talked to him, pressing herself against his body in blatant invitation though he knew she had to have little idea of what she was really offering. She was barely more than a child, he told himself, and he wondered if this was some new form of torture Bob had devised. The sparks from her fingers had always been one thing, dancing across his skin in a painful caress that he'd learned to sublimate to something else. It wasn't as if he'd ever had a problem with pain, and for three years, he found her slipping in to his fantasies, and the sparks, the pain, the scorching heat was followed by something else as her fingers slid over his newly healed skin. He wasn't kind, in those dreams, and it wasn't gentle, but the first time he reached for her, he tried to be.
There was something almost awkward for a moment about the slide of another tongue against his, the taste of someone else on his lips. He'd imagined it so many times, but reality was jarring, almost jarring enough to make him let her go. Instead he pulled her closer, and moaned when she fit herself against him eagerly. His fingers slid over her slowly, dragging against satin skin, almost whimpering at its softness and all the little things his memory had neglected to include in fantasy. She was hot to the touch, it seemed, burning everywhere they met, easing back the perpetual cold his skin always seemed to carry in here, and he flushed more with it. Perhaps he should have murmured something sweet, words of affection or at least need first, before his mouth was devouring her, but he let his hands do the talking as they eased under her shirt, pushing it up. After so long, he was a bit clumsy with the clasp of her bra, but he managed to get it undone, and when his fingers teased her nipple to a peak and she moaned, wriggling a bit on his lap, he could have laughed in triumph. He pulled his mouth from hers just to get her shirt and bra off, and stripped his as well, holding her eyes, watching them spark with excitement as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. Little sparks danced from her fingertips as she trailed them over his chest, but she was careful, they weren't to stop him, and he shuddered in pleasure at them before lifting her and carrying her to the bed.
Her legs parted for him, gaze still curious as his fingers ran up her inner thigh to brush over her panties under her skirt, and then his fingers were hooking in them tugging them down and tossing them to join her shirt. God knew how long they had before Bob sent a guard. Why he hadn't already, Adam didn't know, but he wasn't going to question. Instead he undid his pants and settled over her, kissing her hungrily again. There was a moment's regret he couldn't take his time, truly savor her, teach her, show her everything a girl should learn, but when he touched her again, she arched into him with a moan, and he found her hot and wet. With a murmur of apology, sure it would hurt a bit, he fitted himself to her and pressed in with one swift thrust, moaning her name and nearly coming there and then with how hot and tight she was around him. She cried and stilled out, freezing, and for a moment, he thought she was going to push him away. Somehow he found words, telling her that was the worst, it would be all right now, and managed to hold still to let her adjust to the feel of him before he began to move. After that it was heat. Heat and friction and everything he'd remembered, but so much more. Her mouth on his, her fingers trailing sparks over his skin here and there, and alternately, her nails digging in. Pleasure and pain and both of them moaning. There was an urgency to it, a knowledge that they were being watched, surely, someone would be coming, there would be repercussions, and then he forgot about anything but the feel of her under him, against him, around him, and the sound of his name on her lips as she begged him for things she barely understood. He slipped one hand between them to tease over her, adjusting his thrusts to accommodate, and when she arched, crying out, he watched in wonder the one thing he'd never truly been able to recreate in his mind--the face of a lover lost in their own completion--before his own hit, rushing up over him, tingling as much as any spark from her fingers, coiling and gripping as he spilled into her.
Catching his breath, he eased back, staring at her slightly. Her hair was damp, skin flushed, and she stared back, lips parted a bit in shock. Then she was pushing at him a bit, and he rolled off of her.
"Daddy's going to..."
"Elle..."
"I'll..." She bit her lip, even as she pushed her skirt down and reached for her other clothes.
"It's all right."
She tugged her shirt on, then hesitated for a moment ,before leaning in and giving him an awkward kiss. Then with a worried glance at the camera, and another at him, she fled. Adam let his gaze rest on the camera as well, speculatively, and then he waited for the fall out, for the guards or the scientists to come rushing in to punish him.
No one came.
[ooc: Not binding on any Elle-muse, though feel free to let it be or not, as you please. Just playing with prompt and what first time might've been like. :-)]
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 06:43 pm (UTC)I've always imagined what their first time would have been like considering where they were at the time, and this was perfect.
Although now I have this image in my head of Bob watching the video the entire time, much like Bennett (apparently?) watched Elle and Sylar in Eclipse.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 07:14 pm (UTC)Yeah, I think about that room and how there was like NO privacy that he had at all, forever, and just shake my head, so. I'm glad it worked for you!
LOL. I know, right? And you have to figure he knew. Even if he just reviewed the tape later.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 07:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 04:49 am (UTC)I do love good smut. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 04:27 pm (UTC)