Chapter Text
The future is cataclysmically hot, which Frank had expected, and humid as hell, which he hadn't. There's a storm brewing on the horizon, but it's been there for days now with no sign of breaking, and Frank's starting to think he might understand better why everyone from the future seems to be some kind of crazy.
It almost makes him glad to have lost his usual clothes. Well – lost. That doesn't quite cover the situation, does it?
Frank has been in the future for several days, held prisoner in what seems to be some kind of old fashioned, fairytale-style castle. The first night, he expected Nathan to arrive and drag him back to his own time, but it's been more than a week and there's been plenty of action but no sign of Nathan so far. Stryfe keeps teasing him, saying that Nathan's grown bored of his human affair and won't bother trying to track Frank to Stryfe's temporal hideout.
At least, Frank assumes it's teasing. Given the clone's general dismissal of Frank outside of sex, Frank can't imagine that Stryfe really wants to keep him around long term. And given how much he enjoys the sex – and rubbing it in Frank's face how much Frank enjoys the sex – it seems unlikely that Stryfe's going to simply kill him, either.
But this future is unlike Frank's time in every way that matters. With no more than a few gestures, Stryfe had stripped him, first of his weapons and then of his clothes. Stryfe had taunted him by providing him with sharp knives at every meal, knowing he couldn't make use of a weapon with such a powerful telepath already wrist-deep in his brain, and when Frank had thrown caution to the wind and decided to try attacking anyway, Stryfe had disarmed him so quickly and handily, it had almost been erotic.
As for clothes, Frank's choices are to go naked or to exist in the insulting, diaphanous suggestion of clothing that Stryfe has provided. All delicate, sheer panels of silk, held in place with clasps and buckles of precious gold. Frank's modesty isn't preserved in this get up so much as it's suggested. A stiff breeze is enough to expose him, and a firm grip will certainly either rip the pretty fabric away or break the chains holding it on him.
For a week, Frank tolerates the game with minimal bitching. He can admit, it's pretty fun to get to shake things up a little, but he's no damsel in distress. As a matter of fact, he's pretty sure most damsels would have put up more of a protest by this point, if his memory of Disney movies is anything to go by. And doesn't that just make him want to put more of a wiggle on.
Since Stryfe doesn't really seem to care about where he is or what he's doing outside of the moments he specifically chooses to inflict himself upon Frank, it's actually not that hard to slip out of the wing of the castle Frank has been told to confine himself to, easily slipping past Stryfe's useless dog soldiers.
He has no real plan. He doesn't know how time travel works, doesn't know if Stryfe has a time machine he can steal, or a device he needs to use, or if the tech is integrated into Stryfe's very person like Nathan's "bodyslide" tech. All he knows is a week is seven days of him sitting pretty in some fucked up future castle that doesn't even have air conditioning, getting fucked and eating too many carbs, and it's time to get going. If Nathan was going to show up, he would have done it already.
This place is obviously nowhere new. Nathan must know when and where it is, and how to find it. Which can only mean that Nathan is too busy for this bullshit, and honestly so is Frank.
Like he said, he's no damsel.
His first escape attempt lasts about an hour. When Stryfe catches up to him, he telekinetically freezes him in place, and well, that's that. There's some snarky back and forth about dogs needing to be on leashes before they can go outside, but Frank knows enough to conserve his energy. Head to head he's not going to get past Stryfe without some serious shielding, weaponry, and probably a lot of luck.
That night, when Stryfe fucks him, he fastens a collar around Frank's neck, and chains the collar to the wall. It's superfluous bondage when he's in the room with Frank, where his telekinesis is more than enough to do the job, but Frank has a feeling it's not going to simply go away when Stryfe gets his rocks off – and he is, of course, right about that.
When Stryfe is satisfied, having ridden Frank throughout his screaming orgasm while somehow holding Frank's own release behind some kind of psychic hold, he snaps his fingers and the chain holding Frank to the wall seems to grow. It's as fine as jewelry, but tough as steel, and nothing Frank does can so much as scratch one of the links. The chain is just long enough to give Frank access to the entirety of the apartment he's been allotted, so he can still take a shit so long as he doesn't mind leaving the bathroom door open.
The collar is nothing but a chain by itself, but it seems to stir something up in Stryfe's messed-up skull, because for a couple of days after, he's around a lot more making use of his prisoner – not that Frank has much to complain about. And then, on the third or fourth day, Frank manages to slip the collar entirely.
This escape attempt goes much better. He's learned a few things from his look back at the castle and he's lucky enough to get his hands on a weapon early on. He's not a huge fan of the hard light guns Stryfe's men favour, but he's grateful that Nathan's trained him with them extensively enough that he can figure this one out with relatively little difficulty.
He makes it out of the castle and into some kind of courtyard before he runs into trouble. The city sprawls away from the castle in a sort of spiral, but aside from the odd soldier marching double time looking for Frank, there's no sign of life. Frank wonders how this world works, where the food is grown, who handles transportation to this empty city. Where do the weapons, the armor, the raw materials come from? Why is it so Christing hot all the time and when will the storm on the horizon have the mercy to just fucking break?!
All these inane things are things he tries to think about, thoughts of this world and this time instead of his own usual blunt mental processes. His hope is to at least disguise his telepathic presence, make himself harder for Stryfe to find when the armour-clad idiot comes running to do his own dirty work. Frank should have asked Nathan how to do this. He has no idea if what he's doing will work or not. All he can do is hope, and Frank's never been much for hope.
He sneaks down into the city, aided in his attempts at stealth by the fact that his stupid silky nothing of an outfit is both darkly colored and light enough not to make much noise as he moves, but he's pretty sure he'd feel less stupid if he were wandering around the city actually naked. As it is, he's barefoot and sneaking with all the care he can manage, trying to avoid thinking too loudly or too familiarly while negotiating the floaty, sheer silks he's been draped in.
It's all really less than ideal. He has complaints – some notes for next time, if you like – that they arrange one of these fucked up little three ways they keep having.
Except that's part of the problem, isn't it? Nobody's really arranging anything, because arranging something means actually talking to everyone involved, making plans, fucking communicating, and Christ knows none of them are doing any of that.
No, the closest they've gotten to "arranging" something had been that display last year in Nathan's Manhattan place: that ugly piece of postmodern glass in some uptown high-rise, where Frank pretended to be Nathan's cheating little wifey with Stryfe, all while Nathan watched from the comfort of his own easy chair. The memory is still potent enough to send a hot thrill through Frank, although there had been precious little communication done ahead of that little exercise. Heaven forbid they warn Frank ahead of time that they plan on springing anything like this on him; Frank might freak out, might make shit awkward.
Better to trust Frank to roll with the punches, better to ask forgiveness than beg permission, yada yada – Frank would almost be impressed by the dedication to protecting him if he didn't put up with ninja bullshit and literal monsters every other month. For fucks sake, he'd been a Frankenstein for a while, he's more open-minded than people give him credit for! Sometimes Nathan seems to get that, but other times it seems like he's just as set on playing things safe as anyone else.
He's thinking about this – sulking about it, really – in a mean little voice that sounds far too much like Stryfe for comfort, when he finds a dark building to hold up in for the night. Aside from food, of which he has none, the place has just about every accommodation he could ask for, from "multiple escape routes" to "solid roof". Given the heat and humidity, Frank doesn't expect to get much sleep, but he needs some rest, and given the options he might as well take what he can find now, before the humid sunset fades into real darkness.
His guard isn't really down, and the camp isn't really comfortable at all, but of course he still drifts off and that's when Stryfe decides to show up. For such a drama queen, it's all relatively little fanfare, far less monologuing then Frank might have expected. Stryfe does at least have the decency to knock Frank around a little and treat him like an actual threat, instead of brushing him off as predictable, mundane and too human to be of any concern to someone as great and as powerful as him.
The worst of this charade is, Frank's not sure how much of it is put on just for him. Is Stryfe pretending to take him seriously, pissed off because Frank killed some of his men and won't play nice with his other toys? Or does the acting happen when he's breezing along through life, as everything falls into place for him and his plans?
Frank doesn't know. He doesn't even know what difference it makes or why he should care. He just knows that when he throws himself at Stryfe in a desperate bid to catch the big bitch off guard, Stryfe grapples with him, massive arms flexing in earnest and straining as he legitimately works to get Frank down onto the fulcrum of his hip then flips him soundly onto the dusty stonework.
Could have been a casual wave of telekinesis, but no. Stryfe works with him, works for him, and Frank doesn't even mind that no one's touching him when he winds up sprawled in the dirt, half hard and all annoyed.
"It's a wonder that Nathan can ever keep you satisfied," Stryfe says, standing over Frank's prone form. The foot on his chest is purely for dramatics; he's doing all the real work of pinning Frank with his mind. "A week and more I have kept you, fed you, housed you, tended every need you might have had, and still I find you sneaking out to throw yourself among the common trash."
Frank scoffs, turning his head to one side to spit bloody grit from between his teeth. He immediately regrets not simply spitting on Stryfe's booted foot when that heel grinds down into his sternum. Only when Frank gives in and shouts his pain does the pressure ease, allowing Frank to draw air into his lungs again. "Did you expect me to like being your prisoner?" Frank finally snaps, watching the smile freeze on Stryfe's face. "Was I supposed to enjoy being your slave?"
"Well I couldn't very well take you for my wife," Stryfe says, scandalized and eager to miss the point, so long as the point has anything to do with rationalizing what they're actually doing. "At least not until your beloved Nathan makes you a widow, that is."
And Jesus – Jesus – there's nothing even sexy about this marriage shit, leastways not when it's just random talk, rambling comments that he's claimed and wanted, taken and spoken for, but he's hard as nails anyway and ready to pound wood. He and Nathan have never really even talked about that shit, not outside the safety of bed, not sober, and Frank is plenty happy to keep it that way – and yet…
He doesn't want to think about the squirming sense of want and rightness that crops up when Stryfe talks about a supposed marriage. He wants even less to think about the eager, twisted delight that comes from the idea of sneaking around behind Nathan's back, of being the seducer – seductress – who lured Stryfe to himself with the promise of sex and then, out of boredom, or temper, or whatever, simply tried to walk away after Stryfe gave him everything.
Stryfe shifts his weight, moving his boot so he can grind his heel into Frank's groin, just above the print of his straining cock. "I've given you everything you could think to ask for, worm, and still you defy me," he growls. His boot shifts again, grinding down on Frank's half-hard cock, and it's good: so nauseatingly, perfectly awful that Frank can't help the desperate sound that leaps from his throat. "Perhaps I should take back my things, the comfort of my clothes and my apartments, and throw you naked to my soldiers. Give them some reward for their loyalty – but no. A slut like you would take too much pleasure from a punishment like that, wouldn't you, Frank?"
Frank tries not to think about it, especially while Stryfe mauls his balls with the toe of his boot, but he can't quite help himself. Or, maybe – likely, even – Stryfe is in his head, painting lurid pictures inside his skull. Frank, surrounded by faceless men, on his knees, pulled from one hard dick to the next by his hair, forced to suck as thoroughly as he can before getting dragged to the next guy. Frank on his back, stuffed from both ends, Frank on his belly with his ass split open on some stranger's cock while two more jerk off in his face.
The options are as varied and as salacious as any of Frank's fantasies, and he can't stop his mouth from watering, his aching dick from running wet enough to soil the silk he's trapped in.
"Oath, you're such a poorly trained mutt," Stryfe growls, using his boot to draw the fabric tight to Frank's aching cock, so there's no chance of the silk going unscathed. Frank's heart beats a little harder as the silk darkens and clings to his cock, sticky with his precum as Stryfe shakes his head and tuts in mocking disapproval. "I can't believe how little Nathan has bothered to teach you…"
Stryfe's boot finally eases away from Frank's dick, and Frank's not entirely sure if that's a mercy or not. He thinks about complaining or trying to say something smart, but he's never been great at the whole pithy conversation bit. He tends to leave the banter to the ones who like that shit and focus on fighting, but in situations like this it always makes him feel especially stupid. He says nothing, trying to shift backwards away from Stryfe, thinking that if he doesn't think about trying to run then the telepath won't see it coming.
Real brilliant stuff. High level strategy.
But, of course, Stryfe notices anyway and calls Frank out on his shit. "Sit up, dog," he orders, snapping his fingers impatiently.
Frank would like to be able to say that it's Stryfe's telekinesis, or some kind of horrible conditioning that's messed with his head and left him so compliant, but the fact of the matter is, Frank's always loved the voice of stern displeasure, always hopped to it when someone, with sufficient authority in their voice, points and tells him where to go or what to do.
Stryfe simply asks – demands – Frank sit up, and Frank obeys, his spine ramrod straight, chin up, chest out. Somehow it's not even surprising when Stryfe pulls out the collar again, though Frank would love to know where on a suit of armour he was stashing that. When he steps forward to fasten it around Frank's neck, Frank turns his head and positions himself to make it as easy as possible for the clone to secure it.
"Very good," Stryfe says, as condescendingly as possible. "I can almost overlook how you've soiled your pretty things when you're so obedient, but this running off nonsense must be punished. For your own good, Frank. I'm sure you understand."
Stryfe doesn't speak to him quite like he’s speaking to a dog, but it's certainly not how he would speak to an equal, either, and Frank rankles at the tone. He'd love to make something of it, for pride's sake if nothing else, but then Stryfe is squatting in his face, dragging him in close and kissing him.
Kissing Stryfe is never as much like kissing Nathan as Frank expects it to be. Nathan kisses with a persistent passion that shines through every brush of his hands, every sweep of his tongue or clip of his teeth. Nathan's kisses are full of such affection that Frank can't stand it sometimes, can't take the overwhelming sense of want and desire that comes with even the gentlest of Nathan's touches. Stryfe, by contrast, kisses like he's in a competition for the filthiest kiss, every time, and is determined to take home first place.
Stryfe grips Frank by the collar and hauls him forward so their mouths crush together, Stryfe's teeth sharp on Frank's lip, sharp enough that he takes a breath, like a gasp and a moan at the same time, then rears back as much as he can with Stryfe gripping him by the collar. Just like that, Stryfe's tongue is in his mouth, overwhelming, sensual, and Frank sucks it on reflex, an impulse that he can't suppress.
"Good boy," Stryfe purrs, as he breaks away, looking at the wet blood on Frank's lips. "Might as well get all the good favour you can now."
"Thought I had to be punished," Frank growls back, because he's never had the best sense of self-preservation. He doesn't flinch when Stryfe slaps him on the cheek: three light, patronizing taps.
Stryfe's grin is different from Nathan's too, tellingly so. Frank knows that plenty of people are fooled by how similar the two of them look, but it's still astounding to him that anyone gets this close and can still buy the illusion. Even Nathan's meanest smile is softer at the edges, his eyes far more creased and warm than Stryfe's.
"Oh, you do, you do have to be punished," Stryfe says, relishing the threat of his words as he hauls Frank to his feet. For all that he's just as hugely muscular as Nathan is, Frank has never known Stryfe to bother using brawn where brains will do, and this is no exception. Telekinesis plucks Frank off the ground, hovering him a few inches above the rocky sand before letting him drop to stand freely. Stryfe is still grinning, watching him in a way that's beyond please, and Frank is certain that doesn't bode well at all for his immediate future.
Or, well, maybe it does. After all, Frank might not be the world's greatest detective, but it doesn't take a genius to realize that all Stryfe's punishments, at least where Frank's concerned, are sexual in nature. Frank might not have succeeded in getting himself free, but the punishment for his attempted escape is unlikely to be anything more serious than some extensive bondage.
And really, Frank's not… fully opposed to that. He knows he can't keep this charade up forever, and he doesn't expect to be forced to – just until Stryfe truly gets tired of his game.
He's just about resigned himself to his fate when Stryfe teleports them to a room Frank has never been in before, the walls a darker stone, the lighting dimmer and somehow more dismal than it had been in the apartments Stryfe had been keeping him in before. There is no doubt in Frank's mind that this is some part of the same castle he's been trapped in for over a week, but it's certainly not one of the rooms Stryfe had braggingly shown off when he'd first dragged Frank here.
Stryfe backs Frank against the wall and drags one of his hands behind his back, kissing him all the while, and Frank is so lost in the kiss that he barely notices the way he's being cuffed and chained, locked to the wall with one arm tied to a convenient pipe. This pipe runs the circuit of the room, but doesn't allow him within arms reach of the door to the outside. His world has just been reduced to approximately 10' by 14' and only the comforts Stryfe has provided.
Those comforts include a mattress on the floor and a bucket in the corner that he assumes will pass for a toilet during his stay. Stryfe lets him get a look at his new enclosure before pushing him toward the bed, bidding him to lay down.
"Do you remember the first time I let you fuck me?" Stryfe asks, pushing Frank down onto the mattress when he doesn't move fast enough for his tastes. "You were reluctant, tentative as a newborn pup. I knew you were desperate for it, knew all you needed was the right man to fuck those doubts out of your skull."
His smile is so mean, and his boot comes down between Frank's thighs just shy of crushing his balls. The armour he was wearing only a moment ago is gone, and his hand is wrapped tightly around his own erection.
"You were always so ready to please, Frank, so eager underneath all of that snarling and whining you do. That's what Nathan sees in you. That's what he married you for."
He straddles Frank's chest, pushing him back so he can swipe the head of that heavy dick across Frank's lips, and of course all Frank can do is chase after it. When Stryfe presses a thumb inside that mouth, his expression is one of amazed disbelief when Frank willingly sucks at the digit, mouth soft. He hooks his thumb behind Frank's teeth, smearing precum on his lips as he pushes just the tip of his cock in as well. And his hand withdraws, leaving Frank to suckle.
And then, hands braced against the wall, Stryfe shifts his hips and forces his way down Frank's throat.
"Damn his eyes," Stryfe hisses, "you're so good at this."
His hand is fisted in Frank's hair so he can lift his head to just the right angle, fuck Frank's face hard and fast and deep. He claims Frank's throat like he knows just what to do with it, like he knows what Frank wants, and fuck, maybe he does, maybe he's picking it right out of Frank's fucked up brain or maybe Frank's just that fucking obvious. Stryfe gives him everything he's ever thought of, ever dreamed of, with none of that questioning hesitation to mask the unspoken query of are-you-sure.
It occurs to Frank to be grateful, to thank Stryfe, but of course he can't do anything more than think it, mouth full of dick and lungs burning for lack of air. It's so much harder to think like this, think of all the reasons he should hate this, should be trying to run. There's always going to be something about a firm hand and a strict voice, staking claim, demanding obedience.
When Stryfe cums, he's so deep in Frank's throat that Frank can't even taste it; all he can do is swallow and swallow, blinking against the dark spots dancing before his eyes and struggling to keep upright where Stryfe wants him. And when at last Stryfe relaxes that grip on his hair and lets him sink back against the wall, dick slipping from his lips, Frank takes a ragged breath and licks his mouth clean, not bothering with the pretense of a struggle. It's going to take effort to get free of the handcuffs holding him to the wall, and right now, dick achingly hard and Stryfe staring at him like he's a dessert he's not sure how to finish, Frank's not up to putting in that kind of effort.
"What to do with you," Stryfe murmurs, almost absently, moving so he can collapse down to sit on the pile of mattresses by Frank's knees. His hand sliding up Frank's thigh is possessive, presumptuous, and Frank tries to jerk away from it, for the look of the thing if for no other reason. But of course, tied up as he is, there's nowhere for him to go.
One of Stryfe's hands shoves up under the silky fabric of the loose trousers Frank's wearing, while the other pushes his knees apart. "Next time I should have you in a dress," he says, voice honey sweet and razor sharp, filling Frank's head with visions of himself in some gauzy skirts, easily lifted out of the way and pushed aside so Stryfe can get at his cock, his ass, his – Jesus christ, where does he get this shit – his pussy, wet and ready and easy for Stryfe to shove a couple fingers in just to make Frank moan.
And Frank does moan, pushed back against the wall with his legs spread so wide that his hips ache with the strain, while Stryfe teases dry fingers over his hole with threatening promise. The tip of one finger slips inside and Frank moans in spite of himself, hitching his hips and tucking his chin down against his chest.
"Such a desperate thing," Stryfe says, and Frank can't argue, won't. It's what Stryfe wants, him desperate, him struggling, and Frank is trapped here, unable to do anything but give in. "I know what you need: someone to fuck this hungry hole and remind you of your place."
Which sounds nice, in theory, but Stryfe has just blown his load all down Frank's throat, and even telekinesis isn't going to get him hard again so soon. The sound of ripping silk drags Frank's attention away from that quandary and he squirms helplessly as Stryfe grips his ass and spreads him. For all the taunting about Frank's eagerness, Stryfe's never exactly shy or subtle about his wants, and now is no different.
"I could take you apart just like this," Stryfe promises, fingers gripping Frank's cheeks, blunt, dry pressure at his rim. "Take you dry and screaming and make you love every second of it."
It's a promise and a threat. Frank's heart, usually so steady, is beating hard, and his face is red and sweaty as he glares at Stryfe from beneath his lashes. With the crotch torn out of his harem pants, his dick is free to curl angry red and dripping wet back over his belly, not deterred in the least by the threat of Stryfe's proposed torture. Frank knows it's not a bluff, knows telepathy can do all kinds of wonderful, terrible things to his perception of pain and pleasure, and that shouldn't be so exciting a thing to think about, but it is.
Stryfe's cool smile grows wider, sharper. He knows Frank's not going to fight, because Frank never fights this, never tries to get away when a fuck is on the table.
"But why should I punish you so harshly when you're only following your nature?" the bastard purrs, and from across the room the bucket Frank had assumed was meant for a toilet floats up from the floor and over to Stryfe's hand. From within, Stryfe pulls out a bottle of some clear liquid and sets it aside, near enough at hand that Frank can't help but wonder if it’s all that’s inside.
The liquid in the bottle gets poured onto Stryfe's fingers, then teased over Frank's hole again, so slick and warm Frank almost wants to wriggle away, or ride down onto the sensation, but Stryfe quickly pulls him into position how he wants him, arms over his head, spine curved so he's sitting on his tailbone with his knees shoved back against his shoulders, barely able to breathe.
With his torn clothes still on but useless to hide or protect him, he feels particularly on display, humiliated and paraded out like he’s Stryfe’s trophy, except there's no one to see them and that's almost disappointing. Stryfe fucks him with one finger, then two, then a third with absurd ease as he whispers to Frank what a filthy, easy whore he's always been, how badly he needs this, how bad he needs Stryfe, because Nathan would never give him this.
"You can cum from this, can't you," he croons, taunting, fingers thrusting and twisting inside of Frank with an obscene wet sound. "This and this alone, my fingers in you, touching everywhere you wish he would…"
Christ, and Frank's cock is dripping steadily onto his chest, red and awful and so, so hard, and he really is going to cum like this if Stryfe lets him, if Stryfe keeps going.
"Or perhaps you can only cum on fingers made of metal."
The line is delivered with flat humor – mockery – but it opens the floodgates of Frank's imagination nevertheless: Nathan's metal hand on his cock, metal fingers buried in his ass, fingering him, fisting him, strangling his balls, pain and pleasure knotted and tangled together inexorably until all Frank can do is buck his hips with a weak cry and cum, splattering his own neck and face with semen. It feels like a blessing, like an over-achievement, and Stryfe's pleased hum of appreciation doesn’t diminish that.
"Such a good dog, when you want to be," he says, smirking, swiping a clean finger through the mess at Frank's throat, and sucking it clean. "A little more lubrication is in order, I think."
The fingers in his ass pull out slowly enough that Frank can't quite help whining through his teeth, dismayed by the loss. Stryfe takes his time pouring more slick onto his fingers, then pulls something else out of the bucket beside the bed. It takes Frank a second to identify what Stryfe is holding, what he's smearing lube on with obvious intent, and when he does his throat clicks as he swallows. He's not naive, he can recognise a butt plug when he sees one.
For something that looks so reasonably sized in Stryfe's hands, the plug feels enormous against Frank. As Stryfe presses the rounded tip into his hole, Frank tenses and relaxes in quick little jerks, gritting his teeth against the urge to moan out the pain and pleasure. It’s absurd: this is just a harder version of a cock, and he’s had plenty of those in there, but somehow this sparks sensation he’s never known he could experience before.
The phrase fireworks behind the eyes feels, for once, fucking apt.
Forced on by Stryfe’s hand, more of the plug screws in, and more, stretching that tight ring of muscle what feels like right to bursting point. And then there’s more – Frank can’t take any more of it, not without gasping for air and letting out some mess of sound.
And then, all of a sudden, it latches. Some relief, except not at all. Now, it’s not just that entry point that’s stretching wider than ever before, it’s somehow an internal stretch that feels both insane and fuck-yeah good. When Stryfe tugs on the base of the toy to check if it's seated how he wants, Frank moans brokenly, his aching dick already fattening up again.
"Oh, this could be so much fun," Stryfe breathes, grinding the toy in, fucking Frank with it as much as it allows, as though he has all the time in the world to play with him. Frank supposes he might. "You love this, don't you? Not having to think, not having to fight. Just being my pretty little fuck toy, mine to make feel good however I want. Whenever I want."
Part of Frank wants to agree. Part of Frank does love this, more than he should, more than he wants to.
"Fuck you," he rasps, using every ounce of strength to strain against his bonds. Because that's the game they're playing, because he has a life outside of this he needs to get back to. "Fuck you, go to hell."
Stryfe chuckles and presses a button somewhere on the base of the toy, making it start vibrating with steadily increasing urgency right against Frank's prostate. "Ah well," he hums, gliding to his feet and heading for the door. "Maybe you'll be more playful in a day or two."
And then, with a click of the lock, he's gone.
The vibration of the plug seems to build and build, until Frank's straining in place, toes curled, back tense, cock dripping, certain he's going to cum again – and then, when he sure he can't take anymore, the vibration stops, leaving him whining and panting.
Okay, he thinks, this is manageable.
Except the stillness only lasts so long, a few breaths perhaps, before the buzzing starts up again, subtle at first but rapidly building… and fading… and building, peaking, stopping – only to start again a few heartbeats later.
It doesn't take long for Frank to lose track of time like this. After a few cycles – though 'cycle' implies a level of predictability and structure that is simply not part of this torture – Frank can barely focus on anything but his own body, his heavy, aching cock, the cum drying on his face and neck, the dull throb of pain in his arms from having them trapped over his head. He feels trapped in a way that his last week of confinement hasn't managed to make him feel, strung out and tense, and when he loses control and cums, messily shooting off as he bucks against nothing, it does nothing to help him calm down at all.
The toy knows no mercy, no sense of enough, of time served. No matter how Frank rides or clenches, he can't get the toy out, can't turn it off. He's well and truly trapped, and as minutes blur into hours, he stops trying to keep track of his noises. And his orgasms. He has no control here, and there's no one keeping score – this torment is his and his alone, and while some distant part of him knows he'll have to fight eventually, for now, the trap is too good, too perfect to really escape.
He's pretty sure he's hallucinating the bright flash of light that fills the room. It happens during one of the plug's brief “off” cycles, while he's catching his breath, and it fills the dim cell with warm white light that's too familiar not to recognize even before it dissipates to reveal those well-known shoulders or the cut of that square jaw. He knows the slope of Nathan's posture, so much more weary than Stryfe's when he lets it show, knows the flare of psionic energy lighting up his dud eye. Part of him, the part with no shame, wants to believe it's Nathan, Nathan here for him at last. Mostly he's too aware of the shredded silk still draped over his limbs, the cum dried and drying to his thighs and pubes, the plug still stuffing him so desperately full that he can barely think.
It can't be Nathan, he thinks, even as the man approaches the bed, concern and lust warring on his face. It's Stryfe, trying to trick him again, Stryfe playing games.
"No, sweetheart," Nathan says, gentle as his fingers, thick and metal and so dangerous, brush Frank's sweaty hair away from his brow. "It's me now. I'm here. Bright Lady, what's he done to you?"
Frank knows he's hard, has been hard for an eternity, it feels like. His cock hurts, his ass is sore and sensitive, and yet it feels so good still, so sinfully good. Nathan strokes his knuckles down the aching curve of his straining dick, grips his balls, then reaches further back, pressing, fondling the base of the toy just as it starts to vibrate again.
Frank can't stop himself from digging his toes into the mattress and trying to ride down on the leverage Nathan provides, moaning dry and broken as the mild buzzing toy rubs against his prostate just so. It's so much more direct stimulation than he's gotten in the last… however long it's been, that it feels like heaven, and he rolls his hips again, and then again, as the buzzing slowly starts to pick back up in intensity.
Oh, it's so much better than it had been alone, and when Nathan murmurs something soft about how pretty he looks like this, all strung out and desperate, his beautiful wife in over her head, Frank can't find it in himself to tell him to shut up and stop that nonsense. No – he basks in it, eats it up like praise, thighs tense and wrists sore as he tries to find just the right way to writhe against Nathan's hand. He can't find words, just the dry click of his parched throat and the desperate grunt of air punching out of his lungs each time he reseats himself.
Nathan tells him he's beautiful like this, and Frank almost believes him, almost thinks that that might be beyond irony, past flattery, all the way around to a genuine compliment. Something Nathan's saying just because he can, because he wants to and believes it to be true.
"Are you going to cum for me like this, sweetheart?" Nathan asks, his voice is the low rumble of thunder in a storm that never breaks. "He dressed you up in all these pretty things, are you going to cum in them?"
Too late to really worry about that now, Frank thinks. He's made such a mess of himself and the pretty silks since Stryfe left him here, however long ago that was, and besides, Stryfe has already ripped the crotch out of his pants, so it isn't like there’s much worth salvaging. But god, god if there isn't something in Frank that wants to hold off, wants to have control, wants to make Nathan have to work for it.
But then Nathan has hold of the base of the toy, pulling it back so it stretches Frank to what feels like his limit and then driving it home, and Frank howls, digging his heels in and trying to screw his ass down onto the plug. He needs that full sensation, that impossible stretch and pressure, and Nathan's got a hand on his cock and there's nothing for it at that point.
There's no control, not for Frank, not like this. And it doesn't feel like Nathan's got much control either. Nathan keeps playing with the toy, pulling it partially out and pressing it deeper in, and Frank can only ride, jerking his hips as Nathan strokes and squeezes his cock. It's so good, too good, the kind of insane pleasure that drowns out sense and leaves a man animal-desperate, scrambling for any semblance of control.
Previous orgasms took Frank like a wave, a slowly cresting thing he couldn't hope to evade, could only try his level best to ride out and breathe through. The one Nathan is bringing him to hurtles toward him like a freight car. When it hits him, his vision wipes out, eyes rolling, voice cracking, and Nathan is there with him, in his mind, easing him even as it feels as if he'll drown in the pleasure.
In his mind, Nathan is a soothing golden glow, washing over his floundering consciousness, telling him how perfect he is, how gorgeous, how desirable. Like this, in his own mind, Frank can't doubt a word of Nathan's praise, can't cast a cynical ear on the words of a man half drunk with lust.
As he's coming down from that stellar orgasm, Nathan leans over him and places a kiss on his dry lips. "Let me get those cuffs off you," he breathes gently, kissing Frank while he works.
Under the clatter of metal-meets-stone, the low rumble of that humid, muggy storm broods in the distance. The thunder sounds closer now, a low susurrus of falling rain that Frank is certain he can almost smell. Nathan settles onto the bed with him, humming gentle praise between his kisses. It's easy to forget, for a moment at least, the threat of this place, the danger of his bondage and the torment of the last week, because Nathan is here now, Nathan has found him, and when Nathan has his arms around him, Frank always feels safer.
Frank hears the handcuffs hit the floor, and he hears the rain finally begin to fall, but he never hears the door open, nor the steps of Stryfe's booted feet. Only his dry, amused voice, suddenly there in the doorway.
"Nathan Summers," he sneers. "Cursed mirror twin. I should have known the pathetic whimpering of your lost wife would draw you here eventually. Oh, wait." Here Frank can hear Stryfe grin. "I was counting on it."