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About Tehuti
I am an amateur writer of novels, serials, and novellas. Most of my work is in the genres of fantasy, mythology, drama, occult, GLBT, and erotica.
As I'm not seeking publication, I offer my work online for free reading. I'm not seeking stylistic critique so much as feedback from people who just like reading what I write. I love hearing what people think of my characters, plots, themes, etc., so if you have any comments or advice on those, feel free to share. I'm not hugely popular and often go many months without hearing from readers so I enjoy all the comments I get!
My interests are Ojibwa mythology, Mackinac Island, Egyptian mythology, Jungian symbolism and dream interpretation, ritual crime, fantasy writing, and various other things you can find in my personal bio, available just to the right. Please click to learn more about me and what I'm looking for in terms of readers and potential friends.
Feel free to hit me up if you're interested in any of these things, and enjoy my writing!
Tar! :) |
Kid Gloves CODE: D (set in the D Is For Damien storyline)
TAKES PLACE DURING (specific story): NA (post-Missing Pieces (unwritten))
PAIRING: Det. Justin Reichert/Jason "Jay" Campion (M/M)
EXPLANATION: "We Don't Have To Talk" is a scene occurring some time before this which explains a bit of newish character Campion's references in this scene.
This one's a bit confusing since it regards a character who has sprung up almost overnight in my imagination (well, it's actually been maybe a few weeks, but still). I knew I needed a bad guy for the unwritten story Missing Pieces, which is basically about detectives searching for the missing family of a young boy; at least, that's the barebones plot, but a whole lot more is going on in the meantime. For example there is an as-yet unknown-how-it-pertains-to-the-main-plot subplot regarding a "Collyer mansion" (hoarder's house) and its recluse inhabitant; the appearance of what seem to be not just one but maybe TWO "new" personalities of Det. Kristeva's; and a recurring element, a mysterious hypnotic drug that when injected makes its subjects quite malleable to outside influence. See the scene "Under The Influence" for a scene featuring this particular drug and its effects. SPOILER for Minot and its unwritten sequels, the Satanic cult involved in the stories, in order to threaten cult escapee Alan Kincaid (later Lt. Kincaid) into silence, sends a "sex lure" to his temporary foster father, Mark Kincaid; she repeatedly (and without his knowledge) shoots him up with this drug until he'll pretty much do anything she says, and he does, by putting a gun to his head. (See Minot for the rest.)
Prepare yourselves now for quite possibly the most spoilery thing I've ever posted to this site or to the Internet, period. I post it only because chances are slim these stories will get written, and I have nobody to share all these wonderful plot pieces with, so nyyyyeeehhh!
The cult in the past tried the same technique on undercover Det. Wesley Singer, but his sex lure ended up falling for him, and tried to warn him off the case. Unfortunately, it was too late and the cult was on to him. It turns out Singer's primary purpose in infiltrating the cult was to try to save a young boy they were abusing--Maxwell Kristeva. Singer saved young Max from being drowned by a couple of overzealous cultists (although his primary abuser, I'm fairly certain Kristeva's dad did NOT want him dead); all Kristeva could recall of this incident for years was the image of a shimmering mandala (the sight of Singer's necklace as he leaned over to pull Kristeva from the water), which he had tattooed on himself and wore as a necklace of his own. Singer ended up preventing Max from being killed once and for all, but out of revenge, the cult murdered him, slitting his throat before Max's eyes and warning him that if he talked about this, "That (the dead Singer) is you."
Max Kristeva's response? To take the warning literally; he'd already been splitting, but at this point his personality fragmented, the core/original personality (Number Five) "going to sleep," a new personality (later nicknamed Number One, since all of Kristeva's personalities go by the same name, to "keep things simple," in Number Two's words) taking over without any knowledge of the others, while Number Three, the protector personality and, aside from the core, the oldest in existence, alternated for control (as he's aware of the others' existence), and Number Four, a victim-type personality who never speaks and handles sexual situations, remained mostly in the background. Kristeva Number One forgot pretty much everything between the ages of five and eleven, when the abuse started and stopped (with Singer's murder). (See the non-erotic story "A Crack Of Light.") In young adulthood Numbers One and Three (the former without knowledge of the latter, as I already said) rebelled against the Kristeva family tradition of becoming a doctor like his father, and he basically disowned himself from his family and went to become a policeman--in effect "becoming" the dead Det. Singer, as the cultists had warned him would happen. Number Two (so named as he was the first alter, not counting the host, to appear in therapy), a helper personality, came along much later in the storyline to step in for Number One (the host) when he gets too stressed; as a result, Two and Three are often in conflict. Det. Devetko, Kristeva's partner, became aware of all this when Number Five briefly came out to him around the time of Two's creation (following Kristeva's car driving off the same bridge that Singer's body was tossed from years before); turns out Devetko briefly had a boyfriend with DID (dissociative identity disorder--formerly good old multiple personality disorder), so he recognizes the signs. He kept this knowledge secret even from Kristeva and along with Two helped him work around his memory gaps when the others, particularly Three, came out.
Confused yet?
In Missing Pieces (now you fully understand the meaning of the title), I needed a bad cultist guy. As with the new character Det. Michelle "Mike" Rosedale, I had a barebones fellow in mind, but without a name, he wouldn't solidify. I then suddenly remembered something I'd found while cleaning my room, a brief mock summary of an earlier story in the series, which made mention of a cultist named "Campion." This character had been completely forgotten and never developed; liking the name, I decided to resurrect him and flesh him out. Campion (with no first name yet) became a sort of cultist "hitman" employed in threatening or taking out people considered dangerous to the cult, and that of course includes the detectives, Kristeva, Devetko, Rosedale, Kincaid, and Det. Justin Reichert. Just plain death is considered a waste, if any of them can possibly be swayed to the cult's side or else convinced to kill themselves (a la Mark Kincaid, and, almost, Kristeva) and save Campion the trouble.
Enter that strange hypnotic drug that was responsible for Mark Kincaid's death. Campion manages to get Kristeva, though with only a partial dose, and misses his chances with Devetko and Reichert. (Though he does beat the royal s**t out of Reichert and puts him in the hospital for a bit.) Since he gets only a small dose, Kristeva doesn't feel the full effects of the drug, though a doctor warns him he might experience mild side effects such as temporary hallucinations. Well, hallucinate he does, when he suddenly hears and sees the dead (throat slit and everything) Det. Singer speaking to him. The lack of reaction from the other detectives tells him this is only in his head, but "Singer" sticks around long after the drug should have worn off; so perhaps Singer is in fact Number Seven, a personality modeled more closely after Singer than is Number One. (Occasionally alters take the form of voices in the head or, more rarely, actual people "outside" the host.) Oddly, Three is the only one willing to actually talk back.
"But wait, Tehuti!" you may be (but probably aren't) crying. "What about Number Six??" Six is the OTHER new alter who pops up in the story. Wow this goes on forever but I have to get it out there somehow. When Campion first meets with Reichert and Rosedale, he's friendly and righthanded. He excuses himself to take a phone call; upon hanging up, he takes out his gun, and is suddenly lefthanded. He remains this way throughout the rest of the story. Why does that matter, that he's ambidextrous? Because all of Kristeva's alters, aside from the host and the core, are lefthanded. Kristeva's personalities were mildly manipulated by the cult; Campion?--he's a kidnap and abuse victim who was taken in by the cult, and his personality was messed with as well. Turns out there's more than one Campion, and Campion Number Two, the hitman personality (he's also an oddly highly functioning heroin addict), is just plain nasty.
In one scene, while Rosedale and Kristeva perplexedly listen to what seem to be recorded dialtones, Kristeva's eyes suddenly roll back (his sign of "switching") and he collapses, unconscious. Devetko arrives and attempts to awaken him by calling out the numbers one through three, then four and five, and then, on a whim, "Six." Kristeva wakes up. Later on, when Campion and Kristeva confront each other on the bridge, Kristeva pulls his gun and refuses to put it down even when Devetko and Rosedale arrive as backup. When Kristeva meets Devetko's eyes, Dev realizes he's not dealing with Number Three (the most aggressive of Kristeva's alters), as he'd thought he was. There's a Number Six, who like Campion Two might have been "created" by the cult to serve the function as a cult hitman; a particular dialtone brings both alters out. Either Six's orders have gotten garbled somewhere along the way and he's disobeying the cult, or the orders never properly took (Kristeva might be messed up, but is unlikely to go against his core values), or Campion is now seen as a liability, and it's Kristeva Number Six's job to take him out. Whatever the circumstances, Devetko defuses the situation by counting to three, at which Number Three takes over (and is quite mortified to learn of this personality he formerly had no knowledge of).
Really confused yet?
Bonus tidbit spoiler that it isn't necessary to know to get this scene, but it explains Campion's comments regarding Rosedale. A big character motivation for Rosedale in Missing Pieces is the fact that her younger brother disappeared when they were kids. Searching for him has consumed her entire life. Now why is it that Rosedale's police department shows so little interest in investigating the little boy's missing family, resulting in her going to Minot for help, where she meets Campion, who, despite threatening Devetko, drugging Kristeva, and beating the royal crap out of Reichert, shows so much restraint toward her? It isn't revealed in Missing Pieces, because this is a plot point that just popped into my head in the past few days, and I rebelled against it as too hokey, but good God does it fit in with things so I'm compelled to make Campion Rosedale's missing younger brother, Jason. (When Campion does give a first name in the storyline, it's "Jay," which doesn't tip the detectives off.) Like Lt. Kincaid, he was kidnapped when little and ended up in the cult; unlike Kincaid, he's still with them.
Campion seems to enjoy beating Reichert up a little too much in Missing Pieces, and also seems oddly interested in digging up info on the detective, including that he's rather masochistic, frequently getting himself into unpleasant situations as a sort of punishment for surviving 9/11. (His left arm and leg were crushed in the debris; see "We Don't Have To Talk" for more info.) In this as-yet unnamed followup story (good Lord do I keep jumping from new story to new story, all unwritten!), Campion reappears, again taking an interest in Reichert and Rosedale (despite Reichert being gay, the two of them shared a brief encounter while sloshed out of their minds--again, see the scene above). Kristeva and Devetko manage to dredge up scattered info on Campion, including that he's an addict and likes hiring prostitutes of either gender (his favorite is transgendered). Kristeva is frustrated that he can't put a "profile" on Campion, since he doesn't seem to fit or follow any particular pattern of behavior. (Kristeva is usually good at figuring such things out.) You must admit that a guy who on the one hand beats a policeman nearly to death, and on the other hand is considered quite generous by the prostitutes he hires (and isn't even particular about what gender they are), doesn't seem to fit a particular behavior pattern.
In the scene given here ("ZOMG she's finally getting to the point!!"), from the untitled story, for some reason Reichert and Campion have ended up facing off in a big abandoned warehouse-type building. Reichert is still quite sore (mentally) over the working-over Campion gave him in Missing Pieces, and has rarely been known to be too prudent, so isn't as careful with the encounter as he should be. Campion takes advantage of the injuries Reichert sustained on 9/11, injuries which he knows still occasionally pain the detective, so even though Reichert pretty much towers over him by at least several inches, he's easily subdued. Ah, I never mentioned in this horrendously long intro that Reichert is a sex addict who, despite having a "steady" (and abusive, and just as messed up as he is) boyfriend, jumps from sex partner to sex partner without a qualm, almost always feeling empty afterward. (His night with Rosedale is a rare exception.) This explains Reichert's oddly nonchalant attitude toward being forced into sex, as well as why he's so confused that Campion's actions end up upsetting him so much since they're nothing new. Somehow Campion knows just how to push his buttons and end up humiliating him the most, since that's his goal in this confrontation, and it works. Even though there's TECHNICALLY no actual sex here, this incident hits Reichert a lot harder than the past several years of being used by pretty much everybody he goes to bed with. So, for Campion in at least this case, mission accomplished.
Sometime soon I'm really going to have to Google how heroin users prep their drugs to shoot up because I haven't a clue, yet I feel oddly guilty asking the Internet such a question. I guess for now Campion will just have to shoot up off the page.
If there's really anybody out there who made it through all that, you deserve an award, and if you actually found it interesting, why haven't you gotten in touch with me long before now? I could go on like this forever.
Now what remains to be seen is 1. how Reichert reacts to his next interaction with Campion, whatever/whenever it is, and 2. how Rosedale reacts when she finds out who Campion really is! Dum-dum-dummmm...but that's neither here nor there.
I really have to struggle to come up with titles for these stupid things.
DISCLAIMERS: Probably plenty since I typed this up out of nowhere, for an untitled, plotless story that doesn't exist yet, and have no clue how this scene would fit in with everything else. I have a bad history of writing up scenes and then when I get to that point in the story, the scenes no longer apply. But if the story never ends up written, perhaps it won't be such a problem. Explanatory clarifications--the "ignorant fuckwit" (this is originally Reichert's own coinage, not Campion's) and "boy-toy" that Campion refers to is Reichert's sorta-boyfriend, Officer Joe Silvertree, referred to briefly above. You can probably tell by the fact that Reichert refers to him as an ignorant fuckwit just how lovey-dovey their relationship is. Campion's mention of "Hero Cop" (and a lot of the other references he makes, e. g., to Reichert's denial) is in reference to Reichert's actions on 9/11, when a newspaper referred to him as a "hero cop" (an epithet he can't stand). I'm not sure how believable the rather slight Campion being able to so easily subdue the rather tall and imposing Reichert would be; all I can say is that with particular kinds of pain I've experienced, it's like it just sucks all the strength out of you, so perhaps that's what happens with Reichert. Be aware that Reichert's 9/11 survivor status takes a lot of artistic license (since nobody was found alive after the first 24 hours--Reichert was found three days later), and I'm aware of that. As with heroin use, I have no idea how the metal pins and rods they put in mangled bones work or if Reichert would even still have them a decade later; so take that with a grain of salt, please. Ah, I also have no idea how cell phones work. Isn't that sad? But true. Never owned or used one in my life. Not checked yet for typos, so beware.
* * * * *
Kid Gloves
Before he even knew what was happening, Campion had his wrist and had wrenched his arm back and away, twisting it at the same time as he took a step forward, and Reichert's back, with his arm half behind it, slammed into the wall. He let out a sharp cry at the searing pain that shot up from his elbow to his wrist. If it had been his right arm, he knew it wouldn't have been nearly as much of a problem. The fact that it was his left arm, with the titanium pins still supporting the formerly mangled bones, made things much different. Just as with his leg, when he'd been walking in the park with Rosedale, only much more so now, the agony from the old injury seemed to sap all the rest of his strength, and he could only shudder weakly as he felt Campion secure his right wrist to the bar with his own handcuffs, just as quickly slipping his gun from its holster and shoving it into his own belt.
"What's the matter?" he asked under his breath, in a voice that was almost cooing. "I thought you liked this kind of thing. Granted, I'm betting you've never had it quite this hard--" with his forearm he pressed Reichert back so the pain again shot up through his pinioned arm, and Reichert bit off his cry this time "--but then again, it has to be practically nothing compared to having a building fall on you, doesn't it?"
Reichert refused to say anything to take the bait, but couldn't help the look that flickered across his face and wouldn't completely leave, his lip pulling back slightly as if to snarl. Campion was already chuckling at his own comment, but this just seemed to amuse him even more.
"All right, so maybe I underestimate you. I always thought that boy-toy of yours was an ineffectual fuckwit. Is that what you call him? That fuckwit? I can't say I blame you. Anybody can humiliate you but it takes a real man to make it good, doesn't it? There has to be something you've been aching to do that your ignorant fuckwit hasn't been imaginative enough to figure out just yet. That's what you're lacking, is someone imaginative. Maybe instead of hopping into bed with whatever comes around you should raise your standards at least a little."
Reichert wanted nothing more than to tell him Fuck you, but he knew Campion would just find it funny. He considered trying to raise his knee to get him right in the crotch--the thought of seeing him double over, and then possibly getting him in the head as well, was almost satisfying enough in itself, though he knew he'd never get the chance to work him over nearly as much as Campion had done to him before--but it was almost as if Campion sensed this thought, for he pressed his arm harder against Reichert's chest, and it felt as if the bones of his forearm were about to snap, and his breath spurted out of him as he felt his muscles turn to water. He was certain he would have slid to the floor if possible but Campion's arm against him kept him upright. Perhaps if he stayed still and acted weak long enough he could work up the strength to get something done, though he wasn't sure what.
"Then again you never did strike me as the terribly ambitious type," he said.
"Like you really know one fucking thing about me," Reichert managed to get out weakly, knowing it was stupid to reply but unable to stop himself.
Campion shook a little bit with silent laughter. "You're really going to pull out that one? Your life's an open book, Hero Cop. You don't even have to try at all before the world knows all about you. You think I had no idea who you were the first time I saw you?"
"Seems you're wasting an awful lot of time getting to know me then," Reichert wheezed, trying to lean forward at least a little to relieve the pressure on his arm.
"Who said I wanted to be so impersonal? Anybody can read a newspaper. Getting to know somebody in person is a whole lot better. I don't think they did you any justice. Oh, does that hurt much?" He moved back half a step, noticing Reichert's straining motion. "I guess it would, otherwise why would I be doing it, or why would you be putting up with it, right?"
"Go fuck yourself," Reichert muttered.
Campion laughed aloud. "That wouldn't be much fun, would it?"
"I don't know. Kinda figured you'd know all about fucking yourself."
"Wow, they really didn't do you justice. You could've offered some brilliant sound bites September twelfth, if you'd been awake."
"You're so terribly original."
"Yeah, well, we all have our talents. Told you I'm more imaginative than that ignorant fuckwit of yours. Why do I get the feeling he's never even bothered trying the obvious?" He pushed on Reichert's chest again and Reichert bit his lip almost hard enough to bleed, unable to keep a slight pained sound from escaping. It came out as a yelp, the sound of which disgusted him, when Campion ground his knee into his left leg--again if the other man hadn't been supporting him, he would have fallen over, it felt as if all the blood drained from his limbs at once and he had to gasp for breath.
"Yeah, I kind of get the feeling he's never tried that yet," Campion said, "otherwise this would be old hat to you. How weird. I just figured that'd be what you've been looking for all this time. Maybe people see you and recognize you and think, gee, maybe we should go easy on him? But you're made of tougher stuff than that, right? Is that why you keep hopping from one lay to another? None of them got balls enough to give you what you're looking for?"
Reichert's lip curled back even more and he turned his head aside, hating the weakness of the gesture, but Campion's face was so close he had no choice. He felt a stinging in his right wrist and dimly realized how hard he must have been straining against the cuffs this whole time without noticing it. Campion moved close enough so that their bodies practically pressed together, and they could have been kissing if Reichert hadn't had his head turned; as it was, Campion smiled at him, his breath fanning over Reichert's cheek, and Reichert wrinkled his nose and fought not to shudder.
"Well, I've never been anything if not considerate."
"So that's what they call beating the shit out of somebody nowadays," Reichert said, speaking into the open air just off his shoulder.
Campion laughed. "Let's call it a misunderstanding and let bygones be bygones. It was nothing personal. You were just a job. I guess you're more useful alive right now anyway, so you don't have to worry about that happening again."
"I'm so fucking relieved."
"I'm glad to hear it. But anyway, didn't I just say I'm more considerate than that? Aren't you tired of people treating you with kid gloves? No wonder you're so bored with life." He moved his head forward so he whispered directly into Reichert's ear; Reichert could do little but press the other side of his head against the wall and grimace. "Is that what the problem is, Detective? Is that what you've been looking for all this time?"
Reichert didn't get the chance to think of anything suitably insulting to say. Any words he might have lined up died abruptly in his throat with a choked gasp. Campion's free hand had unzipped his pants and slipped inside, his fingers curling against Reichert's underwear; Reichert jerked in surprise, his breath again whooshing out of him and his eyes popping open.
"What the..." he just barely managed to get out, and tensed his muscles to pull sideways, no matter how much it might pain his arm, but Campion proved the attempted motion to be useless when he dug his elbow into Reichert's shoulder and the searing bolts that shot up toward his elbow made him whimper and sag weakly against the wall. He had enough strength to pull his head back--when his muscles gave out, it of course meant that he pressed even more closely against Campion, no matter how little he wished to do so--and grimaced even more, shaking in revulsion, which was all the stronger, considering that he felt a distinct stirring between his legs when Campion touched him. He tried to fight it down--surely his disgust would win out over any mere physical arousal--but Campion must have noticed it for himself, for his laugh came soft and breathy in Reichert's ear, and their bodies pressed together so he could feel all his contours, and was certain Campion could feel his.
"That's what I was talking about. Goodness, you've been neglected. You should probably learn to speak up for yourself more often. Not everybody's tuned in to what you want. Aren't you fortunate that I am?"
"Fuck off." Reichert barely had the strength to speak.
"Well, sure. If that's what you really want. And I kind of get the feeling it is."
He slipped his hand out and with one quick fluid motion undid Reichert's buckle, tugging the belt through its loops. Reichert tensed against the wall in alarm at the unexpected gesture; he would have yanked himself sideways, or even lunged forward to shove Campion back, but Campion's knee digging into his left leg made him bite off a whimper and involuntarily sag against him again. Campion did pull his leg back long enough to pull at the waist of Reichert's pants and let them fall to his knees, but the electric prickles of pain still running through his arm and leg kept Reichert from resisting. Campion latched his fingers over the waist of Reichert's underwear, again putting his mouth next to his ear, his breath making the detective shiver.
"That's kind of what I thought," he whispered, and through one slitted eye Reichert saw his mouth twitch in a smile.
He dragged the underwear down to Reichert's knees as well, baring him; Reichert hunched his shoulders up toward his head although it just made both arms hurt even more. The gesture--an instinctive attempt to pull away--didn't result in much, considering there was nowhere to pull away to. It wasn't as if this was anything new--various times, in bars, in restrooms, in alleys or strange apartments, he hadn't been as invested in activities as he'd thought he'd be, or he'd changed his mind a bit too late, though it had never been too much to just turn his head and shut his eyes, or stare off into space, and wait for it to be over. Whether his body responded or not, whether he fully wanted to be involved or not, didn't matter; sex was sex, and whether he enjoyed it or not made little difference. As long as he was able to drive or walk home afterwards, he considered himself lucky. There were a million things worse than being forced into sex. He'd lived through enough of them to not care that much anymore.
For some reason though now it was different. Campion's fingers trailing down his bared belly and tangling in the thick hair around his groin made his skin crawl even as his breath picked up and he felt himself unwittingly start to harden at the touch. He didn't understand it, not only that he should be both so excited by and disgusted by something, but that it should matter to him at all. He knew that turning his head and shutting his eyes and waiting for it to be over would achieve little here. This was something he couldn't simply brush off or ignore or pretend wasn't happening, and he couldn't figure out why not.
"I'm getting the feeling you're surprised," Campion murmured, his lips nearly brushing Reichert's ear. Reichert tried to suppress another shudder. "Now why is that? Some people just wear their hearts on their sleeves. You're that sort. I guess I never was. Not a good way to get anything important done, is it now?" Reichert said nothing, just squinched his eyes shut tighter and bit the inside of his mouth; Campion's hand had slid low enough that his fingers slipped beneath Reichert's testicles and he palmed them, earning a weak gasp that Reichert wasn't so successful at holding back. "Of course, that's the job I'm talking about, there. This is a little bit different. You could say I'm working freelance, or...what would your people call it? Off duty? I'm not sure I'm ever off duty but you get my point, don't you?" He ran his hand up the underside of Reichert's shaft, which went completely hard now, no matter how much he didn't want it to. "I think you do. Goodness, you sure aren't that talkative now. I could hardly keep the foul words from flying, before. Are you out of things to say or just can't say them?" He leaned forward again; although Reichert was a good several inches taller, they were at about the same level, what with how he slouched forward away from his throbbing arm. The bones felt like white-hot metal searing his muscles and he felt his eyes prickle with tears which he fought not to let fall, just to avoid giving Campion the satisfaction of seeing them.
"Now on the one hand," Campion went on, and now his mouth did just barely meet Reichert's ear, making the detective twist his head away further, "I already know you're into this particular sort of thing--" his elbow dug once more into Reichert's shoulder, and Reichert couldn't completely cut off the noise that came from his throat, nor stop the tears from trickling from his shut eyes "--but on the other hand, I can tell you're not quite that into it, at least, not as far as healing wounds go." He pulled his elbow back, his knee as well, though kept himself pressed close; as soon as the agony in his arm and leg let up even slightly, Reichert's breath rushed out of him and he started gasping brokenly, his shoulders shaking. "Looks like it takes quite a while for some things to blow over. You can tell anybody you like it doesn't matter anymore, you don't care, but we two will always know the truth, won't we?" He leaned close so his lips grazed Reichert's cheek; Reichert winced and wrinkled his nose as if to snarl at him. This didn't manage to disguise the way his chest hitched when Campion's mouth traced the line of his jaw and then moved down his neck. Reichert's skin prickled and he tried not to shake.
"I've always been good at keeping a secret, depending on what it is. From the looks of it, you are too. So good you keep them even from yourself. I really think you had yourself fooled all this time. Nobody can fake that much ignorance. It's a shame to learn things the hard way, but sometimes it can't be helped. In any case, now that it's out in the open, we can keep it right here, between the two of us. Oh, and Rosedale. That's right, she knows all about it, too. I'll see to her soon enough."
"If you touch a single hair on her head--" Reichert cut himself off with a gasp when Campion's fingers curled in the hair surrounding his quivering penis, rubbing against its base "--then I'll track you down and fucking kill you myself."
"Is that any way to talk?" Campion ran his tongue up the tendon of Reichert's neck to his ear, and took the lobe between his lips, gently biting and then letting it go. The disgusted look wouldn't leave Reichert's face despite the quickening of his breath. "Don't worry. I have no interest in hurting Mike, at least, not in the way you're assuming. I already know how familiar you two are with each other--"
"If I hear that you've even given her fucking goosebumps then we'll see who has their limbs wrecked next."
"--but you can be plenty sure I'm nowhere near as inclined to be so familiar. At least, not the way you are. Goodness, such rage. You really think I'd be so uncreative as to go at her? Give me a little more credit than that, please."
"You don't deserve any fucking credit." Now Reichert abruptly bared his teeth, grinding them together; he flinched, trying to pull back despite his still-aching arm, but Campion was too close. Against the tensed muscles of his abdomen he could feel Campion working at his own belt now, and could hear the sound of his pants being undone and pulled down; he would have taken this opportunity to pull himself aside at last, but when Campion pressed against him again he could feel the distinct cold hardness of his own gun digging into his ribs. He'd forgotten about the weapon until now.
"Well, we're all entitled to our opinions. Oh--sorry about this." Reichert felt the barrel of the gun angle slightly more upwards. "It's not as if I intend to use it. At least, as if I want to. I can only imagine the amount of paperwork they'd have you do if I fired your gun. So don't worry, this is just insurance. I'm nothing if not considerate. I don't think you'd get in too much hot water if I fired your other gun, though."
Reichert didn't even need to ask. Campion's hips pressed against his, pushing him back against the wall--the jolt of pain that shot through his arm went almost completely unnoticed what with the foggy swirl of alarm and lust and fury and confusion that stormed through Reichert's head. Neither one of the two things he'd been dreading--dreading?--would happen--Campion taking him inside, or entering him himself--happened; instead, the other man parted his legs enough so that Reichert's shaft slipped between them, then drew his thighs back together, the warmth enfolding Reichert so he dropped his head back against the wall with a broken gasp. He started shaking and fought down a moan when Campion started moving, tensing and relaxing his muscles so his hips both rubbed and pushed against Reichert's; the slight back-and-forth motion made Reichert's hardness slip up between his buttocks and back, up and back, without entering him, while the feel of Campion's own erection, pressing against his belly, was quite obvious. Reichert hadn't even known he was excited before now. He'd certainly given no signs of it.
"I take it you're not that interested in talking now," Campion whispered huskily. Reichert said nothing, but flinched at the cold feel of the gun as the other man ran it down his thigh. He stiffened with a gasp when Campion nudged the barrel up between his buttocks, its tip pressing against his anus. If this had been any usual sex act, he would have opened up immediately; the fact that it was his own weapon being used on him made him tense up instead, a line of cold sweat trickling down his back. Despite his terror, he didn't lose his erection, and that confused him; there shouldn't have been anything remotely enjoyable about this.
"Don't like that?" Campion whispered in his ear. "Can't blame you. I admit it is a little bit extreme. You might be reckless but I don't think you're suicidal."
The gun was removed and Reichert let out a shaky breath. Campion switched it to his left hand so it lay flat against his chest, considering that his elbow was still planted in the spot below Reichert's shoulder, making certain to keep just enough pressure applied to his pinioned arm to keep him from regaining his strength. Now that his right hand was free he trailed his fingers over Reichert's bare hip, down his thigh, back to his tensed buttock, which he caressed.
"I guess it's good you're speechless because I think talking at this point would be rather pointless, too."
His fingers dug into Reichert's skin and he bumped his hips forward. Reichert barely suppressed a cry. The feel of Campion's muscles against his, their hair tangling, Reichert's tip straining just shy of entering him, the obvious evidence of Campion's own excitement rubbing against his belly, inflamed him; and now that Campion had stopped speaking, the feeling only grew. Reichert kept his eyes shut tight, gritting his teeth and keeping his head twisted aside against the wall; Campion's breath came heavy and rhythmic, fanning his cheek, matching his slow, rolling pushes against Reichert's groin; and for some reason the fact that Campion seemed to be enjoying this, when Reichert felt he shouldn't be, both revolted and excited him all the more. He didn't even notice that he had started moving his own hips, straining against Campion's, until Campion pulled back--though he kept his head close to Reichert's--and Reichert's penis slipped out from between his legs, still hard and quivering, Reichert unable to keep himself from moaning at his thwarted finish.
Campion's mouth met Reichert's jawline, tongue running up over his cheekbone; he craned his neck as Reichert kept his head turned sharply aside, but not so far that Campion's lips couldn't cover his, his teeth lightly pulling at them, his tongue running along Reichert's bared teeth. Reichert kept his jaws clamped shut, shuddering as if a snail had just crawled down his throat, but this tiny bit of defiance just earned a slight, breathless laugh from Campion, who let his kiss trail back down to the hollow of Reichert's neck and the edge of his collarbone.
"Didn't I already tell you I'm considerate...?" he whispered.
His foot met Reichert's, nudged it aside, so Reichert had to part his legs to keep his balance. His body arched--the cry he let out partly one of pain, when his arm twisted more sharply, but not completely one of pain--as he felt Campion's own hardness slipping between his thighs, prodding at his opening, which now relaxed as if to beg to take him in, which Campion did not do. Reichert's own penis now wedged against Campion's belly when he moved close, a reversal of what they'd done moments before. The only difference was that now Campion slid his free hand between the two of them, grasping the shaft, rubbing up and down so Reichert's head tilted back with a long, low groan. He started shaking; when Campion clutched his hip as if to hold him in place, although with his pinioned arm this was unnecessary, and began again to push, Reichert didn't even bother attempting to resist it. The fog in his head was too great to think coherently. Within a moment or two both of them were rocking, their hips pressing hard against each other with each motion, Reichert flinching and whimpering every time his arm pressed harder against the wall but other than this rolling his pelvis against Campion's and trembling at the hardness rubbing so close that he both ached for and dreaded the thought of it pushing up inside him. He tried to shove all thoughts out of his head, including his bewilderment over why this was enjoyable at all; his physical need won out over reason, and he stopped thinking at all anymore, letting his body take over.
Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the time. This only heightened Reichert's arousal, that the only sounds to be heard now were Campion's thick, hoarse panting, his own soft, strained noises of desperation, and the slight slap of their skin when their speed picked up. Reichert at last dropped his head forward, tears streaming from his squinched-shut eyes, shaking uncontrollably while Campion's pushing built up in speed, more, and more, until he repeatedly shoved Reichert's hips back against the wall, making the detective cry out in pain each time, Campion's breath spurting out in quick gasps, his own eyes and teeth clenched tight; his fingers abruptly gouged into Reichert's hip, his groin mashing forward hard, a heavy grunt escaping his throat as his buttocks tightened and then quivered. Reichert's own gasp came out startled, almost a yelp, when he felt the hot stickiness shoot between his own buttocks, and then the same feeling came against his belly, where his own climax, having nowhere else to go, spurted between the two of them and made Campion slip a little as his belly trembled against Reichert's. The tension of his groin muscles, quivering against Reichert's, made him let out a soft noise, a small final spurt escaping him, and then it was over. Reichert gave a low moan as Campion pulled back, his flaccid penis slipping out from between the detective's legs, his breath heavy and his arm, where it still pressed against Reichert's chest, shaking slightly.
"Looks like we don't hate each other as much as we thought, do we?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, his breath hot against Reichert's ear; Reichert said nothing, as his thoughts and reason came rushing back, and he gritted his teeth and tried not to retch, an unbelievable revulsion pouring through his body. His own erection at last quickly died, and he coughed harshly at the floor, dry-heaving as Campion used his shirt to carelessly wipe both of them off. Campion, for his part, just stared at him dispassionately, almost as if bored--Reichert saw him through one slitted eye--pulling up both underwear and pants, tucking himself in and zipping up. He worked at adjusting his belt as Reichert slid to the floor, his right wrist still cuffed to the bar, but at last able to draw his throbbing left arm back in front to cradle against his heaving chest. His own pants and underwear remained bunched around his knees, his bared hips and belly still shaking, but he didn't pay this any attention. He felt as if he had to throw up, yet nothing would come.
He heard a footstep and flinched and cringed back when Campion's fingers clasped his jaw, turning his head. He opened his eyes to slits, having to blink the blur away, keeping his lip curled back in feral warning even as he fought down his dry sobs; Campion peered at him for a brief moment, then his mouth twitched as if in amusement, and he smiled.
"Maybe sometime you'd care to join me--or maybe I could join you--maybe in that dark little apartment of yours--and maybe we could move aside enough boxes to find a spot to lie down and do this properly next time. Me inside you, or maybe you inside me. Maybe even both. I get the feeling you'd enjoy it. I know I would. Maybe I'll invite myself by sometime?" He let go of Reichert's jaw, and the detective drew in on himself again, making himself as small as possible, huddling against the wall. Campion straightened and brushed at his pants, turning aside.
"I think I'd actually like that. Maybe sometime in the future. After I'm done visiting with sweet Mike." Reichert dragged his head up to blink at him through swollen bleary eyes, and Campion feigned blowing a kiss. "Don't worry--I won't be too hard on her." He turned completely and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room; a moment later Reichert could tell he was descending some stairs elsewhere in the abandoned building, though he wasn't sure if it was the same route they'd taken up to this floor. He waited until all the noises had ceased completely, not even an echo remaining, before letting himself relax, his limbs going loose, sucking in several deep steadying breaths before taking account of his situation.
He tugged just slightly on his cuffed right wrist. The skin had been worn raw, but it felt like the merest sting compared to his left arm, which he kept cradled against himself. He looked down to see himself still half naked; he had to struggle a little to pull his legs back, wincing at how the left one throbbed, though not as badly as his arm. It was almost more than he could bear to have to use his left hand and arm to reach down and take hold of his underwear and pants, and he whimpered more than once as he awkwardly shifted himself in an attempt to pull them back up. He at last managed, and zipped up his fly, but could do nothing about his belt with only one hand free. His shirt, soaked with their mixed seed, stuck to his abdomen, but there was nothing he could do about that now, either. He briefly wondered how Campion knew the appearance of his apartment--had he already paid it a visit?--then groggily looked around himself. Campion had apparently taken his gun with him, and, presumably, the handcuff keys. The bar he was latched to was too sturdy to pull loose, despite the dereliction of the building. Reichert bit down his agony once more to unbend his left elbow and feel gingerly at his pants pocket. His cell phone was still there. That couldn't have been left behind on accident. He pulled it out and, selecting a number on speed dial--ROSEDALE--pushed the button and shakily held it against his ear. It rang only one and a half times before picking up; he didn't doubt that on the other end was another number on speed dial and caller ID, marked REICHERT.
"Mike?" he said in response to the voice on the other end. He grimaced and shifted himself to take all the pressure off his left leg and let out a shaky breath. "Yeah...I'm okay. I just need you to pick me up. I don't think I'm in any condition for driving." A pause as he listened to the response on the other end. "No, it's nothing serious. I'm not sure where I am, though." He craned his neck to peer out one of the large broken windows at the far side of the room. "Some big empty building. I'm on the top fourth floor. Rundown area. I can see a lit sign saying CURLY'S PAWN SHOP out one window..." he craned his neck further "...and there's some kind of Dairy Queen knockoff place out another. The only big building in the area. I know you don't know this place too well..." Another pause. "All right, I'll be waiting. Oh. Make sure you bring some handcuff keys." Another, shorter pause; Reichert took a second to make a face and rub the back of his hand against his forehead. "Yeah...keys. I'll explain when you get here. Call me back when you see the signs and I'll try to point you in the right direction." One more pause; Reichert let out a small breath, suddenly feeling exhausted, as if all his limbs had turned into water again. "See you then," he murmured, and hung up, lowering the phone to his lap to let his aching arm rest, slumping against the wall with his right arm still suspended. He shut his eyes and worked on blotting out the previous hour as much as he could, at the same time trying to come up with something convincing to tell Rosedale when she arrived.
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This item is not looking for critique. It was written solely for entertainment's sake. Although a scene from a possibly longer story, it is complete in itself and unless otherwise stated there is not going to be any more of it written. Additional unrelated SCENES may be written, but single scenes themselves are complete as they are. So please do not expect more. If you are interested in reading the series which INSPIRED the scene, just look elsewhere in my portfolio and you should find something. (Use the "story codes" given in the scene headers. For example, "MI" = "Manitou Island" series.)
I am not looking for critique on grammar, spelling, style, sentence structure, flow, or the mechanics of writing. What I AM interested in is commentary on such things as characterization, plot, symbolism, theme, etc.--the deeper aspects of the story. I like to know if a scene is believable, if the characters are interesting, what you thought of how they interacted, if the writing evoked any emotions, things such as that.
Feel free to criticize, but just keep in mind that I'm working on more important projects and shared this just for fun and/or to illustrate character interactions, so I don't plan to revise it any time soon. Comments on the characters, theme, etc. are more than welcome. 
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