He’d heard talk of Charles’s temper. He’d seen Charles lash out at Thomas for relatively minor things. Haytham had never taken any of it seriously; at least, not where he was concerned. Perhaps he should have been, but Charles made it hard for Haytham to be concerned about any such temper. Charles practically worshipped the ground he walked on, would likely lick his boot and take a bayonet through the throat of it pleased Haytham, what reason would Charles ever have to lose his cool around Haytham?
Haytham still isn’t quite sure of the reason, even as it happens. All he is sure of is that others were right to fear this temper, to walk on egg shells more often than not around this man.
It isn’t the hands at his throat or the words he says or the torn up clothes that terrify him—it’s the way it all happens. It’s the way the hands at his throat barely graze his skin, the way they tickle more than torture, and the way they’re so gentle that if Haytham hadn’t known any better, he would have thought they were just another way that Charles worshipped him. It’s the way the words are said—so soft and sweet and kind in tone, almost enough to make him forget that Charles is really saying things like “you should have never gone off with that woman” and “you should have listened” and “if you’d only realized sooner, perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this”. It’s the way the threats are so comforting, so respectful, that it’s enough to make him fear for his life while sparking a desire to hear more just to have someone speak to him in that way. It’s the way that the words and the touch were enough to make him want to tear his own clothes away at Charles’s command, the way it all makes him want to get this over with so that the torture might be over sooner while, at the same time, making him genuinely want the whole thing to be prolonged. It’s the way Charles has this ability to propel him into doing what he wants through the fear, the way Charles knows exactly how to get even the strongest of men to do what he wants no matter how much it might terrify them. And then it’s the way that all of that gentleness, all of that false respect and sweetness disappears in an instant.
When Charles decides that Haytham’s shaking fingers are taking too long, that he’s tired of waiting to take what he wants Charles’s feather light grip around his throat tightens, just enough to cause pain without choking him just yet. When Charles loses his patience, his eyes open from their half lidded state and Haytham can see the desire in them, he can see the spark of energy that grows and grows when he sees the fear in Haytham’s own eyes. Haytham stops his own shaking then, though not from some sort of misplaced confidence. He stops the shaking in his hands because Charles wants him to, because if Haytham doesn’t the promise in Charles’s eyes—the promise that Haytham will be his own demise—will become more than just a promise.
Haytham has known from the beginning that Charles had a way about him that made others want to do as he said. It’s what made him a great general; it’s what made him the obvious choice to rule this country once that damned Washington is out of the way. Haytham hadn’t anticipated that Charles would ever use his gift in this way and certainly not that he would have ever used it on Haytham. Yet here he is, terrified of what’s to come and still practically offering himself of Charles because it’s what Charles wants. It doesn’t matter if Haytham really wants it. He’ll want it because Charles wants it and when Charles wants something, he gets it.
And then Charles truly gets tired of waiting and he forces Haytham against the wall so hard it truly knocks the air out of him—a tad problematic when Charles is quick to wrap one hand around his throat again, this time squeezing so hard that it does prevent any air getting to his lungs. The pain of that is nothing compared to the pain of Charles entering him, though. Charles does it dry and hard and fast and it rips a strangled sob from Haytham’s throat. There’s nothing satisfying about this. There’s nothing compelling about this. The time for compelling Haytham into doing what he wants is passed. Now is the time for Charles to take.
His thrusts only get harder and faster and deeper the longer this all goes and there’s a hand at his cock and it’s strange how his cock wants this all to continue while the rest of his body is screaming for him to force Charles away. But he can’t. He can’t. He deserves this doesn’t he? Charles told him so in that honey sweet way of his right before Haytham brought him to the end of his seemingly endless patience. Haytham has never truly appreciated Charles for all that he does for him. He never shows the gratitude that Charles deserves and now he’s paying for it. Now, Charles will get what he wants while Haytham acts like he wants it. Charles will force Haytham to experience the lack of appreciation that he’s been feeling all this time.
Charles deliberately misses that spot that will have Haytham writhing and moaning and begging for more. That would bring too much pleasure. The point of this is the pain and Charles knows exactly how to maximize it all. It’s the hand on Haytham’s cock, stroking hard and fast that brings him any pleasure at all and even that is minimal. Charles just wants Haytham’s body to turn against him, to continue to make him want the pain because of the little bit of pleasure he’s getting from this. Charles gets what he wants, of course.
Haytham’s vision is getting fuzzy. He’s feeling light headed and trying to hold on to any and all feeling he can grasp and it makes him almost grateful when his body betrays him and he comes in Charles hand. At least it’s some form of sensation. The lack of air is getting to him and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll manage to stay awake.
But suddenly it’s all over. The whole illusion that this was something Charles had forced him to do rather than something Haytham requested of him is shattered when Charles pulls out before he finishes. When Charles turns him around, it’s without the aggression that he’d pushed Haytham into the wall with and the glint of evil promises is gone from Charles eyes now. Haytham glares at him for that.
“Charles, what are you doing?”
Haytham sends a pointed look down to Charles’s erection. Strange for a rapist to stop what they’re doing before they’re done. Charles looks to the bruises on Haytham’s throat and Haytham knows Charles is listening far too closely to his breathing—making sure he is still breathing.
“Haytham…”
Charles’s voice is concerned and Haytham sighs, knowing there’s no way to bring back the illusion now. Charles is far too lost in his concern over Haytham’s well-being for that. Instead, Haytham takes a step closer, wraps his hand around Charles’s cock, and gives it a few well practiced strokes to bring Charles to completion.
Charles wraps his arms around Haytham and presses his nose to Haytham’s cheek. His voice has that gentle tone again, but this time there’s nothing false about it. It’s not meant to compel Haytham into doing anything now.
Haytham ignores Charles’s concerned whispers and leads them to his bed. They’ll have to work on this, though if Haytham were truly honest with himself, he’s surprised Charles even made it this far. Charles is far too attuned to Haytham’s well-being. Getting him to participate in this little fantasy of Haytham’s was likely the hardest thing Haytham has ever had to do. Likely, it’ll be even harder next time.
When they’re on the bed Charles presses light kisses to Haytham’s throat where the newly formed bruises are and curls up next to Haytham. Charles falls asleep that way and despite the much harsher end to the night that Haytham had envisioned, he can’t help but smile at the sight. He rubs a thumb affectionately across the younger man’s cheek and presses a kiss to his forehead. This isn’t how he wanted things to end tonight, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this, too.
Fill: Fantasy 1/1
Haytham still isn’t quite sure of the reason, even as it happens. All he is sure of is that others were right to fear this temper, to walk on egg shells more often than not around this man.
It isn’t the hands at his throat or the words he says or the torn up clothes that terrify him—it’s the way it all happens. It’s the way the hands at his throat barely graze his skin, the way they tickle more than torture, and the way they’re so gentle that if Haytham hadn’t known any better, he would have thought they were just another way that Charles worshipped him. It’s the way the words are said—so soft and sweet and kind in tone, almost enough to make him forget that Charles is really saying things like “you should have never gone off with that woman” and “you should have listened” and “if you’d only realized sooner, perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this”. It’s the way the threats are so comforting, so respectful, that it’s enough to make him fear for his life while sparking a desire to hear more just to have someone speak to him in that way. It’s the way that the words and the touch were enough to make him want to tear his own clothes away at Charles’s command, the way it all makes him want to get this over with so that the torture might be over sooner while, at the same time, making him genuinely want the whole thing to be prolonged. It’s the way Charles has this ability to propel him into doing what he wants through the fear, the way Charles knows exactly how to get even the strongest of men to do what he wants no matter how much it might terrify them. And then it’s the way that all of that gentleness, all of that false respect and sweetness disappears in an instant.
When Charles decides that Haytham’s shaking fingers are taking too long, that he’s tired of waiting to take what he wants Charles’s feather light grip around his throat tightens, just enough to cause pain without choking him just yet. When Charles loses his patience, his eyes open from their half lidded state and Haytham can see the desire in them, he can see the spark of energy that grows and grows when he sees the fear in Haytham’s own eyes. Haytham stops his own shaking then, though not from some sort of misplaced confidence. He stops the shaking in his hands because Charles wants him to, because if Haytham doesn’t the promise in Charles’s eyes—the promise that Haytham will be his own demise—will become more than just a promise.
Haytham has known from the beginning that Charles had a way about him that made others want to do as he said. It’s what made him a great general; it’s what made him the obvious choice to rule this country once that damned Washington is out of the way. Haytham hadn’t anticipated that Charles would ever use his gift in this way and certainly not that he would have ever used it on Haytham. Yet here he is, terrified of what’s to come and still practically offering himself of Charles because it’s what Charles wants. It doesn’t matter if Haytham really wants it. He’ll want it because Charles wants it and when Charles wants something, he gets it.
And then Charles truly gets tired of waiting and he forces Haytham against the wall so hard it truly knocks the air out of him—a tad problematic when Charles is quick to wrap one hand around his throat again, this time squeezing so hard that it does prevent any air getting to his lungs. The pain of that is nothing compared to the pain of Charles entering him, though. Charles does it dry and hard and fast and it rips a strangled sob from Haytham’s throat. There’s nothing satisfying about this. There’s nothing compelling about this. The time for compelling Haytham into doing what he wants is passed. Now is the time for Charles to take.
His thrusts only get harder and faster and deeper the longer this all goes and there’s a hand at his cock and it’s strange how his cock wants this all to continue while the rest of his body is screaming for him to force Charles away. But he can’t. He can’t. He deserves this doesn’t he? Charles told him so in that honey sweet way of his right before Haytham brought him to the end of his seemingly endless patience. Haytham has never truly appreciated Charles for all that he does for him. He never shows the gratitude that Charles deserves and now he’s paying for it. Now, Charles will get what he wants while Haytham acts like he wants it. Charles will force Haytham to experience the lack of appreciation that he’s been feeling all this time.
Charles deliberately misses that spot that will have Haytham writhing and moaning and begging for more. That would bring too much pleasure. The point of this is the pain and Charles knows exactly how to maximize it all. It’s the hand on Haytham’s cock, stroking hard and fast that brings him any pleasure at all and even that is minimal. Charles just wants Haytham’s body to turn against him, to continue to make him want the pain because of the little bit of pleasure he’s getting from this. Charles gets what he wants, of course.
Haytham’s vision is getting fuzzy. He’s feeling light headed and trying to hold on to any and all feeling he can grasp and it makes him almost grateful when his body betrays him and he comes in Charles hand. At least it’s some form of sensation. The lack of air is getting to him and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll manage to stay awake.
But suddenly it’s all over. The whole illusion that this was something Charles had forced him to do rather than something Haytham requested of him is shattered when Charles pulls out before he finishes. When Charles turns him around, it’s without the aggression that he’d pushed Haytham into the wall with and the glint of evil promises is gone from Charles eyes now. Haytham glares at him for that.
“Charles, what are you doing?”
Haytham sends a pointed look down to Charles’s erection. Strange for a rapist to stop what they’re doing before they’re done. Charles looks to the bruises on Haytham’s throat and Haytham knows Charles is listening far too closely to his breathing—making sure he is still breathing.
“Haytham…”
Charles’s voice is concerned and Haytham sighs, knowing there’s no way to bring back the illusion now. Charles is far too lost in his concern over Haytham’s well-being for that. Instead, Haytham takes a step closer, wraps his hand around Charles’s cock, and gives it a few well practiced strokes to bring Charles to completion.
Charles wraps his arms around Haytham and presses his nose to Haytham’s cheek. His voice has that gentle tone again, but this time there’s nothing false about it. It’s not meant to compel Haytham into doing anything now.
Haytham ignores Charles’s concerned whispers and leads them to his bed. They’ll have to work on this, though if Haytham were truly honest with himself, he’s surprised Charles even made it this far. Charles is far too attuned to Haytham’s well-being. Getting him to participate in this little fantasy of Haytham’s was likely the hardest thing Haytham has ever had to do. Likely, it’ll be even harder next time.
When they’re on the bed Charles presses light kisses to Haytham’s throat where the newly formed bruises are and curls up next to Haytham. Charles falls asleep that way and despite the much harsher end to the night that Haytham had envisioned, he can’t help but smile at the sight. He rubs a thumb affectionately across the younger man’s cheek and presses a kiss to his forehead. This isn’t how he wanted things to end tonight, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this, too.