🔞 [Fic] into the whispering dark (The Collector)

25 Oct, 2024

• Fandom: The Collector Series (Movies)
• Pairing: The Collector/Arkin O'Brien
• Tags: Smut, Movie: The Collector, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Dubious Consent
• Word-Count: 3010
• Status: Complete
• First Published: 2024-10-06
• Disclaimer: I do not own The Collector Movies and make no profit from this—it is solely a hobby for fun, with no financial compensation.

Summary:

Heart pounding, Arkin swears, taking the stairs two steps at a time, the presence behind him getting closer and closer. He can feel in his throat; the attention, the huffs of air that aren’t his, the movement of a large body just out of his sight. The shape of the knife, splicing the air in two.

Notes:

100 Fandoms Challenge: 041. count
100 Ships Challenge: #06 – Lust
Bad Things Happen Bingo: Slammed Into a Wall

Work Text:

Holding his breath, Arkin counts the steps in the hall. They're soft; slow, steady, sure. Tilting his head, he strains his good ear to follow them, eyes narrowing in thought. They're getting closer, and there's only way out for Arkin. He could fight his way through—but that means giving up his advantage, and it means accruing more injuries. He doesn’t think he can afford that.

His hand is still stinging, won’t stop for a while, he reckons. His ear is damaged; hopefully it’s just the blood clogging it that’s distorting his hearing, and the loss isn’t permanent.

He switches the foot he’s resting his weight on, and bends down. The footsteps are getting closer, and he glances around the room again, but nothing has changed. There’s nothing for him, here. Standing behind the door is the only place to hide, and so he does, breathing steadily and deeply, quietly, as he waits for the masked man to open it.

And he does.

The door swings open slowly, but with force. Arkin can hear the man’s breathing; can hear the shifting of a gloved hand on the door-handle. Can feel the shifting of the air as the man opens the door wider, stands in the door-frame, gazing quietly into the room. Doesn’t move a muscle, for a moment. Then; the movement of the air, again, the shifting of the darkness from the window in the hall outside.

Arkin can practically feel him, this intruder. His presence is a black hole, consuming everything around him, building and building and building, and Arkin’s eyes stare at the door. His fingers twitch, a minute motion. The man finally takes another step into the room, and Arkin stares at his back.

Grips the edge of the door, pushing it just enough to squeeze behind the man and stepping silently back, gaze glued to the back of the man’s head. The mask, he thinks. He could pull it off.

He doesn’t, of course.

He’s one step through the doorway when the man’s head tilts and turns back. Breath in his throat, Arkin presses off with his toes and abandons stealth, running away.

Feels the air shift behind him, as a hand just misses him.

Heart pounding, Arkin swears, taking the stairs two steps at a time, the presence behind him getting closer and closer. He can feel in his throat; the attention, the huffs of air that aren’t his, the movement of a large body just out of his sight. The shape of the knife, splicing the air in two.

The man doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t call out to him.

Just chases.

At a turn through a doorway, a flat palm presses on his back and shoves him forwards. The few stumbling steps he’s forced to take are enough for an arm to curl around his throat and squeeze tight, the man pressing close to him. Wheezing, the bones of his throat grinding, Arkin reaches up behind him, scrambles for where he thinks the man’s eyes must be. His eyelashes flutter; his hands twitch, his head forcefully tilted back, but the tips of his fingers strike something soft, and he’s let go. He stumbles, presses a hand against the wall, takes a step; the full-force of a grown man crashes into him from behind, pulling them both to the floor.

“Fuck,” Arkin wheezes, lungs constricting sharply. Jamming an elbow up, he hits something, and there’s space to breathe again, his head snapping back to strike whatever the fuck he can. It doesn’t hit anything, and his eyes blink up at the man’s chin. A fraction of a second before the full weight will bear down on him again, Arkin bucks and slams a foot at the man’s thigh, pushing off with it and getting to his feet.

Barely stumbles a step before he’s slammed face first into the wall, his whole head bouncing with it. His vision swims, the weight of the man on his back forcing him into place against it, and he can feel the hot breathing on the back of his neck, the fingers digging harshly into his muscle, the beating of a heart against his back.

Swallowing, Arkin hisses, “Get the fuck off,” between clenched teeth, trying to buck, his hands scrambling for purchase to push off the wall. But the man is plastered tight to him, swallowing every inch of light, a fortress that keeps close to him no matter what Arkin does.

Pulsing pain sings through his body in time with his heartbeat, and Arkin tosses his head back again, tries to dislodge something, anything, just get a bit of space for leverage. Instead, an arm wraps around his waist and pulls him in, and the other holds tight to the back of his head, squeezing so harshly that he grunts, teeth grinding together. “Fuck,” he hisses, “Get the fuck—”

His head is slammed into the wall, and any thought goes out of it. For a moment, he’s not sure about anything at all, the world swimming around him, and the next time it solidifies his back is against the wall and he’s staring into eyes reflecting light in a way they were much should not do.

Arkin freezes.

It’s a rookie mistake.

The man gets his hand around Arkin’s throat and squeezes tight, tight enough he knows it’ll bruise—if it hasn’t already. While he’s trying to inhale air, trying to push the hand away, the man’s other hand touches his dick.

Oh.

Shit.

Arkin makes an inarticulate noise in the back pf his throat, glaring at the masked man. Fuck off, he mouths, and the man tilts his head. Forces Arkin up on his toes, his neck stretched and Arkin spits at him.

It slides down the mask. The man doesn’t seem to care, merely continuing to stare at him. The touch returns to Arkin’s cock, and Arkin grinds his teeth, breathing shallowly through flaring nostrils when the grip on his throat loosens. It’s enough to get his fingers under that hand, tilt his way forwards, and let gravity pull him down from the wall, the man stumbling back when Arkin slams into him.

For a minute, they’re a chaos of flailing limbs and grunts, trying to get the upper hand on each other. Then Arkin’s foot hits the man’s dick, and a moan answers.

And.

Well. Any advantage is an advantage.

Arkin doesn’t waste time once he’s decided; he tosses himself back onto the man, gets his knees in between his legs, and presses it harshly into the crotch. The man stills, drawing back enough to make eye-contact, and Arkin grins down at him, above and powerful with and taunting breathlessly, “Want me to fuck you, huh? Is that it?”

Slowly, the man nods.

Eyes widening, Arkin nonetheless doesn’t allow it to phase him. He sits down on the man’s thigh, grinding his knee against the man’s covered cock again, and gets a soft sigh in response. The way the man tilts his head back is almost pretty. The reflective eyes staring at Arkin are less so. But a way in is a way in, and Arkin won’t give it up.

The clock is ticking.

Slamming his hands down either side of the man’s head, he bares his teeth and grinds down, eyelashes fluttering at the friction, at the touch; he’s not hard yet, but no need to mind that. Arkin stares into the man’s eyes as he gets a hand on his crotch, on the zipper, pulling it down and getting his hand in before the man changes his mind.

Another sigh, and the man bucks his hips, one hand squeezing tight onto Arkin’s hip, fingers digging in so sharply it sends sparks of pain down his spine. Arkin can’t help arching it somewhat, hissing between his teeth.

The man smiles.

“Fucker,” Arkin mutters, gripping the man’s hard, scorching cock tight in his hand, squeezing until it hurts, and this time it’s the man that arcs his back, head falling back, mouth sliding open. Arkin grins, humps his leg, and then a large hand curls around the back of his neck and pulls him down, rolling him over, grinding into his hand, against his leg, and shoving him harshly to the floor.

Arkin glares at him, but the man only grins at him, leans down and presses their foreheads together. Shoving at his shoulder, Arkin tries to push him off with a muffled groan when the man’s leg hits his cock, but the man doesn’t budge, bears down more on Arkin and grinds them together, Arkin’s mouth parting at the spark of pleasure deep in his gut.

Fuck, he thinks.

“You changing your mind?” he grunts out, rolling his hips and wetting his lips, brows drawing tight.

The man merely huffs, eyes bright on Arkin’s face. Rolling his eyes, Arkin bites his lip and looks up from below heavy eyelids, putting everything he’s got into the expression. It must work—the man kisses him. Tongue, Arkin thinks, parting his lips and letting it into his mouth, sucking on it; it would be so easy to bite down on it.

But that wouldn’t kill the man, and Arkin would only pay the price for it.

The kiss is—fine. Deep, startlingly quickly, and Arkin huffs through his nose, getting a hand on the back of the mask and hooking his fingers into the threads holding it together. The weight on top of him is heavy; a mountain holding him down, and Arkin can’t stop bucking, trying to get juts a little bit of space, a little bit of leverage, legs spread open around the masked murderer above him.

Scratching at the back of the man’s head, he’s rewarded by the sensation of the man’s cock hardening against him. Arkin takes the chance to bite down gently on the tongue deep in his mouth, not enough to hurt but enough to feel, and the man grinds harder against him, breathing going unsteady.

Arkin tears his mouth away long enough to mutter “Come on, pants off,” and feels the weight of the man’s eyes on him. A hand roughly tears open his zipper, and then his cock is in the hand of a murderer.

It is, Arkin thinks, entirely possible that this is the worst idea he’s ever had.

But he’s not going to stop now. Rutting into the murderer’s hand, Arkin holds in a whimper at the sparks of pleasure for as long as he can, until the pressure in his throat and the tingling in the pit of his belly overwhelms him, and the noise escapes on a gasp. The murderer stills his hand and stares at him, wide eyes that glint inhumanly, lenses or something like it. Arkin vaguely wonders what the point of that is, and then the thought is chased out of his aching skull by the man’s smile; a sort of delighted, sheepish smile.

And then the the murderer wrestles Arkin’s pants and underwear down his legs, leaves them bunched up around his knees, and Arkin hisses at the cold, at the thought that fuck who knows what blood is around, and he hisses ,too “Are you fucking serious?” because his imagination was not fucking imaginative enough to think the murderer might decide to, you know, go all the way.

In the hall of a house he’s turned into a murderous trap.

Huffing a laugh, the man turns Arkin over, amidst much swearing and flailing of Arkin’s limbs. It doesn’t do much good, but it wastes his energy in a way that feels good, and his cheek lies against the cold floor when he’s defeated, turned on his stomach, hard dick stuck between the floor and him, and his bared ass cheeks clench involuntary when the man runs a gloved hand over them. Keeping in his noise, Arkin clenches his eyes shut for a second, then glares as best he can at the murderer. “Fucking get on with it then, pussy,” and it takes him two tries to get the sentence out but if the man changes his mind? Well, Arkin’s pants are binding his legs and the murderer’s on top of him—there’s not a lot of ways that’s going to go.

So fucking get on with it, then.

Fuck, this might have been a really stupid fucking decision.

Arkin feels the thick, hard head of the murderer’s cock against the cleft of his ass only seconds later, small noises of clothing shifting proceeding it. A drop of pre-come plops onto him and he shivers, goosebumps drawing the murderers hand up the swell of his ass, to the dips of his back, fingers pushing up Arkin’s shirt to sweep over his shuddering skin.

He can feel the murderer leaning over him, boxing him in, and Arkin burns with the knowledge that there’s no easy way out of this. And his asshole burns with the tip of a thick finger forces some of that pre-come into his quivering hole; his breath draws tight and he holds it as he presses his face to the floor, unable to keep his eyes open.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The finger gets in. The burning mostly stops. It’s not a horrible feeling by any means; mostly just strange—a pressure going in and up and deep instead of the usual way his ass does things. Arkin manages to take breath before he passes out, spots growing in his vision as he wheezes into the floor, fingers scrambling for purchase, and he forces his ass to relax as the finger gets in deeper. It’s not a horrible feeling, and when it brushes his prostrate, it’s even kind of good.

The mask, freezing, nudges against his skin as the murderer nuzzles his ear, a tongue lapping on his earlobe and teeth gently setting on it. Arkin breathes in, and the man bites down hard enough to draw blood, Arkin’s shoulder drawing up, a keening splitting from him before he bites down on it, ear stinging.

The man draws his finger out of Arkin. Places the head of his cook at Arkin’s entrance. And pushes.

It’s. Fuck. Arkin bites his lip, tastes the blood on his tongue and swallows it like a starving man, muscles tensed and jaw locked tight as the man behind, above, rolls his hips and pushes his dick deeper. It’s a hot, hard rod inside him, forcing him open and pressing inside, and Arkin’s breaths are ragged, unsteady things, loud in his ears, as loud as his thumping heartbeat.

Teeth graze the back of his neck, a tongue dragging over his skin and Arkin shudders and his ass relaxes and the man sinks in deeper. Brushes his prostrate, Arkin’s body betraying the pleasure rolling up his spine, and the man shoves harder on that spot inside him. Arkin rasps for breath, clings onto the floor, feels the contrast of the cold air, the pain from all the injuries, the blood drying on his skin, his achingly hard cock stuck against the floor, and the warmth thrusting inside him, the hot mouth on his skin.

A hand roughly grips his hip, fingers digging into the bone, and Arkin breathes in on a hiss as the man starts properly rutting into him. Fast, graceless, just harsh thrusts, mercilessly pounding his prostrate, and Arkin lays under it and takes it.

He reaches back, gets his trembling fingers into the mask’s threads as best he can, holds on and digs his nails into the skin, feels the welling of blood under them on a particularly hard thrust. The man doesn’t force him off, and so Arkin keeps holding on, even as his shoulder protests. Moans and whimpers and groans depart from him; he holds his breath, inhales sharply, tossing his head back and arches his spine as the pleasure builds and builds inside him—harsh and unending, on the edge and yet not rolling over, and he—comes, at long last.

The world goes whoozy, transparent, languid around him. He breathes, and for a moment that the only reality he knows. Everything else is secondary; the teeth digging into his shoulder, the hands on his waist, bruising, the cock still thrusting in and out of him. The man comes, then, and a flood of warmth burns Arkin’s insides, his already full ass getting stuffed with more, and he moans brokenly, trying his best to turn his face away as he tries to get his breathing back under control.

He is still solidly held down by a murderer. That murderer has his cock inside Arkin, and Arkin’s legs are trapped by his own clothes. Come clings to his skin, his clothes, and Arkin blinks, tries to make the world come back into focus.

Shudders.

“Pull out,” Arkin mumbles into the floor, but the teeth digging into his skin doesn't withdraw, and neither does the cock. Arkin’s stomach swoops for a whole different reason then, rationality starting to fire again in his lapsing synapses. “Fucker,” Arkin wheezes, as more of the man’s weight is leveraged upon him to keep him down.

Dislodging his teeth, the murderer kisses Arkin’s cheek, nuzzles it, and gets his arms—also with much flailing on Arkin’s part—around Arkin’s torso, holding Arkin’s arms tightly locked. He holds Arkin down and doesn’t pull his cock out, his mouth sucking marks into whatever skin of Arkin’s he can reach, and Arkin lets him because. Well. What the fuck else is he supposed to do.

He just need the man’s head to get into a good position, and then he’s head-butting this fucker into oblivion.

Arkin bides his time, holding still and breathing growing steadier, heavy eye-lashes fluttering in time with it, his lips sore, his ass flexing around the soft cock inside him. And eventually, he snaps his head back and hits something hard. Pain sparks up his head, but he gets his fingers into the wrist-bones of one of the man’s hands, too, and it spasms under him and releases, and Arkin is once more flailing for freedom.

Notes:

i just think that arkin's sneaking around sequences in the first movie should have been 200% gayer (￣ω￣)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of 100 Fandoms Challenge
• Part 1 of 100 Ships Challenge

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#Fandom: The Collector Series #Post Type: Fic #Rating: Explicit #Status: Complete #Tag: NSFW #Tag: Open Ending #Tag: Smut #WC: 1000-5000