Fandom & Pairing: Nowhere Man, Tom/Alyson
Spoilers: Through episode 15, "Jung at Heart"
Warnings: This is dark. Fantasies of: male-on-female dub-con/non-con (mind control), D/s, murder.
Word Count: around 1200
Summary: Now that Tom knows the truth about Alyson, his fantasies have changed a bit.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to anything whatsoever is purely coincidental.
A/N : My first Nowhere Man fic! I
It won't make much sense unless you're familiar with the show, but I've written up a little backstory synopsis (spoilery, obv). Highlight to read: Thomas Veil is a photojournalist who took a photo of some U.S. military dudes doing Bad, Bad Things. As a result, a shadowy organization (called, conveniently enough, The Organization) has erased his entire life: all record of his existence is gone, and everyone he's ever known acts like they have no idea who he is, including his wife Alyson. At first it seemed like she was coerced into betraying him, then it seemed like she was EVOL, then we found out that she was basically a doll (like from the show Dollhouse) -- she'd been an older woman who was promised (and given) rejuvenation into youth and beauty through some dubious but highly advanced scientific process, but was also implanted with a mind-control device so she could be used as a super-spy/assassin/seductress/what-have-y
He isn't sure which is worse, the knowing or the not knowing.
Before, whenever he thought about her, if he heard her name being called (he'd whip his head around, but it was always some other woman with the same name) or if he caught a whiff of her perfume, he'd be filled with a blinding rage and his dreams that night would always be of punishing her, making her suffer the way she'd made him suffer. Making her hurt. And maybe they weren't dreams. Maybe they were more like fantasies, and maybe he usually had his dick in his hand when he thought about causing her pain, and maybe it was at the moment that dream-Alyson begged for mercy that he'd come like a freight train, feeling empty and hollowed-out afterward.
Now, though, well -- that just isn't very satisfying anymore. It doesn't feel right, thinking about hurting her, now that he knows that she wasn't acting of her own free will. Doesn't mean he's forgiven her, though. He wonders who she was before, whether she left behind a husband, children, grandchildren, in her grab for eternal youth and beauty. Wonders if she even bothered to look behind the pretty promises that were made to her. Then he thinks Fuck it. I don't care.
So he still thinks about her in the nights, in cheap tacky motels with the underlying smell of blood, come, and desperation. He takes himself out and works himself to hardness imagining what he'd make her do if he held the controls to her implant, instead of the bastards who took his life away with her help.
He thinks he'd like to see her naked, on her knees, her long hair tumbling over the vulnerable curve of her shoulders. He wonders if her eyes would flash defiance, or if the implant would smooth out her face into unruffled acceptance, regardless of what seethed beneath. He sort of hopes for the former. He'd like to see the change in her expression as she realizes the full depth of what Tom's planning to visit on her.
He'll start slow. She's always preferred a slow burn anyway. He'll circle her, watching the rise and fall of her ribs under smooth, flawless skin. Stop in front of her and lay a gentle hand on her head, like a priest conferring absolution. Then he'll open his fly, pull out his dick -- it'll still be soft at this point -- and tell her to get to work with her mouth. If she tries to use her hands, he'll tell her to keep them behind her back. He's always loved her mouth, her lips, her tongue and small, white, even teeth.
During their sham of a marriage, she'd usually demurred when he asked for this. He never pushed the issue; he'd been a good husband. Would never have dreamed of pressuring her into something she didn't want. But he hadn't been a husband at all, had he? He'd been a dupe. An assignment. A job. He doesn't owe her any consideration at all.
So he'll tell her to open her mouth. Instruct her to use only the slightest hint of teeth. Make her slurp and suck his cock until saliva is dripping off of her perfect pointed chin in glistening strands. Those wide, generous lips will wrap around him and he'll grasp the back of her skull, pushing in deeper and deeper, sliding in and out until she's gagging. It'll be so tempting to finish like this, to just fuck her throat until tears are streaming down her face and then make her swallow every drop of him.
But no -- he has bigger plans. So he'll pull back, tell her to crawl over to the bed on hands and knees, then have her get up on it and lie on her back for him, hands holding onto the rungs of the headboard, knees bent and spread wide so he can see every part of her. He'll stand by the bedside, running fingertips over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He'll spend plenty of time on her petal-pink nipples. He'll bend over her and use his mouth on them, sucking and biting gently until they're puckered tight and high and she's panting in helpless arousal.
By this point, he'll be able to smell her, the tart-sweet scent of her need, all of it for him. He won't touch her there, yet, where she most wants it. He'll take a step back, watch her trembling. It's all been leading up to this, and he'll pause for a moment to savor before he asks her. He'll say: Tell me the truth. Do you want me?
And because he's commanded it, she'll have no choice but to obey. To tell him the truth. And because it's his dream, damn it, his fantasy, her beautiful lips will part and she'll say Yes, god, yes even as her eyes show her shame.
Tell me. Tell me exactly what you want, he'll order.
She'll say I want you to make love to me in a voice broken with despair and desire. And he will.
He'll order her not to hide from him, not to hold back her true reactions. And then he'll take her apart, inch by inch, piece by piece, until she's writhing and screaming and begging him for release. She'll say it then, when she's too overwhelmed and too much under his control to even think about resisting. She'll say I love you, Tom and she'll say I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you, Tom, only you, always you.
He'll fuck her then, slow and deep and hard, with punishing strokes that make her cry out in combined pain and ecstasy. He'll have broken her by now -- she'll be his entirely, aching to do his bidding, without the need for him to use the implant. She'll repeat her litany of love and sorrow and he'll let it pour over him like a balm. And then -- then he'll come, deep inside of the warmth that he called home for so many years. And he'll lean over, as he's releasing into her, and he'll whisper in her ear. Softly. Tenderly. I don't forgive you. I don't love you. I never will.
Then he'll pull back, clean up, and tell her to stay on the bed, right in that position with her knees spread and his come slowly oozing out of her just-fucked flesh. And she'll look at him, hope kindled that he's going to come back, that she'll have another chance, that she can change his mind and make him love her, the way she did before. So she'll say I'll wait. I'll stay right here. For how long?
He'll say Until you die. And then he'll walk out, locking the door behind him.