Free Fall, CH 07 (Patreon)

Emil comes at me fist raised, fire in his eyes. He swings, I dodge. He swings again and I step out of the way. He repeats the attack, as if will alone will let him land a blow. I move, causing him to miss.

I lead him around and his determination shift to annoyance. A handful of more misses and it’s anger. He screams with each punch that miss me. The last swill I allow comes with a yell that might being George, the closest of my neighbor, looking. I sidestep, trip him and the yell becomes a shriek. I catch his arm before more than he’s falling registers and I pull him back.

“Let go of me!” he yelled, yanking his arm.  I let go. He steps back and raises his fists.

“Are you sure?” I ask, not getting into position.

“Yes, I will hit you.” He runs at me with a scream.

I smile. His box glows and another echoes it. Pride he won’t simply give up. Another box shimmers and I considered allowing him to connect, to show that his work does mean something.

I ignore it as I step aside. I won’t do pity, especially not with him. I will teach him the proper lessons he needs to learn.

“You are not a bull.” I casually sidestep another attempt 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” he yells, swinging frantically, blindly. 

“I am a bull.” I swing at him, and his eyes go wide in fear.

He manages to stop his advance, but trips in his panicked step back. He has good reflexes.

I open my hand, catch the back of his neck, attentive to any reaction in case it triggers a panic attack the way a hand on his back does. I lower him to the hard earth, then place a hand on his chest, holding him there.

“I am strong and massive. When my fist connects, bones break.”

“I can so that too.” Emil wriggles under my hand, trying to escape.

“Stop moving, Emil. The training is over. It’s time for a lesson.”

“No, I can do it.” He punches my arm.

“All you’re doing is hurting yourself. You are not a bull.”

“”I know I’m small, okay?” he snaps, anger covering the hurt. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“That is not what I am doing.” I silence the pity again. “I am trying to make you understand that you’re going about the fight in the wrong way.”

“You said to hit you,” he replies, the anger honest this time. “That’s what I tried to do.” He stops hitting me as exhaustion sets in. I don’t let go of him.

“You came at me like a charging bull.”

“What else did you want me to do?”

“Use your size.”

“I don’t have any!”

“Emil, being small is not a flaw. It is something to use to your advantage.”

“How?” exasperation is as close to anger his exhaustion lets him reach.

“You aren’t only small, you look young.

The sigh he lets out is also filled with exasperation.

“That isn’t a flaw either. People, at least those who don’t suffer from those kind of mental deficiencies, aren’t wired to hit a child. Even your average thug will hesitate before striking you. That is time you can take advantage of. Once he does attack, his expectation will be that you are as week and they see you. They’ll expect fear. That is something else you can use. Fighting is about more than making your fist connect with your opponent. It’s about manipulating them into doing what you want.”

“I saw you fight,” he replies defiantly. “You waded in with your fists.”

“You’re ignoring that I gunned down as many of them as I could before the fight turned too close for that. But even if I hadn’t. I am a bull, Emil. I can wade in punching, because I can take any punch that lands while I obliterate them.”

“What am I supposed to do? Cower?”

“Will it make your opponent drop his guard?”

“Not you.”

I smile. “Not me. What about someone else? What about Bart?”

He snorts. “No way. He wants to punch me too much.”

“I thought you two were talking.” I let him go and offer him a hand.

He takes it and I pull him to his feet. “We were, but last weekend he was glaring daggers at me. I wish I knew what I keep doing to anger him like that.”

“You aren’t doing anything. Whatever it’s about, he’ll tell us when he’s ready. Until then, focus on your training.” I turn him and study his back. “I am about to brush your back,” I warn him and he tenses. I wait for him to loosen and nod before removing the stones and dirt that embedded themselves there. It’s good I held him in place. Once stone cut into his skill and he could have opened his back wriggling about. Most of what he’ll deal with are bruises.

“So, how am I supposed to fight?”

I lead him inside. “You have speed and agility on your side. Better yet, you’re clever. Don’t let a fight turn physical if you can avoid it. Or end it before it can start. That two by four you used against that thug was effective.”

“That’s because he didn’t see it coming.”

“Exactly.” I motion to the shower and turned the water on, while I take disinfectant from the cabinet. “Fighting is about winning, not about being fair. He comes at you with fists, take out a gun and shoot him down before he reaches you. He waits for you around the corner? Go around the block and strike him with a shovel in the back of the head. When he tells you how to come at him, disobey.”

As soon as the word is out of my mouth, his eyes go wide and he looks around in fear. He sees my form and backs to into the running shower, not noticing the water. He is no longer with me. I take a careful step in his direction and he raises his hands pleadingly.

“Please don’t hurt me.” He slides down the wall. “I’ll you do whatever you want to me.”

“I will never hurt you, Emil,” I say quietly. “I will never touch you like that.” I touch his arm to see if he is quicker in returning to himself and move my hand away at the flinch. I place the hand on the side of his head and wait until his breathing slowed. “Getting hurt in training is one thing, but I will never strike you in anger or because you disobeyed me. I am not Gregory. I will not abuse you.”

His arms are around my neck and his head in my chest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled over and over as he sobs. I hold him, offer what silent comfort I can.

When his crying ends he looks up at me. “You must thing I ‘m a baby for crying so much.”

“You are broken, like I am, like Bart is. But you’re broken in your own way. If it means you cry, then that all it means.”

“I wish I was like you.”

“No, you don’t,” I reply softly, helping him stand, then I wash him. I move slowly, warning him each time I have to touch his back to confirm he had no other cuts. The one he has doesn’t need sutures. Once I’m done, his eyes are clear and he smiles at me.

His box glows in response, and return the smile. I dry him, then send him to study. I wash, dry, then go to my workroom. Emil’s presence has disrupted my schedule and half my weapons still need to cleaned. Once that is done, I have to go over my supplies and order more pemmican.

Having Emil here means ordering it more often, as well as other supplies. I will have to make changes before it becomes a pattern someone might notice.

* * * * *

I stand in the woods, by the path as Bart drives his SUV to my house with the lights off. I see skin in the dash light. We will have a discussion about him arriving naked, but later. He park opposite where he did last weekend. He had been using that spot for the previous five visits, and expects I’ve grown accustomed to it. He surveys the house, then the woods around it.

Not once does he look in the wood next to where he parked, where I have moved to while he tried to find me everywhere else. He is better at planning his actions, but still only goes with what he has experienced before.

The door is silent as he opens it. He steps out and I lick my lips at his silhouette in the moonlight. Anticipation as made me hard. Tonight isn’t about fighting him. Tonight is about having him.

I burst out of the wood as he takes the first careful step toward the house. He gets over his surprise quickly and thinks he’s ready to fight me, but I’m already on him. I shove him against the side of the SUV and kiss him hard. He tries to push me away. He’s become used to having to earn the sex. I press harder against him, shove my erection against his. I force my town in his mouth. I hold his head in place and mash my lips against his.

He relents, and I let go of his lips, leaning to his ear to whisper. “Don’t fight me.” The response if fleeting enough someone else would miss it. The tension, the desire to defy me, to make me angry. For anger to be the reason for his pleasure. Then it’s gone and he melts against me.

I turn him and push him against the SUV again. I lick the back of his neck, feeling the scars against my tongue. I know the map of his back by heart. Each scar he acquired over the years; the ones I added. It’s a map of a life lived in defiance of those who would see him wither away. 

I lick down along them, reach his ass and bury my tongue in the cleft. He gasps as I press against his hole, then moan. I lick and press for as long as I can hold my breath. When I move away, his skin is covered with goosebumps.

I move up and lean against his, my cock between his cheeks as I lick his ear. I thrust slowly and feel resistance. My spit doesn’t make for great lube, but I don’t care.

“This will hurt,” I whisper, and he moans before my cock even touches his hole. “I want to hear it.” I jab and Bart gasps. As he breathes in I thrust again and he curses. I push harder and he tenses; he lets out a cry. I force my way in and he screams.

In the echo, and fully in, I rest against him. He’s already sweating. I nibble on the ear, reach down and grasp his leaking cock. He enjoys this. I stroke him.

“Don’t,” he whimpers. “You haven’t—”

“I will,” I whisper. “My will, not yours. I will take what I want. And what I want is to hear your pleasure.” I move my hand up and down his stiff and slick cock. He isn’t so broken that he need the pain to feel pleasure. It’s only an added note to the harmony when I give it to him. He tenses around my cock, then relaxes and moans needily.

I pause the stroking when his ass tighten again, when I can feel his tension climbing too high. I massage his balls while he catches his breath, tease the hair on them. At times I squeeze them too tight and the moans and gasps turn to cries of pain.

I have my other arm around his stomach, holding him as I stoke his cock again. His box blinds me as he squirms, moans, groans, demands more. I tighten my grip on his cock and I move it up and down. He calls my names, begs me to fuck him. I hold him still when he tries to rock on my cock and continue to jerk him off. He whines at the denial, then pleasure makes him moan again. 

They distort my name as his ass squeezed my cock and he screams. His cock pulses in my hand, cum flows over my fingers. I kiss the back of his neck.

Once his panting turns to breathing I raise my hand to his mouth and, and he licks it without prompting. I moan at the eagerness with which he cleans his cum off it. My cock twitches and he shudders in reaction.

I take hold of his hips once my hand is clean, and pull out slowly. I slam my cock in and Bart’s gasp is pained. I do it again, harder. I fuck him hard, then stop with only the tip of my cock against his hole, feeling him tense at the expected thrust.

I run a hand down his thigh and wait him out. He relaxes, and immediately tenses in expectation I will take advantage of the moment. It happens three more times before he’s out of energy to stress about it. I do not move. Half a minute later he turns his head, opening his mouth and I slam in, hard.

His eyes go wide as the words turn into a scream. I keep fucking him hard. In his voice starts to turn raw I let out a grunt, but force myself to keep moving; to fuck him through my orgasm. I only manage a couple of thrust to his fraying scream. Then I’m still, inside him. He shudders against me as he grows quiet.

I love how vocal he can be under the right conditions.

* * * * *

I look up from the information Asyr sent me on Juan Manuel Fernan as the company he uses as the front for his drug trafficking. They have not found evidence the human trafficking takes place through that company yet.

Emil and Bart are sparring. Bart is a better fit for Emil as he relies more on agility and cunning than I do.

Asyr has found links between Fernan and gangs on the US side of the border, which could explain how he was able to lend men to Gregory. As Victor Barstone, I contacted Detective Moya again to ask about those gangs, using the angle of trying to find a link between Kieth Riddle, who he believes his hiding in Seattle and those. Little useful come of those questions. A visit to Phoenix might be required.

Emil cries out in pain and I’m standing before I realize it. I look out the window.

Emil is on the ground, curled up in a ball. Bart is agitated, confused, worried, and afraid.

I am concerned and angry. Bart knows how fragile Emil still is. He looked in my direction, but can’t see me watching. I see no indication in his expression this happened because he let his anger out on Emil.

He approaches Emil carefully, saying something I don’t make out, but Emil isn’t reacting well to it. I bite back the snarl and am in the process of moving away from the window to the door when Emil straightens and scissors Bart’s legs out from under him. I watch as he jumps to his feet and pummels Bart.

Bart quickly reverses the situation, the box containing pride is loud as it echoes the glow of Emil’s box, and I smile.

* * * * *

I nip at the back of Barts neck to wake him.

He mumbles a protest.

If he’d rather not be awake for this, it’s his choice.

He’s still slick from last night’s training session and he moans as I push into him, then presses back. He wakes as I fuck him slowly, begging to go faster, be harsher.

When I’m done, I hold him against me, kissing the crook of his neck. I will never let go of him.

* * * * *

Bart looks at the Gerber LMF in my hand, the pommel offered to him. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“You can’t let the music control you.” I adopt his language because it’s the only thing he responds to when it comes to this. I already explained it’s nothing more than a form of psychosis he doesn’t need to play into, but he’s lived with it for too long. “That means being able to hold a knife and not moving to it.”

“I can’t—”

“Bart—” I barely manage not to bite out his name. The blind acceptance triggers boxes that never lead to pleasant outcomes. “Bart, you aren’t its slave. You are not one’s slave. Especially not mine,” I add at his raised eyebrow. I tried to find a word for what he is to me, but if it exist, I don’t know it.

He breathes slowly and his hand trembles as he reaches for it. “If you’re wrong…” he trails off.

“I’ve demonstrated I can stop you.”

He nods, but the uncertainty is clear on his face. His closes his hand on the pommer and sways a little.

I don’t let go of the blade. “Do you trust me, Bart?”

“Of course.” He’s distracted, but trying to pay attention to me.

“Enough to do what I tell you, instead of what the music does?”

“That’s not about trust and you know it.” He’s tried to explain the music to me, and my refusal to accept it as the force he believes it to be is beyond irritating to him. “It’s not like I want to listen to it.”

“Can you hear it now?” the question is perfunctory and the looks he gives shows he knows it.

“I can’t do much while you’re holding it.”

“Isn’t the music telling you to pull it out of my hand?”

“Sure, but I know I can’t. You’re not even holding it with the blade facing your palm so I can try to cut you with it.”

“Then you don’t have to blindly do what the music demands.”

He hesitates. “I guess, but you don’t understand how—”

“That doesn’t matter. You just have to do what I tell you , instead of what the music says.”

He swallows. “I’ll try.”

“Close your eyes.”

Without me to focus on, the swaying increases. An outsider would think he’s unsteady on is feet, but there’s a rhythm to the motion. He doesn’t call it music for nothing. It had a melody, supporting instruments, a base rhythm. That is what he is moving to.

I let go of the Gerber and his hand moves in a defensive position, point aimed at me. I take a silent step sideways and he moves with me. His situational awareness is amazing. He’s done the same thing while blind folded.

“What does the music want you to do?”

“Kill you.”

“Why aren’t you doing it?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Does the music care?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

When he had the blindfold on, I made the mistake of simply telling him not to listen to it, and that led to an argument about control and freewill.

“Is the music telling you to wait until I give you an opening?”

“No, it just wants you dead. It wants everyone dead.”

“Then it hasn’t taken over your mind.”

“Of course not,” he says, chuckling.

“Then you have some control.” Bart’s main problem is his belief he had no control once the music starts.

“I guess so.” The uncertainty make it almost a question, even while demonstrating it’s veracity.

“Put your knife hand behind your back.” I put mine behind me as he does so. “Good. This is going to be a fight where we use all of out body, except our right hand.”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

“I want you to ignore the music, Bart. Forget you’re holding a knife. Think of it as having your hand behind your back.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. If you have some control, you can take more control.”

His mouth is a tight line. As with all discussion about this, he won’t admit his actions are his own. That the desire to kill is his. Until he accepts that, I doubt he’ll take control. 

This time, he doesn’t protest, but nods at me.

I attack him.

* * * * *

We break apart, panting, and circle each other. I have a handful of shallow cuts on my arms from the times Bart couldn’t keep himself from using the Gerber. These are the extent of what he could do to me, but it hasn’t increased his confidence.

His arm twitched with the desire to use the knife, but he strikes with his left hand, then his shoulders and feet. Bart’s preferred styles make good use of his legs. My strength is almost entirely in my upper body.

He comes at me again, elbow hight, but it’s a feint and I dodge the knee, bend, hook my shoulder in his stomach and straighten. He flies over me and I watch his hard cock pass before my face.

I turn as he lands. He uses both hand to push himself up and he hesitates, but places his knife hand behind his back. Good.

He looks me over, licks his lips.

I’m as excited as he is. This has gone on for two hours and it will end soon. I will have him on the ground, screams and take my—

A cry comes from the house and I run. It’s fulled with fear. I hear the knife plant itself in the door frame as I enter.

Emil is in a corner of the living room. The laptop in the opposing one. The screen is down so I can’t tell what triggered him.

It doesn’t matter.

I sit next to him and place a hand on his head. He climbs on my lap without realizing it, and I wrap my arms around him. He shakes and the words coming from him at incoherent, but he settles down. When his babbling ends, he starts crying.

When it passes, and he confirms that he is better, I carry him to his bedroom and lay him on the bed. I kiss his forehead and leave him to sleep.

Outside, Bart paces, anger radiating off him. 

I pull the knife out of the door frame as I pass it.

“Don’t even think of handing that to me,” he snarls. “Because I am going to kill you with it.” I watch him. 

“Why?” The only time has as directed this kind of anger at me was when he found me after I left to rescue Emil. “You know I was just comforting Emil.”

“Comforting him? You fucking expect me to believe that’s what you’ve been doing for the last thirty minutes? That’s why you’re soft now?”

“What are you implying?” I ask, box causing a dark light show.

“Oh, I am not fucking implying anything. I want to know why you went and fucked him instead of me.”

“I did not have sex with him.” I state, my voice hard.

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have sex with him?”

“If that’s what Emil needed to get better, I would, but he was raped. I would never hurt him that way.”

He laughs. “Oh right. Because you so fucking don’t like hurting anyone. You don’t like hurting me, right?” he asked mockingly.

I shove him hard and the knife unintentionally cuts him, but it’s the tree he hits hard that makes him cry out in pain, makes his cock twitch.

“Do not put how I treat you solely on me. You want the pain. You crave it. You couldn’t come back to me if I didn’t inflict it.”

“Oh, it’s all for me then? You don’t get off on it? You don’t get hard at the idea of hearing me cry out? You cock didn’t just bounce when the branch did this to me?” he turns to show me the bloody scrape on his back.

“I do.” He know I enjoy causing him pain. It’s why what we have works. “But I do not inflict pain like this on those who aren’t ready to accept it. I would never treat you this way if you didn’t enjoy it.”

He stares at me in confusion. “Are you saying that if I didn’t like the pain, you’d go to someone else? You’d go hurt and fuck someone other than me?”

“Yes. I would never—”

“Fuck you!” He storms by me.

“Bart,” I call after him, trying to understand his reaction.

“Fuck you!” he repeats. “You go and fuck Emil for all I care!”

“Bart!”

His box leaks light and trembles. Others respond to it, but in a way that leaves me confused. He gives me the finger before getting in the SUV and sends gravel flying as he barrels away.

The dust settles as I try to understand what, in what I said, caused this. I understand his anger at the interruption, but we would have picked up where we left. We would have worked up to a frenzy again and moved one to what we both wanted.

Instead he drives off.

I settle his box with difficult, then regain control of the others. I head inside. If he isn’t here, then I have things to get back to.

Sounds of motion draw me to Emil’s room. I finds him dressed, putting clothes in a backpack.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing, what does it look like?” There’s pain and a hint of anger in his voice.

“Why?”

“I’m leaving.”

“No.”

He whirls on me. “You don’t get to tell me what to do! You don’t own me!”

“I don’t, but I want to know why you think you need to leave.”

“Bart doesn’t want me here,” he replies, wiping at his eyes. “I tried to get him to like me, but he hates me. I don’t want to get between the two of you.” He shoves more clothing in the pack.”

“Emil.” I touch his shoulder and he flinches. “Bart doesn’t hate you.”

He snorts. “Shows what you know.” His voice is broken by a sob.

“He doesn’t hate you.” When I rest my hand on his shoulder he doesn’t pull away. He shakes, crying silently. I pull him to me and he buries his face in my chest.

“No one wants me. I don’t belong anywhere.”

I kiss the top of his head. “You belong here, with me.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t think I can survive on my own.”

“You managed it for ten years. I know you can. I want you to say because I care for you.”

“What about Bart?”

I sigh. “I don’t know what this was about, but it’s between me and him; not you. He’ll calm down. When he’s here next weekend, we’ll resolve it.”

“What id he says you have to choose between me or him?”

“He won’t.”

“How can you know?”

“Because this isn’t about you. You’re just a convenient excuse for him to use.”

I just wish I understood what Bart is trying to tell me through his anger at you.