Toxic Taicho

You know what you look like. An apparition framed by firelight.

You still have on your wide-brimmed hat and long leather coat. Your bag is in front of the bedroom door, to stop his escape. Your crossbow is now settled on your lap, pointing at him, but not in a directly threatening way.

Victor swallows thickly. He’s shirtless and in need of a good wash. He’s clean-shaven, though, and his sideburns are neatly trimmed under that mass of dark, curly hair. In fact, that’s how you’d tracked him down. He’d finally taken himself to the nearest town for a haircut and to pick up his mail.

“Who are you?” His voice trembles a bit. “Have you come to kill me? Has the creature sent you?”

“No, your creature can’t compel people to do things. Though, I did come to kill you. Now, I’m not so sure. You may call me Van Helsing. You wrote me some months ago,” you say.

Realization dawns on his face. There’s a hard edge to his lips. “If you’d come to my aid when I asked, then the world would have suffered much less.”

“I’m not an assassin,” you tell him. “I’m a monster hunter and doctor by trade.”

“Then what are you doing here?” He sits up in bed, impatient. “You should be after the creature, not its creator.”

“Ah Victor, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re both monsters to me.”

From the grim look on his face, you can see he’s arrived at the same conclusion.

Victor had fruitlessly searched for his creature for more than a year now. Yes, you’d marked the monster for death, but your questions would have to be answered first.

“You never told me how you got your letters to reach me directly,” you say. “I keep no permanent residence.”

Victor reaches for his bedside and takes a gulp of water from the glass that sits there. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I read old texts. Your family name comes up more than once or twice in supernatural accounts. Having a strange situation of my own, I wondered if anyone in your family line was still carrying the Van Helsing tradition. To my happiness, I found you. Yet, you’ve not done a thing to rid the world of this evil.”

“I’d be careful about accusing anyone of letting evil out into the world. You don’t want to cast that stone first,” you remind him. “I learned my trades from my father. He wasn’t a hunter like me, but a thinker. He said that killing without asking questions turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth. So, Victor. I’ll ask what I wish. Your answers might save your life.”

“I was condemned long before you came along,” he says bitterly.

“You can save the dramatic melancholy,” you say dryly. “It doesn’t interest me. I want the truth.”

Your harsh words seem to help Victor focus. He pushes the hair away from his forehead, revealing a face almost too handsome for words. It’s obvious he’s meant to be a brooding genius, but a genius nonetheless. His big, brown eyes are framed with long lashes. He takes a heavy breath, the muscles in his chest and shoulders drawing your gaze.

“You sound,” he says slowly, “as if you’re after my side of the story. Which means, perhaps you’ve heard the other one first.”

“Perhaps,” you concede.

He scoffs. “Unreal. It’s a monster.”

“Your creature thinks and reasons. What it did was wrong, but it knew no better. Now, he does, and he lives with his guilt, as do you,” you tell him.

“I don’t care about that wretch. The innocents he’s killed don’t care either. They’re too dead to feel.”

“He says he wasn’t the only one to kill innocent people, and that you condemned him to loneliness. You wouldn’t make him a companion.” You take off your hat and rest it on the bed, settling in a bit more. Your hair is pulled back, but you make sure it falls neatly anyway.

Victor eyes you warily. “No, I won’t be repeating my experiment.”

“Good,” you say, relieved you don’t have to kill him right away.

You weigh the pros and cons in your mind, then set aside your crossbow. You’re sure you could take Victor in a fight, but you’re just as sure he won’t try anything. He’s a curious mix of weakness and strength.

“Do you have any breakfast in this hovel?” you ask him.

He raises an eyebrow skyward. “It’s a stone mansion on the Scottish seaside.”

“It’s a damned mess, as is its owner.”

“Your point taken,” he concedes. “Yes, the kitchen is stocked weekly.”

“Then make yourself decent and meet me downstairs.” You leave the bed, taking your things with you. “I’ll not be killing you, I think. So, we have much to discuss.”

“What of the creature?” There’s a desperate edge to Victor’s words.

You turn back to him. “I can’t do anything about what the creature’s already done, but he only has one life to take now. Yours. The truth is, the creature overpowered me and ran off. I think, soon, he’ll come for you. Which is why I’m here.”

*****

You throw some butter on bread and call it breakfast, but you do put the kettle on.

Victor comes down, only a half-step more presentable than he’d been in bed. He has on black pants and suspenders. His oversized white shirt is hopelessly wrinkled. He finishes buttoning it as he sits down at the kitchen table.

“How long have you been here like this?” you ask, pouring him a cup of tea.

He pushes his hair back, which seems like an exercise in futility. The curly mane can’t be neatened.

“Weeks, maybe more,” he says, pouring so much milk into his tea that you wonder why you’d bothered brewing it at all. “I last saw the wretch near my family home in Switzerland.”

“My condolences on your recent losses,” you say softly.

“Sympathy from a vampire hunter?” Victor says with a certain sharpness in his eyes.

“Yes. It isn’t my fault that you feel you don’t deserve it. Maybe you don’t. Here, eat something.”

You push the plate of bread toward him and at first he looks nauseated. You push it closer to him and finally, he eats.

“You’re not wrong. Usually, I don’t have a lot of feeling in my work, other than anger,” you say, rising to make yourself a plate. “Your creature is very different than the vampires the first Van Helsing in my line fought against.”

Victor eats with relish. It makes you surprisingly happy to take care of him. He seems useless on his own, which is strange, considering he’s kept to himself most of his life.

It’s odd to you, how a man so obviously in need of a firm hand in charge of him, had the guts to believe himself capable of fathering in any capacity, even a twisted one.

You pour him more tea, a hefty dollop of milk.

“Here, have a second cup,” you say, not unkindly, but with more confidence in your voice.

Like an obedient puppy, Victor raises the cup to his lips and drinks deeply.

Interesting.

Being in the business of hunting immortals, you know what it looks like when a human is under its influence. Victor is, of course, his own man, but that weakness you’d noticed earlier, it’s a submission to your strong presence.

“My family has been hunting monsters for generations. Much longer than the books say,” you tell Victor. “It takes patience, and study. I’ll stay here with you until the creature comes. You can tell me more about your work.”

“If you think it best.” He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but as you’d thought, he doesn’t argue with your statements. “Are you a scientist?”

You untie your boots so you can rest your feet up on one of the other chairs. “No, but I’m a doctor. Nothing as specialized as what you do, but I'll understand the basics of how this all happened. Not tonight. I’m so tired I feel dead on my feet.”

Victor sets his cup of tea in front of you.

You push it back. “Thank you, but it’s too milky.”

He gets up, licking butter from his thumb, and pours you a second cup. He sets it in your hands.

“You seem the type to work harder than most men,” Victor says.

You’re used to prodding questions about femininity and ladyship, given your profession.

“Most women do,” you say simply, “but most women aren’t granted access to higher learning, let alone the marksmanship and survival training my father gave me. Nevertheless, Baron Frankenstein, underneath these pants and dirty face, I’m a lady.”

“I’m sure you’re a very pretty one,” he says, then looks away, embarrassed.

Obviously he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Rather than obnoxious, you find it charming.

You tilt your head to study him. “I am pretty, under all of this. You’re kind of pretty yourself. As is your creature.”

His face goes from joy to misery in about two seconds. He finishes his tea, setting the cup aside moodily.

“I think I’d rather you kill me than torment me.” He pushes back from the table. “I’m going back upstairs.”

“Sit down,” you say firmly.

Victor complies immediately.

“Good boy,” you say.

He shifts uncomfortably under your steady gaze. You see him in a new light. It’s been awhile since you’ve been with anyone. You can tell by Victor’s small expressions and how his fingertips brushed against yours, he’s interested.

“Maybe you could make yourself useful,” you say.

Victor’s big eyes look at you as if he’d do anything. You’re sure he doesn’t do it intentionally. He’s still too proud. You can just imagine him twitching in his pants at the thought, but these things have to be gone about slowly.

“Rub my feet.” You move them from the empty chair to Victor’s lap.

You set them down with a bit of force.

“Ooof,” Victor breathes out, but his hands immediately surround your feet.

He moves them awkwardly at first, but gets the hang of it after a minute.

“I’ve never done this in my life,” he says, the barest hint of offense in his tone.

“Maybe you should’ve sold foot rubs instead of bartering with the hangman for bodies. It certainly would’ve been more honest work.” You take another sip of tea.

Victor gives you a grim smile. “You kill for a living, what do you know about honest work?”

Your eyes narrow. “I kill for the good of humanity. A cause you never gave a thought to, and not that you would know, but I haven’t killed anything in at least three days. So, don’t try my patience because I will maim your other leg and not lose a wink of sleep.”

That shuts him up.

Actually, his actions speak louder than words.

He pouts.

It should look stupid. Ridiculous.

It does.

But also, you feel, a little…

With a sigh, you nudge your toes at his hand.

“Victor,” you say, “I didn’t mean that.”

He half shrugs, the curls on his forehead fluttering as he shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I deserve nothing less. You know what I’ve done.”

He keeps massaging your feet. He has good hands, which you’d expected of a surgeon. Strong too. A man who hauled his own bodies around for his little experiments.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” he says quietly, “I did start out thinking about humanity. I was trying to defeat death. It all got jumbled up, though, in my own ego and ambition. It was only a matter of time before I was humbled.”

Cautiously, you try to see where his inclinations might lie.

“Did you like that? Being humbled?” you ask, a dusky whisper in the quiet kitchen.

His hands stop moving on your feet. “No.”

Disappointment simmers in your stomach.

“I didn’t like it because it wasn’t enough of a punishment,” Victor says. “I think I deserved, perhaps, even more.”

His big, brown eyes flick to yours, the meaning clear.

You take your feet off of his lap. “Can you crawl with that false leg?”

“I’ve never tried,” he says thoughtfully.

You stand. “Follow me.”

Without looking backward you leave the room. You walk to the staircase and sit to wait for him. You hear the scraping of a chair, an awkward shuffle.

Victor crawls out of the kitchen on his hands and knees, head bent in concentration and deference. You let him take his time.

He starts to crawl up next to you, but you point to the ground near your feet.

“That’s where you belong. Sit,” you say.

Victor ungracefully flops down onto the wooden floor. He looks back at the kitchen and then to you. He’s the type to want congratulations for every little thing. A habit you’re happy to break him of. Spoiled man.

You lean back, resting your elbows on the stairs behind you. “If you want me to praise you for that, you’ll be waiting an eternity. Tell me, how is your cunnilingus?”

“Ah,” his handsome brow furrows, “I don’t know the term, but I know Latin. So, I can understand the meaning.”

“Then, how is your tongue? Or are you one of those selfish pigs who’s never bothered to do a good turn for a woman?”

“I have done.” He scratches his shoulder. “Perhaps only once or twice.”

“Typical,” you mutter. He’s in much worse condition than you’d thought, if he didn’t know the pleasure one could gain from pleasuring others. “Would you like to try again now, or should we go to our respective beds and keep things strictly business?”

He nods enthusiastically. “I’m an excellent student. Let me try.”

“Good,” you smile and have the pleasure of seeing Victor blossom under that one, simple word from you.

He crawls forward and you gather your skirt up.

“I do think those silly sideburns of yours will make darling handles for when I grind against your face,” you say sweetly.

*****

You don’t keep Victor as a pet. He’s a human man. He just needs training.

You like that he’s incredibly intelligent and well-spoken. He’s certainly handsome enough to tempt the angels themselves to bed. It’s literally everything else about him that needs work.

“Victor, what did I say about asking me to come?” you ask.

“Not to. That you would tell me when I could,” he says, almost whining, “but my need was too great.”

“You spoke out of turn. You know the rules. Across my lap.” You arrange yourself on the edge of the bed so you both can be comfortable. “And bring me your gloves. The red ones.”

“They’re leather,” Victor blinks at you. “That will hurt.”

You smile. “That’s the point.”

The red gloves fit you like a dream. The leather softens as they warm. By the time Victor’s situated, they feel comfortable. You give him an experimental swat and he jumps in your lap. Another, and the fat of his beautiful ass jiggles temptingly.

You could get used to this.

The leather gloves are painful for him. His cheeks are as red as they are. To his credit, he doesn’t complain. His hands hold tightly to the blanket, though, and he grits his teeth as he counts. His curly hair bounces every time you spank him.

His skin is flushed and gorgeous by twenty swats. You rub his skin soothingly.

“You did very well,” you tell him.

You hear a tremor in his voice, and relief. “Thank you.”

You click your tongue a few times. “I’ve been very harsh on you, I think. You’re new to this after all. I’m going to let you come,” you tell him, your tone of voice indicating how gracious it is of you.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” he says, breathing out heavily.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask as he squirms in your lap. “You’re going to come right here.”

Victor cranes his neck around and is greeted by your smug smile.

“I’m face down. How?” he asks, puzzled.

You take one of your red-gloved fingers and reach down to tap his supple lips.

“Wet these for me. Just the two,” you say.

His lips part and as you push inside. His mouth fills with saliva, warming and moistening the material that had, only moments ago, stung him so badly.

“I don fffink tho,” he says around your fingers. “Mah dear. Wha do da finners gah?”

You yank the gloved digits out of his mouth. “What was that, Victor?”

He swallows, composing himself. “My dear, where do the fingers go?”

The skeptical look on his face tells you that it’s more of a rhetorical question at this point.

You laugh. “Oh. I think you know. Don’t worry. You’ll come so hard you’ll see stars. I’ll make sure of it.”

You boop his nose with your wet fingers and then, adding a bit of lubricant from the vial by the bed, you start teasing his hole. The fingers of your other hand gently push his flesh aside so you can get better purchase.

You sense the hesitation in him, but his willingness to try is a good sign.

All you do is rub the outside to start with, to ease him into the idea.

“Is this okay, Victor?” you ask. “I assume you’ve never had anything here before?”

“Most assuredly not,” he says. The corded muscles of his back are tense.

“Are you opposed?” Your fingers stop moving.

He sighs quietly. “I feel that I should be opposed, but that’s not the same thing.”

“You’ll like it,” you assure him, not teasing anymore. “If it’s all too much, tell me and I promise to stop.”

“Well, you’ve gotten me to do all sorts of new things.” He’s quiet for a moment before he adds, “I trust you.”

Simple words, but they mean the world.

The tip of your middle finger enters him. He freezes, but smart man that he is, he relaxes for you. You give him more almost immediately, knowing once he feels you inside of him, he’ll be begging you to continue. Experimentally, you rub your finger against his inner wall, finding the spot you were looking for. You circle it, hearing Victor moan quietly.

The second finger goes in easier and you feel how much he enjoys it. He practically melts. His hands clench at the blankets for entirely different reasons than the spanking. You massage him, Victor groaning and pushing back on you.

“Oh God,” he whimpers, “I-I-“

“Let it happen.” You massage him faster. “It’s an orgasm like you’ve never had before.”

“I’m coming. I can feel it all over.” He moans, his body shaking in your lap.

His hole clenches and pulses around your fingers. It’s the most arousing sight you’ve ever seen. His ass rises and falls beautifully. Sweat beads on his lower back, like fresh dew on morning grass.

It goes on and on. You massage him through it and beyond, wanting to wring every drop of pleasure from him that you can. He could take more than just two fingers, but this time is for him.

He whimpers, finally trying to pull away a bit.

“Is it too much?” you coo at him.

“Yes,” he almost sobs.

You pull out immediately, cleaning your gloved fingers with a cloth while Victor tentatively crawls out of your lap and onto the bed. His hand stays on your thigh, though, as if he can’t stand to break physical contact with you.

Lying down by him, he curls against you like shelter in a storm. You give him a squeeze and then start to take off his gloves.

He lays his hands on yours. “No, leave them on.”

You brush the sweaty, curly locks away from his forehead.

Victor kisses your neck and chest. You curl your fingers into his hair, hearing the creak of the leather as you do. Open-mouthed, he kisses his way down your body.

“Please,” he whispers against your cunt, “can I- let me lick you.”

You yank his head up gently. “You were so good for me. You may, but jerk yourself off while you do.”

With trembling lips, he starts kissing at your folds. The slick sound of his hand on his cock is a perfect backdrop.

He’s getting better at oral. He gets a little too desperate sometimes, but that’s to be expected from him. You don’t want to train that out of him. It’s sweet, really.

As his tongue finds its way inside of you, the tip of his nose rubbing at your clit, making your back arch and your grasp tighten in his hair, you realize that this isn’t a temporary distraction. Not a fun escapade. No, this man belongs with you, to you.

He shouldn’t fit into your life, but as he’d said earlier, ‘shouldn’t’ isn’t ‘no.’ You’re not about to let him go, ever.

*****

You tap your foot impatiently on the clean, wooden floor. “You’re a surgeon, which means you’ve an excellent stitching hand. All I’m asking for are a few simple modifications.”

Victor glowers. “This isn’t a damn atelier, dear. It’s a place of scientific endeavors.”

He has on clean clothes and a vest, a white apron tied haphazardly around his waist. Without any encouragement from you, he’s been cleaning the top floor of the house, muttering about turning it into a lab. He leans heavily on the broom he’d been using to sweep.

He sighs, runs a hand through his messy hair. “Fine. But only this one time.”

You both know it won’t be. You can’t sew for shit and you need more pockets and loops for your various weapons and talismans. Victor’s skill as a surgeon makes him the perfect choice to alter clothing.

With a smile, you give him a hug. “Speaking of science, I would like to ask you something about anatomy.”

He raises a dark brow playfully. “Is this about our special project? I told you it will take time, but I’m as impatient as you are.”

Victor’s been designing belts and contraptions, some way to affix an artificial cock to your body. He wants to be fucked and you, ever the generous caretaker, would love nothing more than to bend him over and ruin his delicious backside.

“No, it’s about a creature I ran into once. I’m still hunting it, but it’s gone dormant for a year or so.” You take out your notebook and show him.

You’re not as good an artist as he is. It’s a crude sketch and measurement diagram of a huge, scaly beast. Victor takes the book eagerly.

“What in the world is it?” he asks, turning it this way and that.

“No idea,” you say, watching Victor pace around and study your notes. “You’re much more knowledgeable about the physicality of the body. It tends to eat the middle bits of its victims. I thought it wanted the adrenal glands, but it’s torn apart so many women. Their throats, their groins. I’m not sure anymore.”

Victor’s gaze snaps to yours. “Only women?”

“Well, it is a male creature.”

“It might not have to do with gender, but with anatomy. Do you know anything about the lymphatic system?”

You shake your head. “Tell me.”

*****

You and Victor christen the laboratory the next week. The large, clean metal table that Victor fabricated for working on samples you bring him makes an excellent surface for him to bend over onto. Namely, also christening the strap he’s designed.

His cries of pleasure and your moans bounce and echo in the space, filling it as perfectly as you fit into him.

Afterward, he gets on his knees and licks it clean, ready for the next time.

It’s bittersweet, as you’ll be gone for a week or so. Using the knowledge Victor shared, you think you know how to track the beast that’s eluded you for months.

You expect Victor will have the lab entirely set up when you return. His purpose now is to help with your work. He’ll be very good at it, you can tell. You don’t lack for strange things to show him, and his curiosity knows no bounds.

On your way through the little town, you drop a letter at the mail coach. It’s bound for the cold, eastern part of Europe. While it’s true the creature had escaped you, you hadn’t told Victor that you know the spot it now calls home.

You hope Victor’s creature will meet with you.

Your bargain is simple. You’ll not hunt Victor’s creature, as long as Victor himself stays safe.

The creature and you had spoken at length when you’d met all those months ago, and he’d admired your work, making the world safer. He was a tortured soul, but not unreasonable.

You think the creature will be pleased at his maker’s new endeavors at your side.

More than that, with you keeping a firm hand on him, Victor won’t be led astray again.

Victor’s stubborn and selfish, but tamed by your hands. Hands sometimes clad in red, leather gloves.

Santiago wakes up without opening his eyes. He stretches his arm across the cool, smooth sheets. It must be morning. Birds make faint racket outside the window, muffled only slightly by the curtains he had pulled shut last night. They didn't do much to block out the early sunlight, either. It fell in diagonal orange stripes across the floor and crept over the foot of the bed. If he had moved his bare leg two inches, he might have felt the warmth.

He has the bed to himself. It makes for a good night's sleep but in the back of his brain he feels the tickle of loneliness. Maybe not loneliness. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to make plans or answer questions or think too hard. He wanted a body to be there when he reached across the bed. One he could pull to his chest. One who he could push his hips up against. One who would know what to do with this nagging feeling that he is slowly aware of. A shape under the sheets.

Pope sleeps naked, freshly showered and warm and dry the hotel bedding feels good on his skin. Smooth sateen or bamboo or whatever they use. He rolls to his belly. Face down in a bunched up pillow, he concentrates on bearing his weight on his hips.

Anyone walking by could peek in and see how the covers have slipped to the floor and eft his fully exposed in the middle of his bed at 8am. He wouldn't care if they did. What's he got to hide? A strong, broad back, muscular biceps? A tight, round ass that more than once he's been told that other people would kill to have? Let them look. He hoped they did. Maybe they'd want to come in and slide between him and this mattress.

A wet spot formed from dribbling pre-cum. He felt it when he rolled to is back again. He ignored it and rubbed his chest. Ran his fingers through his soft black chest hair, grabbed at his own pec. He thought of the old girlfriend who used to touch him this way. His other hand drifted down to his belly, over his flanks, lighting up nerves along the way, flipping them like switches, sending signals to his cock, another drop of thick drool.

He ignores the throbbing mass reaching upward toward his belly button and runs his hands over his hipbones and the tops of his meaty thighs. His mind drifts. Back in time, back to the showers, the horseplay. Voices and laughter echoing off the steamy greenish tiles. The exuberant, unabashed nakedness of the guys flip flops, damp towels slung over shoulders, asses getting smacked hard, nipples pinched and pulled, arms around necks, hands around waists. The playfulness that disappears once you're in your thirties, not say nothing of your forties.

As he delicately dragged his fingertips down the thick ridge of his cock, he remembered how often he had jerked off in those showers. They all did it, of course. Each in their own shower stalls, walls between them only waist high. They stroked perfunctorily, eyes closed or soft focused on the wall. Usually. No mention was ever made of the times he and Frankie glanced at each other, elevator eyes making stops up and down the other's body, or the times the young men held eye contact until they came within seconds of each other.

Just something guys do. No big deal. Basic training could be lonely like that.

From his thighs his hand moved up to cup his balls, heavy, round and warm. His cock in his other hand, foreskin sliding back and forth playing peek-a-boo with his fat cock head. As he got closer his body tensed. In his mind's eye- a dark happy trail. A patchy beard. He never could grow a beard right.