Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2487947.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Mummy_Series, The_Mummy_Returns_(2001)
  Relationship:
      Alex_O'Connell/Imhotep
  Character:
      Alex_O'Connell, Imhotep_(The_Mummy)
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Ephebophilia, Mild_Nipple_Play, Anal_Sex, Mild_Inflation
      Kink, Feminization, Bondage, Master/Slave, Jewelry, PWP, Praise_Kink
  Series:
      Part 5 of Child_of_the_Enemy
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-21 Words: 4172
****** Dressed by your Glory ******
by Pakeha
Summary
     Imhotep takes full advantage of his prize, draped in gold and
     glittering jewels.
Notes
     Werecorgi asked for Alex in a dancer's outfit and Sheyeyt asked for
     him to be stuffed and plugged and I sort of halfway filled each
     request. I hope you enjoy it any which way.
     As always im picturing a late teenaged Alex.
They bring him artifacts of the past, relics of a golden age swallowed by time
and sand and the inexorable shift of power from one king to another. He is
impressed on occasion to see what has been salvaged. Objects of great
refinement and delicacy have been brought to him in nearly as fair a condition
as he might have expected to see in his own time. Beads may bear a few more
cracks for age, there may be new golden threads replacing strings long turned
to dust, but on the whole these ornaments are comfortingly familiar.
In particular, there is a collar.
It is composed of corals and turquoises and gold and was presented to him by a
lowly pawn in the first days of the this newest life. He had spared the
follower a rare half-smile, inclining his head in the barest angle of approval
while the man scrambled away, hands clasped before his bowed figure in
gratitude.
The piece was made of alternating sections of fine, layered bead work, and
large enameled gold panels which hung heavy and glittering over the wearer’s
chest. On either end of the breast piece was an elaborate gold scarab set with
turquoise and lapis wings, each insect holding in its mouth the end of the
string which was tied around the wearer’s neck.
All along the bottom of the piece dangled large, glass beads shaped like tear
drops. The cloudy glass was the colour of a misty dawn, the surface of each
bead worn so smooth as to feel nearly soft. Luxurious. Sensual.
Imhotep had always had a fondness for glass.
With a brief twist of an appreciative smile Imhotep reaches out runs his touch
over the row of beads, admiring the way they roll and glitter on top of Alex’s
skin.
The boy’s breath hitches as he looks down at the priest’s hands, unable to hold
back the impulsive twitch which besets his muscles when those calloused finger
tips roll the beads which sit just over his nipples, the flesh-warm baubles
bouncing as they skip over the pebbled peaks.
His prize looks so lovely in such fine adornment.
Making a shushing sound under his breath Imhotep tilts his head to the side
appraisingly and shifts his hand so his thumb rests over the bead nearest to
Alex’s right nipple, the rest of his hand cupping around the bulk of the boy’s
ribs. Steadily, deliberately, he presses down on the piece of smooth glass,
rolling the pressure from the base of his thumb to the tip, massaging the
sensitive bud.
Alex’s breath leaves him in a tight gasp, his eyelids sliding half shut.
“Sweet, child.” The priest murmurs, letting up on the pressure and flicking at
the bead with his thumb so it bounces over the nipple. Alex’s whole body jerks,
startled. His breath comes quicker.
“You’re learning it’s so much better when you don’t fight.”
With a last trace of his nails over the boy’s skin Imhotep draws back so he can
pick up his glass of wine once more, reclining across from the boy on his pile
of cushions and dark rugs, enjoying the gentle swaying of the train.
For a second Alex just pants, eyes glassy and unfocused, but the priest can see
the moment when his words register and the boy’s eyes narrow and he finds his
tongue again.
“Bullshit.” He grunts, not even trying to mask the shiver as he forces his body
to relax from his taut position, settling back into a pile of cushions of his
own. His legs are folded under him, somewhere between kneeling and a crouch,
but his shoulder blades are pressed against the rug-covered wall of their train
car, keeping him steady and giving him some respite from the position.
“I’m just biding my time.”
Imhotep knows the boy intends the words to be goading, but he can’t find it in
himself to rouse any irritation. He finds the boy too charming. Like a temple
cat who thinks he’s a lion.
He smiles and murmurs “Your continued fight only makes your inevitable
surrender all the sweeter.”
Putting his glass to his lips he tilts back the last swallow of wine, savoring
the dark, full flavor. Then he sets the glass aside, a top a crate full of
wonders he has yet to unpack.
He lets his thumb run over the lid of the crate speculatively for a moment
before simply turning to face his prize.
Alex sees those eyes burn with planning and promise and his stomach twists into
knots. He shifts uncomfortably under the weight of the elaborate collar,
refusing to show self consciousness about his otherwise nude form. It’s warm
enough in the train car that he is not uncomfortable, it is only the bareness
which sets his hair on end. The vulnerability, the constant openness to
perusal; It makes him feel like an object, or an animal, and underneath his new
ornament the old gold collar still encircles his throat, the long, fine chain
attached to it still snakes, glittering, across the space between him and his
captor.
The other end is coiled lovingly around Imhotep’s fingers.
Imhotep preens as he watches the boy’s eyes travel the length of the chain
between them, frustration a blunt and obvious color, but he no longer wrestles
with the metal. He no longer attempts to break it.
They are finding their stride and that is good. His prize is beginning to bend.
Lazily Imhotep begins to pull off his robe, setting down the chain just long
enough to pull his arms from the sleeves. He leaves himself even barer than
Alex, free of adornment, with a cock which is rising swiftly to the occasion.
When he relaxes back against the pillows he gathers the chain again in to his
fist and slowly begins to wrap it around his hand, the gold chiming as the
slack is consumed, the glittering thread rising up between them. In the moment
just before the line becomes taut Imhotep leans forward and draws Alex’s gaze
away from the chain which connects them.
“Come to me.” He murmurs. And he smiles.
Alex swallows.
Steadily, though he rises. He goes all the way to his feet though he would only
have needed to crawl forward a few feet to bring their bodies together.
For a long moment he stands still, body moving just slightly as it counteracts
the swaying of the train car. Dim lamplight pierces through the fine incense
smoke which perpetually fills the car, and paints the boy's body in dusky hues
of orange and gold. He is glorious, even as he looks down at Imhotep, his face
a storm of familiar frustrations and defiance. Imhotep keeps his eyes trained
on the boy’s face but the edges of his vision drink in the delight of all that
warm pale flesh. Exposed. Proud.
The moment stretches for a long time until Imhotep is tempted to lift the chain
in his hand and make it chime in gentle reminder, but the boy breaks first and
with a sigh he steps forward and lowers himself to sit astride the man’s
thighs.
It takes him more than a little effort to situate himself. His own boyishly
thin legs must spread wide to fit over his master’s, exposing the beginnings of
arousal plainly for the priest’s inspection, his balls hanging down heavy in
the space between Imhotep’s own slightly parted legs, his muscles tensing and
relaxing as the priest lowers his hands and begins to stroke up the tops of the
youth’s thighs.
“Good boy.” He praises and lowers his head to begin to suckle a spot high on
the boy’s throat above the collar, feeling the warmth of young blood rushing to
bruise and it’s so sweet it makes him ache.
“Not your boy, old man.” Alex scrapes out and Imhotep pauses for a breath
because the protest is new in word if not in tone, then he laughs against the
sweat and saliva that coats the skin beneath his lips and returns to his task.
The boy has at long last ceased denying that he takes any pleasure from their
couplings, not that Imhotep ever had any doubt. The boy’s ecstasy is his own
satisfaction, and he works pleasure out of the boy with the same heady
determination he has ever done anything else in his life. Anck su Namun has
teased him: she has said that the boy has bewitched him, that the boy owns him
through these acts.
The thought is amusing. Not because it is impossible, but because it gives the
O’Connell heir far too much credit.
Someday perhaps the boy will overcome his pride and learn of the real power he
could wield, but not today. He is too young, and he burns too bright.
Today the teenager simply rocks his hips forward, his cock rising to fullness
and grinding against Imhotep’s, his head tilted back and his eyes screwed shut
as he keeps tight reign on all his delightful, boyish groans and whimpers.
Imhotep smirks against his skin and adds teeth, a sharp bite which makes the
muscles in the boy’s shoulders and neck jump under his kiss.
His hands stroke up the boys thighs and around to cup his ass, kneading it
firmly before spreading the cheeks, not touching the teenager’s entrance yet
but simply exposing it. He sets his thumbs deep into the muscle, just before
the top of the pelvis and he expects the tight little gasp which flees Alex’s
lips, expects it and rejoices in it. He encourages the boy in his thrusts,
tugging him in closer, holding him tighter to his own body.
Between them the beads of the collar pinch and roll.
“Good, Alex.” He murmurs.
The boy falters.
Imhotep has no desire to draw back from the skin he is still lapping at, but he
knows if he did he did he would see shock on Alex's face, uncertainty.
He’s never called him by his name before. Not here. Not during these acts.
“Fuck-” The boy chokes out and starts to hump forward again, a little less
coordinated than before, a little more eager. His hands have come up to wrap
around Imhotep’s shoulders, holding on as tight as he dares, fingers worrying
at the dense muscle he finds there.
“Fuck, what is wrong with you?” Alex manages to grunt the question out between
thrusts and Imhotep laughs, pulling on the boy’s ass cheeks one more time
before letting go, sliding his hands up so he can grip the boy’s hip bones and
push him back on his thighs, removing all contact between their cocks so the
teenager can only whine, glaring down at the priest.
In the spaces between the beads and the panels, the skin under the collar is
flushed red and hot. Imhotep strokes his thumbs over the creases where Alex’s
hip bones meet his groin and suppresses the urge to reach up and pet that
flustered flesh.
“Nothing is wrong with me, child.”
Alex frowns. For a long moment he just stares at Imhotep, then he wriggles
backward, trying to put even more space between them but Imhotep won’t have it.
His firm grip turns bruising until Alex stills and remains where he has been
placed. The boy scowls and grumbles. “You’re an undead mummy-priest out to
destroy the world who thinks fucking unwilling teenagers is a good way to spend
your leisure hours. I think there’s something bloody well wrong with you.”
Alex means it to be insulting but all Imhotep can do is chuckle. He leans his
face in very close to the boy and watches him as he swallows his fear.
A tremor quivers through Alex’s spine.
It’s the most delicious thing Imhotep has held in his hands in a long time.
“I find you charming, boy.” The priest murmurs, squeezing Alex’s hips again,
hard enough that he knows there will be marks in the morning. He does not
relent until the boy shuts his eyes and tries to draw away. “If I were you I
would not try so hard to change my mind.”
Words rise up to Alex’s lips but Imhotep can see the moment the boy catches
himself and swallows them, his gaze cast to the side. Fuck you hangs silent and
petulant in the air and Imhotep chuckles again, sliding his hands up to cup the
boy’s ribs.
“Good boy, Alex.” He croons, and the teenager physically flinches, but he keeps
his mouth shut.
“Such a good boy.”
The train clatters on, and in one corner of the car a lamp sputters and nearly
goes out. They had offered him electric lights at the beginning of all of this
and he had refused.
Fire has served him well enough for millennia, he will not betray it now.
His lips latch onto Alex’s and he takes that mouth with the same self-
assuredness he takes every piece of the boy. He raises himself up on his knees
and Alex slides backwards with a gasp, trying to catch himself before he spills
onto the floor, but Imhotep has him. He keeps the boy’s mouth in place with a
bite to his bottom lip as he wraps his arms around his boy's to keep him
steady.
He uses his superior strength to lower the youth down onto his back, bracing
his own bulk on his elbows. Licking into the depths of the boy’s mouth he sucks
away his breath and leaves the teenager gasping, spots in his vision as he
pants against the priest’s mouth, squirming as Imhotep begins a steady, heavy
roll of his hips down against Alex’s body.
The boy has been taken so many times now his entrance yields easily to
Imhotep’s fingers, familiar with the press and shape of his master. The priest
slides one finger in dry, just to the second knuckle, and strokes the interior
flesh gently. Alex trembles, his brow furrowed in concentration as his body
tightens on the invading digit.
“Fuck-” he whimpers, high pitched and reluctant and beautiful. Imhotep strokes
the boy’s walls several more times than drags the finger tip back out slowly.
“Oil.” He commands, and something inside him warms at the quick way Alex
replies, opening wet eyes to search for the small bottle the priest always
keeps near them and reaching out one slim arm to grab it.
“Good.” Imhotep praises. “Very good child.”
The oil is poured, Imhotep’s fingers return - two, now - and he does not
hesitate to bury them as deep as he can. His own eyes slide shut as he savors
the teen’s warmth, seeking the boy’s prostate and rubbing slow circles around
the sensitive bundle of nerves. He gets the boy to begin to roll his hips in a
rhythm, his whole body straining towards greater stimulation. Alex's eyes slide
shut, a state he favours when Imhotep takes him.
It presents such a lovely challenge.
“If you do not open your eyes and look at me little one, I will have to find
other ways to make certain you remember to whom you belong.”
Alex’s eyelids flutter open at that, a sliver of unease crossing his features
until Imhotep smiles and curls his fingers and chases the fear away.
O’Connell’s brows stitch together as he shivers through a bolt of pleasure,
determination filling his gaze as he trains his eyes on his keeper.
“Good boy.” Two fingers are removed and three invade in their place. They bring
more oil, more breadth, and their press is smooth and slick against that
velvety muscle. “You may close your eyes when I’m inside you, if you wish.” The
priest grants him merciful permission and something hitches on Alex’s face, his
eyes watering as he fights to keep them open.
“Fuck-” The child groans again and Imhotep smirks as he drops his lips to the
boy’s cheek and presses a gentle kiss there.
Inside the boy he flexes his fingers, testing, and finds him ready.
“Prepare me.” He murmurs against Alex’s ear and Alex shudders, hand reaching
out blindly for where he last remembers the oil being. It takes him a moment,
but he makes contact with the bottle and uses his thumb to pop the large
stopper out. Imhotep can hear the glass roll across floor, feels the boy flex
and stretch to heft his shoulders off the floor and bring the bottle between
them, pouring it with shaking fingers over his erect flesh. Imhotep inhales
slightly at the feel of cool oil on his burning flesh, but keeps his body
perfectly still. He catches the scent of them: the faint sweetness of the
lubricant and the heady salt of their sweat mingling in the hot damp space
between them and he breathes deeper, eyes hooded as he savors the flavor. Both
his hands have crept to Alex’s thighs, and he cradles the tops of the wiry
boyish thighs which are spread against the girth of the older man’s body. The
soft skin is a treasure under his palms.
“Enough.” He murmurs after a few moments of the boy's inelegant attempts to
coat his cock. Trembling Alex sets the bottle aside and lays back again,
keeping his eyes open but his head tilted back and gaze fixed somewhere on the
roof of the car. Over his flushed chest the jeweled collar spills and glints,
beads rolling over his flesh as his chest expands and contracts in deep rapid
breaths. The gold panels shimmer in the lamp light and Imhotep leans down to
grant the panel resting over the boy's sternum a tender kiss.
Then he leans back and shifts the boy’s hips up higher in his lap, pushing his
thighs wide and exposing his rosy, well-loved entrance. He pauses for a moment
and the thighs under his hands flex, tightening around his waist.
“Please-” Alex lets loose a broken whimper, and his eyes are closed now but
Imhotep grants him the lapse. He wraps his hand around his own cock and
positions the wet head against Alex’s wetter body. He is not as unaffected as
he would have his boy believe and he fights against a bolt of intense pleasure
which shoots through him at even this small motion.
“As you command.” He answers, voice gone rough with desire, and he presses in.
Neither time nor repetition has made this initial moment of intimate connection
any less glorious. Imhotep’s entire body heats up, his eyes widen, his nostrils
flare. To have his prize like this, to possess him-
Under him Alex whines and Imhotep barely contains the fury of his delight.
In no mood to tease Imhotep sheathes himself fully and gives the boy but a few
moments to adjust to his presence, then he begins to thrust, each roll of his
hips pushing thick and deliberate into Alex’s body.
The priest exhales heavily and the young body under him bows back, his
shoulders pressing against the floor of the train car as he grunts and pushes
to meet his master’s thrusts. Glass beads clink against each other, a musical
counter to each hitching keen.
Imhotep blinks and feels a crest of delight building inside him. Alex has been
getting better over the course of their encounters- sweeter, more pliant- but
tonight the boy is hungry. His body squeezes Imhotep, milking him for more
pleasure, more power, more anything.
With a growl from low in his chest, the priest obliges.
Imhotep fucks in deep punishing circles. Alex, closed eyed and flushed, yelps
as he strikes viciously at the boy’s prostate, pummeling into the pleasure
spot, rocketing Alex towards an orgasm.
The teenager’s face screws up in expression of ecstasy, a faint sheen of tears
glittering from between his eyelids, his skin rosy pink from strain as he pants
heavily, his whole body juddering from every one of Imhotep’s impacts.
His attempts at stoic silence dissolves to breathy grunts and strained whimpers
as his master fucks him, fucks him, fucks him, and he is learning. His body is
no longer his own, he has been remade for this.
Hands which scrabbled helplessly with the floor spring up and wrap around
Imhotep’s sweaty back, digging in for purchase, pulling the older man’s body
flush to his own, pressing them chest to aching, sweaty chest. Alex’s nipples
are pinched and abused by the beads crushed between them and he fucking loves
it, crying out as Imhotep hitches him up higher in his lap and opens up Alex’s
body just a little bit more.
“Fuck-” His voice so hoarse and Imhotep laughs, his own orgasm rushing up on
him with unexpected speed as Alex’s body milks him so desperately for his seed,
hungry.
Imhotep laughs louder, his head hovering over the boy’s neck where he takes
turns between licking and sucking and whispering filthy promises into his
prize’s ear. “I am going to fill you, boy.”
For a moment Imhotep thinks the teenager’s eyes will spring open, but the
moment passes and Alex’s eyes shut tighter, his lips clamping together in a
show of renewed determination, and the priest laughs.
“You are going to sit on my cock, pretty one, until your little cunt clenches
down on me and swallows my seed. Then I will take you again, and again, until
you are as wet and dripping as a woman, so much of my come filling your body
you will stay wet until I have need of you again.” Imhotep’s hips piston
forward furiously, fingers like claws as they dig bone deep bruises into the
tops of the boy’s thighs, his head tilted to the side and eyes distant as he
savors the clench of his young bedmate around his cock.
Alex lets out a wail, spasming as Imhotep’s words begin to have their desired
effect. Alex is coming, his hips loosing all rhythm, pressing up into Imhotep’s
thrusts in tight, desperate pushes, needy, needy-
“You are not allowed to be left empty, child.” He emphasizes this by reaching
down to grab the boy’s aching prick and he squeezes it viciously before he
begins to stroke, drawing long pulses of come out of the yelping body. “We will
keep you full.”
“Fuck!” The boy bears down like a vice and Imhotep roars as his own orgasm
peaks. He feels his balls draw up tight to his body as he slams his cock in
deep and rocks roughly against the boy, letting him milk his seed, take it into
his body, swallow it and absorb it. The boy contracts around him, and snarls
burst out of Imhotep’s throat unbidden, a desperation in him to have this boy,
to claim him as deep as he possibly can, to devour him.
Pleasure surges and ebbs in Imhotep’s veins with each breath and he falls over
the boy, holds them tight together for a long time, reading the hitch and swell
of each of Alex’s breaths as his own lungs fight through the singing of delight
to regain equilibrium.
The air is warm around them, the motions of the train steady and gentle and
before long Imhotep can feel the boy beneath him relaxing, soothed after their
activity by the relative quiet and stillness and fondness swells in his breath.
Chased closely by evil delight.
Alex squirms under him, his hands coming up to push at his chest. “Get off.” He
murmurs without any heat and Imhotep laughs and pulls up, drawing his still
half-hard prick from Alex’s body and raising to his knees. The boy starts to
wiggle backwards, shuffling out from under him.
Imhotep’s hands which wrap around his hips put a stop to that. Alex stills
instantly, looking up at the bigger man with a furrowed brow.
“What?” He croaks, and Imhotep smiles silently, then pulls the boy’s hips up
and coaxes him around until he’s on all fours.
“Imhotep, for god’s sakes-” Alex’s voice goes up in pitch, but he struggles
only lightly against the physical instruction and Imhotep is pleased.
When Alex is steady on his knees Imhotep puts one achingly hot palm to the base
of the boy’s spine and smooths it slowly all the way up to the boy’s nape, then
he pushes down, pressing against Alex’s whinging resistance until the boy’s
shoulders and chest are to the floor, his forearms braced over his head.
“Did you think I spoke in jest, child?” He murmurs quietly over Alex’s protests
and the youth goes silent. “You will swell with my seed before the end.” He
reaches around and touches the boy’s abdomen gently, almost reverently, and
kisses the nape of his neck.
“No-” Alex whines and Imhotep soothes him with a hand down his side.
“Yes, child.” With two finger tips he brushes the hot flushed skin surrounding
Alex’s entrance, feeling the slick trace of semen which has slipped from the
boy’s body in the few minutes he’s been outside of it. It’s unacceptable.
“Again.” He commands, determined, and beneath him the boy whimpers before he’s
filled once more.
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