Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1826536.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Tales_of_Xillia
  Relationship:
      Alvin/Jude_Mathis
  Additional Tags:
      Gunplay
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-22 Words: 1291
****** Lace Cascade ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Nothing could make him care anymore.
Notes
     [a type of white rose; dried white rose: "death preferable to the
     loss of innocence"]
     spoilers for the events after the airship
The noise of someone entering the room registers vaguely in his mind, and in
the flurry of movement he can make out Alvin’s towering form and the dull
glinting of steel in both his hands. In the time it takes him to slowly lift
his head, the gun is pointing at his face. Nothing stirs inside of him; no
fear, no adrenaline.
“Look at me,” Alvin snarls.
Jude obeys, and that enrages Alvin. He storms over, fisting the front of Jude’s
shirt and yanking his listless body up to eye level. With the movement Alvin
catches Jude’s scent, pungent and unwashed, and grimaces. The unchanging
expression on Jude’s face even as he’s being manhandled and the frailty of his
enervated body, completely limp in his grasp, make Alvin furious.
“Why won’t you fight back?” Alvin yells, shaking him.
Jude blinks deliberately. He forgets where he is for a moment. He turns Alvin’s
question around in his mind before mustering the energy to answer.
“There’s no point,” Jude finally says.
Alvin throws him back against the wall and whirls around, pacing into the
middle of the room. He glances at Jude, the boy still looking blearily off to
the side, and then back. He drops his sword, letting it clatter on the floor.
When Jude lifts his head at the noise, Alvin is thundering toward him, gun
still in hand. Jude only waits to respond to whatever stimulus is coming, and
when it does, it’s Alvin’s gun thrust into his cheek. His arm is shaking.
“Nothing to say?” Alvin’s voice is shaking too.
Jude mulls the question over.
“A shot to the back of the brain stem would be faster,” he mumbles.
Alvin smacks him across the face with the hilt of the gun. His eyes are wide
under furrowed brows and his whole body is trembling. When Jude doesn’t react,
he does it again, harder.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Alvin barks, his voice uneven. “I could kill
you – I’m going to kill you – and you don't even bat a fucking eyelash?”
Jude exhales. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Do whatever you want.”
A moment passes in silence before Alvin goes back to pick up his sword. For a
moment Jude thinks Alvin is going to leave – bluffing the whole time and bored
of not getting a reaction – but instead Alvin returns with both weapons, toeing
the edge of the bed with his shadow blanketing Jude.
“Do whatever I want, huh?” Alvin says.
He lifts the blunt edge of the sword to Jude’s chin, tilting it up. Alvin
notices his usually bright amber eyes are dull and lifeless, and that makes him
even angrier. He wants to throttle Jude until he’s gasping for air or screaming
or anything besides sitting there like a pathetic ragdoll. He pushes up Jude’s
chin until his throat is exposed. It would be so easy, Alvin thinks; equal
opportunities for a clean kill with either of his weapons, but he is too full
of hatred to let Jude die quickly.
Jude watches Alvin undo his belt and pile it on the floor. He has already
figured it out. He knows what’s going to happen.
When Alvin’s out of the fabric of his pants, he presses the gun to Jude’s
temple.
“Do it,” Alvin mutters.
He twists the muzzle of the gun into Jude’s skin but the threat is unnecessary
and they both know it. Jude is too tired, too given up to care. He’s
complacent. He’ll submit to anything without a struggle, and part of that makes
Alvin hard, but also stirs a fury in him that he doesn’t understand.
Jude parts his mouth and waits for Alvin to get on with it. Alvin raises his
lip, halfway between a snarl and a grimace. Disgusted with Jude – disgusted
with himself – he pushes between Jude’s lips and lets the boy envelop him
gracelessly.
Alvin feels sick. Jude doesn’t feel anything at all.
He lets the sword edge fall from Jude’s neck before dropping it to the floor.
Jude doesn’t react. His eyes peer off, empty. Furiously, Alvin grabs a fistful
of Jude’s hair and forces him deeper on him. Jude makes a slight choked noise
and Alvin’s stomach leaps into his throat momentarily – even if its just from
gagging, its still something. It fuels the fire inside him and he slams Jude
against him just to hear that strangled noise again. Alvin holds him there
firmly until he feels Jude’s throat hitch. He pulls Jude off, watching the
strands of saliva trail back to him, and shudders. Jude still says nothing.
Alvin’s stomach churns, boiling with sickness and violence and arousal and the
desire to kill Jude now before he soils him even further, and the conflicted
emotions manifest in another smack across Jude’s face with the barrel of his
gun. Jude reels, the force of the impact slamming his head back into the wall
with a satisfying crack. Jude registers the pain spreading through him but no
accompanying emotions. If he wasn’t numb he might have been upset with Alvin,
for hitting him, and for everything else.
“You’re bleeding,” Alvin says suddenly. As he mentions it, Jude feels the
flaring pain in the cartilage of his nose and wetness dripping down from his
nostril.
“You’re right,” Jude says, making no attempt to clean it up. Alvin watches the
blood trickle down to his lip.
Alvin wants both of them to be dead. With tears burning in his eyes – not like
Jude bothers enough to look up at him – Alvin digs his fingers into Jude’s head
and yanks him forward again, savouring the tiny grunt that escapes him. He
doesn’t trust Jude to move on his own; he pulls him forward, pushes him back,
uses him like a tool. Alvin notices the glint of tears in the corner of Jude’s
otherwise lifeless eyes. He realizes they’re only from the stress of gagging,
and it makes him want to choke the remaining life from his fragile throat. He
drops the gun and wraps his hand around Jude’s neck.
“Why won’t you struggle?” Alvin says, feeling the pulse under his fingers
tighten as he presses them down. “Why won’t you snap out of it?”
His voice comes out worried instead of threatening. As if to compensate, Alvin
snarls and throttles Jude’s throat hard. Jude begins coughing, the noise
smothered by Alvin in his mouth. Off-rhythm gags and violent hitching of his
breath make Alvin crave more; signs that Jude can still breathe, signs that
he’s still alive. He thrusts into Jude, using his hair as leverage, and hits
the back of his throat, groaning as he does. He’s been too swept up in anger
and guilt to properly enjoy the pleasure of having his dick sucked. Alvin lets
himself enjoy this brief intimacy, if he can even call it that, as Jude is
trying to gasp for air underneath him.
With a final roll of his hips and a loud groan, he finishes in Jude’s mouth.
For an agonizing few seconds Jude is starved of air and feels the painful sting
of liquid splashing up into his nasal cavity. Alvin removes himself and
instantly Jude coughs out a glob of saliva, blood, semen and bile. Tears from
gagging stain the corner of his eyes. The blood from his nose has smeared
across his mouth and cheeks. Jude swallows, sniffs back the mucous running from
his nose, and resumes the sitting position he was in before.
Jude’s expression has never once changed.
Alvin’s stomach churns. With slow deliberate motions, he tucks himself away and
picks up his weapons. He looks at Jude, who won’t meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
Alvin points the gun to Jude’s forehead and pulls the trigger.
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