Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1713446.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Mummy_Series, The_Mummy_Returns_(2001)
  Relationship:
      Alex_O'Connell/Imhotep, Anck-su-namun/Imhotep_implied
  Character:
      Alex_O'Connell, Imhotep
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, slight_somnophilia, Ephebophilia, Anal_Sex, Master/
      Slave, Collars, PWP, posessiveness, Admiration
  Series:
      Part 2 of Child_of_the_Enemy
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-30 Words: 1969
****** Laid Low by your Hands ******
by Pakeha
Summary
     Imhotep has had the boy every night since he has come to Egypt. He is
     his prize, his possession, his victory.
Notes
     Once again I imagine this taking place in a slight AU where Alex is
     like sixteen/seventeen/eighteen during the events of the movie as
     opposed to, like, ten.
Imhotep’s hands are hot on Alex’s skin, trailing possessively over the low
mound of his hip and the length of his thigh as the boy shivers in his sleep.
He is naked but for the golden collar at his throat - whose deceptively fine
chain keeps him forever near - and the cuff at his wrist which is so invaluable
to their plans.
With a sigh Imhotep lowers himself back so he reclines on the cushions next to
Alex. He is ever-alert, but this train lulls him, the repetitive rocking of
their train car a soothing rhythm. The technology is something he still finds
extraordinary, and he marvels at the distances they can travel with such speed
and in such luxury. No pallet or chaise had ever been this comfortable, surely
- no Nile barge so well appointed.
A moonless night stretches as thick and opaque as any curtain and only two
lonely lamps swing near to them in the hazy car. They burn a sweet, fragrant
oil and Imhotep inhales deep the familiar scent. He feels lazy, content, eager,
powerful, rich.
He is surrounded by tokens of his past life, the riches of ages past. All
around him the wealth of his followers’ devotion glitters in the meager light,
but no glinting jewel or priceless antiquity can pull Imhotep’s gaze away from
his unexpected prize.
To say that the O’Connells bred a beauty would be an understatement. He is, in
a word, divine. The fineness of his young features so like his mother; the
smoothness of his skin; his father’s pale hair and warm eyes; he is exotic. A
rarity. A boon.
As Imhotep’s eyes scrape over the youth’s figure, he sees the way his spine
trembles in his sleep. The nights run cold in the desert, Imhotep is all to
aware, and he allows himself an indulgent smile before he slips from his place
and moves over Alex with the litheness of a lion, his eyes full of proprietary
hunger.
He has had the boy every night since he arrived in Egypt. Anck-su-namun has
indulged him, aware of his need to own this creature and content enough to let
him do as he pleases. Imhotep feels a pang of fondness for her love even as he
lowers his head and begins to nurse at a dark purple-blue bruise on his prize’s
shoulder, licking and suckling and worrying and chuckling to himself as the boy
begins to squirm, rousing from his sleep only reluctantly.
Even as gloriously possessed as he is, the boy is entirely unbroken: he is
truly the offspring of his parents. His constant fighting coupled with
Imhotep’s frequent attentions however has left him utterly exhausted, and until
now he has slept heavily for some hours.
The priest knows better than to hope that the stillness will last long. Surely
in the morning Alex will be back to his precocious self, but for now-
For now he is opening his eyes blearily. He is reaching up to weakly push at
Imhotep’s shaved head. His breath his hitching. His body is trembling.
From his mouth tumbles a slurred protest and Imhotep sets his teeth to the
lovely contusion beneath his tongue and the boy gives a hoarse cry.
“God!” He calls out, a mindless plea, and Imhotep answers his summons with
glee.
“Child.” He croons, pulling back from the wound, satisfied to see it larger and
redder than before.
He had barely draped himself with a robe after their union earlier in the
evening, and now he sits back for but a moment to again cast all coverings
aside, revealing the new flesh and muscles which have been so carefully
cultivated by his dear lover, and he spares her a moment of gratitude.
Vanity has never been among his many faults, but he knows well enough that he
is stunning in his own right. Now, with the boy as disoriented by sleep as he
is, Imhotep is warmed by the perusal he is subjected to.
Despite the anger, the lashing out, the protests, the boy does not look
disgusted.
He does not even look afraid.
Imhotep’s spirit dances. His quirked lips pull into a true smile and he falls
on the boy. Ravenous.
Alex jerks, startled, and gives a yelp as the priest drags his hands down his
sides, digging his fingers into muscle and bone, gliding over the cut of his
hip bones and finding those glorious thighs. He rubs the skin there
appreciatively, gentling his touch for a moment, before he slides his hands
across the flesh and down over the boy’s inner thighs.
Even dead-tired the boy still fights, and Imhotep relishes the resistance as he
pulls the legs apart, exposes the boy’s entrance, still shiny-slick from his
earlier ministrations.
Leaning forward to use the bulk of his body to keep the boy’s legs spread,
Imhotep slides his fingers up and up, using one hand to hold the youth’s limp
cock to the side, and with the other he pushes in immediately with his thumb.
The slide is snug and slick and warm and it is perfect.
The child of his enemy is perfect.
The steady string of insults and protests which have slipped from the boy’s
lips turn to helpless, choked-off moans as Imhotep seeks and finds the familiar
spot within him. It’s hard to remember that a few short days ago the boy hadn’t
even known such a spot existed in his body.
Such pleasures they have discovered here. Such lessons learned.
In his hand the boy’s cock begins to harden and Imhotep entertains the idea of
not even having the boy again, simply milking an orgasm from the youth with
naught but his fingers. He imagines the way he would squirm and protest,
panting, tears leaking from his eyes as he is assaulted by a deep massaging
pleasure. He imagines his cock drooling spurt after spurt of come, one steady
rolling orgasm rippling through the boy and leaving him totally destroyed.
An involuntary shudder runs through him at the image, but now is not the time.
He does not feel patient tonight.
His thumb pulls free with a wet sound and the boy is clearly stretched enough
to not be damaged.
“Damn you, we already did it tonight!” He manages to pant out, writhing as the
priest’s fingers wrap firmly around his prick and begin to pump.
“Why do you protest?” Imhotep murmurs, amused as he shifts on his knees and
lines his own engorged cock with the boy’s small, familiar hole. “You cannot
think I believe that you do not find incredible pleasure in this.”
Alex doesn’t answer with anything more than a hiss for Imhotep’s large cock is
pushing in, delving past any and all resistance, persistent as it gains
entrance to his body. The boy shuts his eyes and tosses his head back, the
collar and chain clinking musically at the movement. His hands- well worn
despite his age, bitten-nailed and strong- grip the cushions he lies on
viciously, fighting is baser instincts reach up and hold on.
The slide is beautiful and Imhotep does not withhold his sigh of delight, his
eyelids drooping low to savor the pleasure, but never closing completely. Half
of the bliss is watching Alex O’Connell react to taking his cock, fighting the
feelings which seize him, the pleasure, the need-
That young face furrows in not pain but desperate focus, a fierce need to keep
himself from giving over to the elder the way he has time and again in the past
days. He is a fool if he thinks he has anything left to hide from his master.
Imhotep has read the pages of his skin again and again and again and its
secrets are known by heart.
Imhotep’s hand has not ceased, drawing out the teenager’s pleasure. He has no
need to assert himself as he has on past nights by forcing feats of pleasure
out of the boy. He knows he can bring him to his peak with his cock alone. He
has talked to Alex with a caress of magic and words of power and seen him
scream in ecstasy without a touch to be had. He has pushed the boy onto a rod
of stone and made him ride it until he is wrecked.
But now he craves simplicity. Easy.
Content.
Alex’s head whips to the side as Imhotep’s grip tightens and his speed builds.
Deep inside the priest pounds into him, not restraining his wants, his needs as
he takes the boy again and again and again.
He presses deep and grinds in tight, powerful circles, finding the spot in Alex
that makes him weep and torturing it, unrelenting until Alex is crying, eyes
unseeing as they fly open and he stares at the ceiling, his face wild as he
releases the pillows and scrabbles to wrap his hand around Imhotep’s trying to
set his pace to something faster, harder, more-
With a laugh imhotep obliges.
A fire burns in his abdomen and he is building rapidly to his peak, the squeeze
of Alex’s body as it milks him for his seed, the way he writhes so sweetly,
circling his hips despite himself, meeting the thrusts which keep coming,
coming, coming, surging into the boy in endless, driving rounds.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” The boy chants and Imhotep revels in the mindless
profanities, pleased as he chases their climax.
Beneath them, around them the car sways as the train trundles ever on and
Imhotep looses himself in the rhythms, the sounds, the feelings. He drives in
and in and in and squeezes tight tight tight, his fist gliding in the copious
pre-come which has drooled from the flushed head of the teenager’s cock and he
wants to taste, to drink from that beautiful prick, but he cannot give the
youth such a reward until he has learned a particularly cleaver trick.
Until he has given in well and truly to his new place in his life.
Until he has submitted to worship.
Until he has been laid low.
Until he obeys.
“Come for me, Alex.” He growls, low and deep and his tongue curls around the
ancient command, drinking up the sounds that spill from Alex’s throat, high
rhythmic cries as his orgasm begins, tearing through his body, sending pulse
after pulse of seed over their joined hands, spilling over his prick and onto
his abdomen, his chest.
Satisfaction rips through Imhotep and he grips Alex’s hip with his free hand
and pulls the boy hard onto his cock with each thrust, all that beautiful young
flesh juddering with each impact and the boy is trying to keep them in but
little yelping cries keep escaping him as his body his thoroughly and properly
used, filled with a cock which claims and claims and Imhotep roars and thrusts
as deep as he is able and rolls his hips in tight, tight circles, grinding hard
into boy, sowing himself as deep as he is able, giving the boy all that he is
able to spill.
Filling him, branding him, owning him.
For long moments his pleasure sings, and as the notes fade the tension in the
priest’s spine ebbs and he breath comes in deep, silent heaves, his chest shiny
with sweat, his eyes wild as they rake over his exhausted, dirty lover.
Alex stares back. His chest heaves, his skin wet and hair stuck to his brow.
Shivers wrack his frame, and he can’t seem to stop his body as it continues to
weakly milk the cock still buried inside him. But he is not yet ashamed. Not
yet afraid.
Imhotep’s spirit soars.
This child, the son of his greatest enemy- This noble beast, this wild
untamable thing.
He cannot stop himself.
He throws his head back, and he laughs.
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