Warnings: Drug Use, Rape
You don't have to read this chapter. Skip to the next if such issues bother you.
Emil could've sworn he'd been on the couch, settled comfortably next to Alfred, sipping on a Coca Cola. He'd been judging the albino prussian, wondering just what trouble the acclaimed Gilbert kept hidden under his sleeve. Alfred had gotten bored, breaking out the Xbox and facing his rebellious friend on some shooting game.
Now, though, there was too much going on at once.
Voices boomed from everywhere and a high-pitched music screeched in his ear. Emil swayed, realizing that he was standing up, propped against someone as they swung to the music.
"How's it going?" A voice inquired, the question echoing ridiculously in Emil's mind. He could feel drool dripping slightly from the corner of his mouth.
"F-fine," the Icelander answered, bringing his sleeve to his lips to wipe the slobber away. Emil's feet tripped, and his hands grasped onto the person. The sensation he felt was indescribable, fingertips straying against the smooth skin of the mysterious helper longer than necessary. Emil's hands craved touch, and his skin heated beneath a thin layer of sweat.
"You sure?" the voice asked again, and Emil frowned. His hands moved upward to grasp the short sleeves of a t-shirt, feet stumbling. Strange sounds flickered in the darkness. As he began to nod, a firm hand suddenly gripped Emil's jaw, yanking it upwards roughly. "Want another drink?"
No, Emil thought, but found himself slackened in the strong, confident hands of his captor.
A cup was brought to the Icelander's lips, spiked punch dribbling out the corners of his mouth slightly. Nonetheless, Emil sipped and gulped the drink with a sense of gluttony, his throat yearning for more as his mind duly screeched 'no.'
"There you go," the voice nearly whispered, but in reality was yelled to be heard over the booming music. Emil's head lolled before the hand tightened, remaining transfixed on the gentle curve of the teen's pale jaw.
Emil breathed deeply, smelling a pungent odor of sweat and too much perfume. A headache thumped at the back of his head, and he began to feel an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. The pumping music made him move his feet despite the unpleasant physical sensations, overruled by the thrill and excitement of the unknown. Shoulders swayed under the dominant hand cradling his face, and Emil's lips moved sensually, uselessly, to the lyricless words of the bass.
"What are you doing?" A voice, a familiar voice, asked. Who's voice?
"What?" Emil hollered, a silent quip in the noisy room. His companion raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't say anything," the voice, definitely a male's, paused before continuing with an undertone of smugness,"you're tripping balls."
Emil, once again, gave a face of disapproval.
"I don't do drugs. Drugs are bad for you. Lukas said so," Emil's speech slurred a bit, his tongue thick in his mouth. His heart jumped uncomfortably in his chest and his feet shuffled in confusion on whether to bolt or dance.
"Really now?" The companion seemed to think Emil was pretty funny stuff, because even blind the Icelander could see the brilliant smile.
Emil nodded.
"Boy, then we better get you outta here. Do you want to go someplace quieter?"
The hand brushed Emil's shoulder, travelling downward to wrap around the teen's wrist. Emil nodded dumbly, wanting to escape the jumpy music, but hesitant to leave the swarm of bodies pressing in on all sides, making him feel protected and complete.
"Follow me."
The hand led Emil through the crowd, stopping here and there to dance with the surrounding partiers. Eventually the Icelander lifted his feet to ascend up a steep flight of stairs, his heightened energy making him take too many at a time and nearly fall down them all.
Emil felt along the right wall with one hand as his left remained enclosed in the strong palm of the mystery man. When the duo came to a sudden stop, Emil hung himself heavily against the person.
"Who are you?" Emil finally asked, his right hand coming to fiddle with the stranger's neck and collarbone, enjoying the close proximity.
"Gilbert, duh," Gilbert answered, staring with a smirk at his captured gem. Emil stared up, his aviators long gone somewhere in the group of people downstairs.
Gilbert? The name sounded outrageously familiar, but the Icelander couldn't put a finger on the owner of it. He felt doubt and uneasiness spread along his frayed sense of detached and unresponsive inhibition. Instead of escaping the situation silently, Emil said a single word that solved it all.
"Oh."
The teen was led into the room, his feet clumsy as they met against fluffy carpet.
When did I take my shoes off? Emil asked. Or maybe he thought it? He wasn't really sure, but the buzzing in his ears resounded like a rogue alarm clock without an off button.
Gilbert snapped the door shut, taking Emil harshly by the hips and crushing his lithe frame against it. The albino's body rolled against the Icelander's, head sinking to crash lips together.
Emil, shocked at the impact, reciprocated for a reason he didn't know. His lips moved hesitantly, for he was inexperienced, and his hands hung limply at his sides. A tongue flicked across his lips, and the Icelander parted his mouth obediently.
Gilbert, heedless of the pure soul beneath him, massaged circles into Emil's hips, rubbing his own against them. His lips traversed southward, trailing nips down to the teen's neck. There he sucked, making sure to leave his mark.
"You're quiet," Gilbert breathed against Emil's ear, tongue flickering out in a triangle of pink to outline the delicate shell. A sigh released itself from the Icelander as his hands reached up sluggishly, running through Gilbert's silvery hair before grabbing some of the silky strands gently.
Strangely enough, Emil found he couldn't speak anymore. His tongue felt bloated, and the world constantly shifted. The ringing in his ears had raised to the point where he had to focus intently, a task he couldn't do, on Gilbert in order to hear and understand him. Instead, Emil nodded and waited further action.
The Prussian, slightly miffed at Emil's silence, bit at his shoulder with more force than intended, blood leaking to the surface of the Icelander's skin. Emil, however, seemed to not notice as his head fell back against the solid surface of the door and idly rolled sideways. Eyes flickering back to the small, nearly indistinct wound, Gilbert went to the opposite shoulder and did it again. He watched the trickle of crimson dip into Emil's collar bone, pooling there. His lips kissed the mark, hands making light scratches up and down Emil's torso, having slid under his airy shirt.
Smirking indiscreetly, the Prussian, tired of the games, snatched Emil and hulled him to the bed across the door. Emil was thrown on the bed, head reeling at the sudden change. He had no time to adjust as Gilbert was on him immediately, the albino's weight holding him down while he struggled to take off the Icelander's shirt.
In Emil's mind, he knew doubtlessly something was wrong. His ears were playing tricks on him, and his skin burned with the need for contact. But the teen found no reason for such emotions.
Suddenly, as if an epiphany appeared, Emil asked a question.
"Did you drug me?"
Gilbert laughed aloud, the sharp sound making Emil jump slightly.
"Maybe," Gilbert responded, his voice low, "but I've been wanting you for a while."
Emil furrowed his brows in confusion, a rough kiss taking his lips for a time before he finally pushed the albino away, even if a few inches sufficed.
"What?" Emil's tongue made his english more accented than usual, and he found himself slipping towards Icelandic.
"I have plenty of ass I can get, trust me, but I've been looking out for you," the Prussian licked his lips as he looked at his prize. "You're so innocent, so pure."
Emil, bewildered, opened his mouth to say more, but his belt was suddenly ripped from his pants, which were yanked to his knees soon after. While the Icelander didn't believe himself so, Gilbert's ministrations proved to arouse him. Already a tent sprang from Emil's boxers, and Gilbert, relieving himself of his own shirt and pants, stooped over the teen mightily.
"Just shut up and enjoy this," Gilbert ordered.
But Emil shook his head, or tried to anyway. He didn't want this, but he couldn't stop the older man above him. His mouth formed the word 'stop,' but no sound escaped his lips.
Gilbert rubbed his erection against Emil's, making a short moan escape the Icelander involuntarily. The Prussian repeated the action, his hands forcing Emil's hips up. Gilbert laid sloppy kisses along the Icelander's torso, nipping and biting here and there, leaving marks strewn across the canvas of Emil's body.
Heedless of himself, Emil found himself uttering nonsense.
"Harder."
Gilbert's signature smirk twisted his features handsomely as he took off his boxers and slid his companion's down. Now completely naked, the Prussian was impatient and becoming more insensitive. He reached for the bottle of lube he kept in his pocket, using it to coat his fingers.
"Roll over," the albino commanded, but Emil only stared upward cluelessly. "Roll over!"
Gilbert forced Emil to his stomach and admired the view.
Emil's athletic body was thin yet toned, muscles twitching beneath milky white skin. The curve of his back was enticing, and his slim, powerful legs attempted to prop himself up, trapped at the calves thanks to his restricting pants, bringing his rear into the air with a sense of oblivious seduction.
Gilbert grabbed Emil's ass, fingers prying as he pushed a digit inside, knowing the Icelander would be too doped up to fight back. He soon added a second finger, scissoring and thoroughly preparing Emil for what was to come. Just to be safe, Gilbert added one more finger and soon had Emil moaning with his head hidden amidst the pillows, begging for more.
Gilbert withdrew his hand and placed it on Emil's head, shoving his face deeper into the pile of pillows and cushion, his other hand guiding his length to the prepared entrance. Emil gasped when the Prussian's cock began to push inside him, and he wiggled his hips a little in an effort to halt the motion, but stopped after a harsh slap to his rear. Gilbert sheathed himself completely and his head fell back in pleasure, surrounded by unbelievably tight, virgin heat.
Emil, on the other hand, felt as though he couldn't breathe. Even though the preparation had been extensive, he still felt pain, and slightly ill. He hated himself for muttering those stupid words—words that encouraged the older man to continue. He huffed into the sheets as Gilbert began to rock his hips slowly, feeling for a rhythm.
Emil tried to say stop again, but his voice was lost in the suffocating pillows. He raised his head slightly, hitting it repeatedly against the headboard with every thrust. This amused Gilbert, but he stopped just long enough to place Emil's hands on top of the swirling decor of the headboard before continuing.
His face now above the imprint his head had just made in the cushions, Emil took much needed breaths of air. His lungs ached as he huffed, the headboard slamming against the wall loudly.
Gilbert reached a hand around, pumping Emil's cock in time with his thrusts. Skin slapped against skin, and Emil suddenly arched his back as a feeling of pleasure so intense it engulfed his body in fire and made him nearly scream.
"There!" Emil breathed, his hips slamming back against Gilbert's. Sweat dripped from his forehead and made wet spots in the dark sheets below him.
The albino aimed for the designated spot, his hands gripping the teen's hips with bruising strength. His precision made Emil scream. Gilbert abused the prostate, and knew Emil would have an earlier release. His hand increased speed, rubbing at the head of the Icelander's cock before sliding down the base and repeating.
Gilbert's lower abdomen burned, and he knew he was close.
Emil, now moaning with every thrust, gripped the headboard with such strength his knuckles turned white. His body shook as an intense feeling of pleasure turned his body rigid and he shook, orgasming with a scream.
Gilbert grit his teeth, Emil's voice and tightening heat sent him over the edge. He collapsed on top of Emil before pulling out, falling to the side and pulling the Icelander to him. He closed his eyes, and sleep took him away faster than ever before.
Emil couldn't move. He felt strange. The experience had been dreadful, humiliating, but perfect. The sensations had been outrageously pleasurable, but the Icelander felt dirty, filthy, though he could do nothing as he fell into a deep sleep inside the castle of Gilbert's arms.