unautremonde: (Default)
[personal profile] unautremonde
Title: Remember
Series: Souviens-toi de moi, 3/3
Genre: AU
Pairing: Dom/Elijah
Rating: NC-17
Summary: London, 1943. Dom has demons clinging to his skin and haunting him through his dreams.
Warning: this is a war time story, it's not "pretty". Things are a bit rough around the edges, from the sex to the mentions of Dominic's past. Be warned.
Disclaimer: Obviously all lies, and I'm certainly not trying to pretend I know anything about these actors' real personalities and sexual preferences. It's all fiction, people.
Author's note: additional disclaimer and visual aids to be found here.
Thanks: to [livejournal.com profile] rynalwyn and [livejournal.com profile] shaenie for incredible support and betas. This story wouldn't be what it is without you.


Dom’s bed is still unmade, the sheets rumpled and heavy with dreams and memories tangled within sweat and fabric. Elijah doesn’t notice, though, and Dom doesn’t stop to remember either. They left the shelter in silence, neither of them speaking but everything clear between them anyway. Dom led the way and Elijah followed, came to stand in the darkness of Dom’s room willingly.

Elijah’s waiting, now, straight and taut with tension, fear, arousal… Dom doesn’t want to wait and see, to watch if the boy will run away and flee, so he reaches out, leans forward and catches his prey, takes a first taste of his prize.

There’s no gentleness to that first kiss, but Elijah yields with a hiss, opening his mouth and letting Dom push his tongue inside, Dom’s teeth against the soft flesh of his lips. Elijah’s hands come up and clutch at Dom’s shoulders impatiently, pushing, pulling, as eager as Dom feels. It’s not a slow dance, no romantic twilight encounter and Dom bites down, doesn’t stop when he tastes blood on his tongue, doesn’t let up even under the sting of Elijah’s nails on his skin.

They’re fumbling and tumbling to the bed, fighting their clothes out of the way, mouths still sealed and breaths rasping into each other’s mouths, when Elijah’s hand closes around Dom’s gun. Dom doesn’t register the change in pace, doesn’t immediately realize that Elijah has stopped fighting with him but is now pushing back, fighting him off.

“Stop, please, stop!”

Dom freezes, goes very still at the hint of panic in Elijah’s voice. It’s more familiar than he’d like to acknowledge, bringing into sharp relief the memories of another voice, another pleading form still and beaten under him.

”Arrête, Dom, s’il-te-plaît, arrête...”

Dom doesn’t back up, doesn’t give in to the suddenly urgent pull he’s feeling in his guts, the overwhelming desire to throw Elijah out, to run away himself and forget, to bury his head in the sand and not think about what he’s done. Instead, he grabs the gun and gently pulls it out of Elijah’s grasp, all the while holding Elijah firmly under his own naked body. It’s only after he’s slid the gun back under the pillow, his movements followed closely by Elijah’s wide frightened eyes that they start kissing again.

Dom takes his time, soothes without words and tries to still Elijah’s fear, bring it back to what it was before: the thrill of doing something forbidden with someone who was playing a game. Dom knows that Elijah’s fear is much more real now that he understands the game is as dangerous and real as can be, but Dom still wants this, still wants the prize from the chase.

Elijah quivers and whimpers under him, arousal still fighting with panic. He’s not saying no, though, not pushing back, not fighting Dom off. Not anymore. Dom kisses him carefully, almost reverently because he won’t go as far in this as making Elijah believe he has no choice. Dom wants this, wants the bright-eyed boy under him to yield, but not at the price of more nightmares. There’s enough hate in his dreams.

When Elijah’s hand finally comes off of Dom’s skin to stretch back and grab the bed’s headboard, Dom knows he’s won again. He lifts his head and pushes himself up slightly, just enough to watch uncertainty flicker briefly one last time in Elijah’s eyes. Elijah is looking at him, gaze unwavering and eyes shining bright even in the darkness of the room. Dom looks on, fascinated, as Elijah lifts his other hand and stretches that arm back as well, linking his fingers around the headboard, spreading himself out completely, an offering.

There’s a brief flash of something, another stab of pain spearing through his belly as he remembers more, remembers what it felt like to wrap his hands around tied wrists. He doesn’t linger on the memory, though, dipping his head forward instead, pushing his tongue slickly across Elijah’s belly. Things go faster from there, the urgency back and the need to do this right here right now overwhelming again. It doesn’t take long for Dom to suck Elijah to a whimpering climax, and he spreads his fingers through come and sweat and spit before urging Elijah to turn over.

“Here, come on, move…”

Dom doesn’t wait for Elijah to make himself comfortable but pushes his hand against Elijah’s ass and waits eagerly for an encouraging moan. Elijah doesn’t seem to mind being spread boneless under Dom’s weight so Dom pushes his hand against his ass again, letting his wet fingers slide down Elijah’s crack, reaching Elijah’s asshole and pushing against the puckered flesh. Elijah tenses slightly but Dom doesn’t stop, doesn’t take his fingers away and just pushes forward. One finger, two… Elijah is writhing against the bed, muffled moans urging Dominic on. When Dom replaces his fingers with his cock, the moans turn into whimpers and Elijah starts squirming, alternatively trying to get away and pushing back against Dom’s thighs, trying to get closer.

Dom grabs onto Elijah’s hips, pulls him back and up to his knees, bringing Elijah’s ass fully against his groin, thrusting deeper and faster, relishing the way Elijah is now fighting him push for pull. It’s only when Elijah’s whimpers grow into sharp cries of pain that Dom finally registers how rough it feels, how hard he’s been pushing, how much of Elijah’s gasps are really about the pain and no, Elijah isn’t telling him to stop but Dom knows, he knows he’s hurting him more than he’s pleasuring him.

Dom tries to stop, tries to pull back but Elijah’s hand reaches back, grasps Dom’s thigh and digs his fingers a little painfully into Dom’s leg.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop…”

“I’m hurting you, Elijah, please…”

“No, no, don’t… you’re not… you are but oh God…”

Dom can feel the little spasms of pain coursing through Elijah each time he drives forward; he can feel the way Elijah’s body is trying to close up, to push him out, and it’s overwhelming. He doesn’t want to take so much pleasure in Elijah’s pained whimpers but there’s the way Elijah shudders in pleasure as well and Dom feels himself coming apart. Elijah bites down on the bed sheets and pushes back one last time as Dom shakes and groans, his orgasm sending him sprawling against Elijah’s back, sweaty and a little ashamed. He tries to catch his breath, feeling Elijah quivering under him, and the familiar stab of pain starts to grow in his belly again, twisting deeper inside his chest. There’s no mistaking the wince of pain from Elijah when he withdraws and Dom breaks down, images suddenly flooding his mind, bloody and vivid, of Guillaume spread out on the floor.

It’s a waking nightmare and Dom can feel himself shaking apart. Elijah still lays sprawled next to him, hands back up and gripping the headboard again, reminding Dom of other times, other places, another man’s hands tied and spread open, begging for the pain to end. Dom remembers what it’s like to use and abuse and when Elijah arches, winces again at some small twitch of pain, Dom finds himself sobbing, his breath catching and his voice rough as his hands close on Elijah’s arms.

“I’m sorry, oh my God I’m so sorry!”

Elijah still looks a bit fearful, maybe more cautious than scared as some of the tension has been drained out through sex and bruises. He tries to shake Dom’s hold but Dom doesn’t let go, keeps repeating his apology over and over again, needs to get it out, says it again and again, barely even recognizing the broken twist of his own voice.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Dom… It’s ok, it’s fine, you didn’t hurt me, not really… Dom?”

Dom knows Elijah is trying to be soothing, trying to reassure him, to shoo away the guilt and shame that are building inside, but he can’t listen, can’t see anything other than Guillaume’s pain reflected in Elijah’s wide eyes. He’s holding a stranger in his arms, he knows, but it’s Guillaume he sees, bright and beautiful and fierce, and he isn’t going to hand Dom an absolution, Dom knows that.

Elijah is still talking, and Dom recognizes it, can practically feel Elijah trying not to shout, and it's the way you talk to crazy people, making your voice as calm and as reasonable as you can so as to invite the same in return. Dom hears it, understands it, but it doesn't calm him. Precisely the opposite, in fact. It fills him with a kind of fierce, irrational rage, because it's not like this boy knows anything, it's not like there's any hope that he understands what it's like, and he's screaming that, screaming and throwing whatever his hands come across, shoes and books and clothes, because he doesn't want to hear, doesn't deserve, cannot accept Elijah's offers of forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry, what more do you want? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do this, I didn’t mean it but fuck… Leave me the fuck alone!”

Dom can't stop shouting, can still feel the sobs tearing from his own chest, and he doesn't know where they're coming from, doesn't know how he's lived with them inside him for so long, but they aren't enough, and he can feel his hands bunching and twisting, tearing at the sheets on the bed, obviously scaring Elijah again and for good. There’s a moment when they’re both scrambling for something, for balance maybe or for the gun under Dom’s pillow, but when Dom flings it aside, throws the pillow out of the way and reveals his gun, dark and ominous against the lighter grey of the sheets in the dark of the room, silence falls, heavy and thick as their harsh breathing.

Elijah is standing beside the bed, back to the wall, one hand clutching his clothes to him and the other reaching out in a silent plea. Dom watches him, can barely make out enough of him to realize he’s managed to terrify the boy again. Guillaume’s face is fading, leaving the shadows of the room as he slowly comes back to himself. There’s one last flash, one last memory painting itself over Dom’s heart, one last goodbye from a boy who is no longer standing by his side. Then there will be nothing.

Dom is leaving tonight. He’s leaving because he’s not made for this, not made for the way his heart breaks when he looks at Guillaume, bloody and bruised and moaning on the floor of his cell. It’s not about him, though, not about a friend, a lover, but more about what Dom sees, what Dom knows he’ll remember after this. He kneels down by Guillaume’s side one last time, hand clutching a gun he’s become afraid to use.

Guillaume is surprisingly still conscious, lucid enough to see the intent in Dom’s eyes, it seems. He opens his mouth on a sigh, whispering last words that stick in Dom’s mind, words Dom will be carrying with him forever.

“Remember this, Dommie. Remember. That’s what we are, du sang, beaucoup de sang, trop. Souviens-toi, Dom, souviens-toi de moi.”

Dom hesitates briefly, stretches his hand out over the gun, almost picks it up, longing for the familiar weight of it. He remembers, though, remembers the blood on his hands and reaches further instead, touching his fingers to a stranger’s hand. Elijah gasps but doesn’t draw away and when Dom pulls, he follows like he did before, coming to rest against Dom’s chest like he belongs there.

Dom casts one last look around the room, checks the shadows for demons and ghosts, and breathes Elijah in deeply when he sees nothing. He closes his eyes and holds on tighter, letting words finally flow freely.

“I… I knew a man, once…”

Elijah holds him back and listens.


back to part one: Whisper -- back to part two: Chase


Translation of the French sentences as follows.

”Arrête, Dom, s’il-te-plaît, arrête...” = "Stop, Dom, please, stop..."

“That’s what we are, du sang, beaucoup de sang, trop. Souviens-toi, Dom, souviens-toi de moi.” = "That's what we are, blood, a lot of blood, too much. Remember, Dom, remember me."

As for the title, "Souviens-toi de moi", it means as you may have guessed, "Remember me". :-)
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
Account name:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
HTML doesn't work in the subject.


Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

November 2011

678 9101112

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 19th, 2017 04:53 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios