a more profound pond (evitably) wrote,
a more profound pond

TW fic: a place for fear | Kate/Allison | NC-17

Title: a place for fear
Alternate links: AO3
Status of work: Complete
Characters and/or pairings: Kate/Allison
Rating: NC-17
Warnings, kinks & contents: Possibly triggering content regarding the following: incest, underage, non-con, manipulation, power imbalance. Also: humiliation, outdoor sex, bondage, fingering, gags.
Length: 3,000 words
Author's note: Many thanks for S. and geckoholic for the encouraging and cheerleading, and to [personal profile] elf for the betaing. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Written for the stop_drop_howl challenge for the prompt "it's the love of the chase that creates the riot".

Summary: She didn't know that asking Kate to help her get stronger would result in this.


Wear your sneakers, Kate had said. And comfortable pants. We're going out.

Except out was another way to say we're going training.


The radio in Kate's car proves to be more talkative than Kate herself: it fills the silence in all the ways Kate doesn't. You play with it, changing the station every so often, because there's nothing else to do.

Kate won't tell you where you're going. You asked. She said, You'll see, and that was all you got out of her.

The road Kate takes is familiar: a winding path that leads toward the forest at the outskirts of Beacon Hills. You take that route, sometimes, when you don't feel like losing yourself in the forest.

"We're going hiking?" you ask.

Kate says, "Not quite." She navigates the car off the road and stops it in the middle of nowhere, but doesn't seem like she's about to get out.

You look out the window. "Is that it?"

"Of course not. Have some faith. Now where did I -- " she leans over you and opens the glove compartment, rummaging through it inefficiently until she fishes out a small notebook and a pen. She gives you a wide smile that you can't help but return, because you've always found them contagious. "All right," she says, opening the notebook and uncapping the pen. "What you want to learn is control, right?"

You nod, because yes. Yes. That's what you want, more than anything. To be in control means not being helpless, and not being helpless means not being afraid.

Kate writes down control in all-caps in the notebook at the top of the page and circles it twice. "But control isn't the first step," Kate says. "It's comprised of two things. Can you guess what they are?"

You think. Hesitantly, you say, "You have to know what you want to control?"

"That's one thing." A little below and to the left of control, she writes awareness, and circles that one, too. "You need to be aware of what's going on around you. You need to learn how to read the situation correctly before you can manipulate it. What about the second thing?"

There are a thousand half-baked notions and ideas running through your head, all of them too vague to be put into words. It's on the tip of your tongue, the tip of your brain, but you can't find the way to say it.

To the right of awareness, Kate writes self-control. "If you want to have control of a situation, you need to first be aware of it, and then have enough control of yourself to do something you might have every reason not to."

As if you'd choose anything else over control.

"Don't go scoffing at me," says Kate. "What if you're hurt, and have to drag yourself someplace safe even though you feel you might black out? An action of yours could hurt you or others you care about, and you have to be willing to accept that you might have to make some tough decisions."

Shit. You didn't think about that. "I'm not sure--" you start, but you don't know what else to say. "I don't--" You struggle with yourself because there's nothing else you can struggle against. Not now, not here.

Kate puts her hand on your shoulder, warm and steady and comforting, and you lean into it. "Hey, sweetie, it's okay," she says softly. "It's not as bad as it sounds, really. I'm just laying down the facts here, showing you the worst-case scenario. It's not always like that, and if you're in control of things you can make sure things go your way, remember?"

A deep breath, a nod, and you steel yourself. This is what you want, and you have no place for fear.

Kate squeezes your shoulder. "So going back to this --" she taps on the page with her pen, "-- what do you think self-control is comprised of?"

It seems so obvious that you must be wrong. If control is made up of awareness and self-control, then self-control has to be made up from self-awareness.

"Bingo," Kate says. "You got it. And what's what we're here for, tonight. That's the first lesson you have to learn, if you want to learn how to be strong."

"I do," you say. "I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Kate asks.

There's another question hidden under it, buried so deep you almost miss it. A lump forms in your throat and doesn't disappear when you swallow. You try to smile, but it's shaky and unconvincing.

When you said anything, you didn't think Kate was going to use it against you.

You know better now.

"Anything," you answer.


Kate tells you to leave your jacket in the car. The air is chilly and damp in your lungs, and you can't help but hug yourself and rub your arms. You like being away from town, to be able to hear the crickets chirp and the leaves sway in the wind, but you prefer to be well-dressed when you appreciate them.

You jump when Kate slams the driver's door shut. She's still wearing her jacket, and it doesn't strike you as fair, but you guess that's part of the lesson.

"You ready to start?" Kate asks. You nod. "Good. Come over and stand with your back to me, okay?"

It's five steps to where Kate stands, and it's five steps that Kate could've taken toward you. You walk the short distance anyway, stand with your back to her, and wonder what comes next. You don't like standing with your back to her, not knowing what she's looking at, what she's thinking. You're not the one holding the power, here.

The lump's back in your throat, and there's cold sweat forming on your palms, and your heart thumps so quickly. You want to bolt, to turn around.

You don't move.

"Can you put your hands behind your back?" Kate says.

You do that without thinking. The next thing you know there's something plasticy tightening around both her wrists, locking them together. "Kate?" you ask. "What are you doing?"

"Shh, sweetie, everything's all right. Don't you trust me?"

You say, "Yeah …", because that's the only answer you can give when your hands are tied behind your back.

"Come on," Kate says and pulls her over to a tree. She sits down with her back leaning against the trunk and crosses her legs before motioning you into her lap.

"I'm not five." You make a move to sit down next to her, already prepared to how clumsy you'll be, sitting down on the ground without being able to use your hands for balance, but she snags you by the elbow and tips you over in her direction. The only reason you don't find yourself faceplanting on the ground is because she's holding you and making sure you land with your ass in her lap.

It's awkward. It's so awkward that it goes beyond awkward. It's been years since you've sat in anybody's lap -- not even Scott's. You think about how it must not be comfortable for Kate to have to support your weight. You wriggle a little, try to shift your legs so the ground will take some of your weight.

"You're not too heavy," Kate scolds you. "So stop that." She wraps her hands around you, linking them with your bound arms, and holds you close to her chest. She's warm, and gradually you relax into her warmth, listening to the night. "That's better," she croons and starts rubbing small circles over your shirt, tiny little fluttery movements that almost feel like tickling. "Remember, the point is to make you self-aware and learn more about yourself."

You know yourself well enough, you want to say.

Clearly Kate doesn't think so, because she doesn't cease tickling patterns onto your stomach. "Just relax," she says. "Live the moment. Seize the day. You trust me, remember?" She rests her chin on your shoulder, the juncture where it becomes neck, cheek to cheek. You can't help but smell her perfume, feel her skin.

This is Kate, Allison. You trust her.

Kate kisses your cheek. "There we go. Now let's get this show on the road, shall we?" She doesn't wait for an answer before unlinking her arms from yours and zoning in on the waistband of your pants, slipping her fingers inside and tugging it down along with your underwear. You suck in a sharp breath. "Kate--"

"Shh," she says.

"Kate, I don't--"

"I'm not going to hurt you, sweetie. You know that."

You're not so sure anymore, but the moment it takes you to contemplate that is the moment she nudges your hips up and slips your pants and underwear down to your thighs before settling you back in her lap. You try slipping out of your binds, but the plastic presses into your skin painfully, and doesn't give.

"Kate--" you try again, voice rising in panic.

Kate says soothingly, "I know what I'm doing, Allison."

Somehow that doesn't make you feel any better. Maybe because that's when she slides your pants further down to below your knees.

You said you'd do anything, a voice that sounds suspiciously like yours reminds you. How many times did Kate ask for your permission in small ways that you overlooked? You were the one who took the first step. You're the one who said yes, and now you're the one squeezing your thighs shut as hard as you can.

The next thing Kate does is straighten her legs under you before raising her knees to nudge your thighs apart. She's stronger than you, and soon she returns to her cross-legged position, but this time with her knees leaning on your thighs. You can't help but spread them, and you can't get up either, because your pants are tangled around your ankles now, around your shoes, and they won't come off even if you kick at them. You'd need your hands to untangle them. Your hands, which are conveniently tied behind your back, pressed against Kate's stomach by your back.

"Somebody might see," you say.

"Nobody's here," Kate replies. "Just us." Her hands are on your thighs, now, resting lightly atop of your skin. They're soft and cold, and you shiver. You are spread open, naked from the waist down. The air is cold again, now that the breeze has access to your bare skin and between your folds.

Kate runs her hands across your skin, up and up, from thighs to hips to inching under your shirt, and your only protest is a wriggle that she ignores. She raises your shirt up to your armpits and leaves it bunched there, trails her hands over your breasts before she reaches into your bra and pulls them out to hang over the underwire. You glance down and they look strange, hanging free at the angle the wire forces them in. These aren't yours: they're somebody else's.

You lose that train of thought when Kate cups one of them in her hand, rolls a nipple between her fingers. The movement is gentle and slow and careful, and Kate's hand is still chilly against your skin.

She says, "Consider where you are and what's happening to you. This is not something you can control, but you can choose not to allow it to paralyze you. You need to stay on top of your game even when something you don't like happens. No matter what happens, you are still yourself, and you are never helpless. You're waiting for the opportunity to seize control, and that's an active choice."

"It doesn't seem that way right now," you say tightly.

Kate pinches your nipple, the pressure sudden and electrifying. "Look harder. You'll get it." She raises her left hand, caresses your jawline, and slips two fingers into your mouth. You don't expect that; it just happens.

Kate's fingers taste vaguely of plastic and leather, and while they're chilly at first, they warm up quickly inside your mouth. Kate's pressing down on your tongue, and you can't talk. You can't move your tongue and you can't close your mouth all the way, and that makes producing actual words impossible; all you can make are whines and grunts and moans and sighs.

"Hush now," Kate says, and you --

You give in.

You won't call it giving up, because that's not what you're doing. You can't fight Kate. You won't fight Kate. The only thing you can do is wait this out, to wait for it to end.

You try to swallow, but it's difficult to do around her fingers. She feels it, though, and tilts your head back so it leans against her shoulder. Swallowing is easier, after that, but you can still feel the drool escaping between your lips and Kate's fingers, trickling down your chin and soaking in your shirt.

Kate's free hand leaves your breast, gives a pat to your other breast, and slides lower down your midriff, and lower, and you know what's coming next before it happens: Kate reaches your crotch and buries her hand in the hair there, tugs on it, then mirrors the hand in your mouth and slips two of her fingers where you least want them, on your clit.

You gasp.

Kate's fingers are in the way. They curl downwards over your tongue, flattening it. You can't help but feel their texture, slightly rough, and whenever you swallow you can't help but wrap around them and try to draw them further into your mouth, down your throat.

You don't want her there. You don't, you don't, you don't, and you're shaking and shivering, and she's rubbing you slowly, shallowly, and you don't want it.

"It's all right to let it feel good, hon," says Kate. "That's part of the point."

But it feels good in the worst possible way, the slide of skin on skin, of pressure in all the right places -- it makes something tighten low in your stomach, makes knots form at the base of your spine. It's just two fingers, just on your clit, and their back-and-forth slide is easy and smooth and wet, and it's all you, and you can't hold back gasps and half-formed moans.

Kate slides her hands lower still, past her clitoris and into you. It's only a finger. You force yourself to relax, to let it in. She hums, the vibration of it reaching your bare back, and says, "You're not a virgin." You think she's relieved. "Don't worry; I won't tell your parents."

She thrusts her finger in, and out, and in, and her thumb is moving along your clit, and the fingers in your mouth are twitching in the same rhythm, and to your horror you find yourself rocking your hips to it. You force yourself to stop moving, to stay still, but the moment you stop rocking against Kate's fingers, your palms begin clenching and unclenching as if on their own.

"That tickles," Kate says. She presses hard on your clit, hard enough that you can feel your heartbeat in your crotch. You tense and then shudder, and now you're back to rocking your hips.

Next to your ear, close enough that you can feel puffs of air, Kate starts talking. "This lesson is always the hardest. It isn't easy to open yourself like this without having control over what happens to you, but it's important you learn to accept it. Having the right mentor's a matter of luck, too."

You get the feeling she thinks she's a good person to do this.

You don't know what to think about that. Disgust? Pity? Dread, because if Kate's a good one, then what are others like?

Kate pinches your clit. You jump, heart in your throat, spit dribbling down your chin, and you want her to do it again. She does, a little more lightly, and that gets an actual moan out of you, one you aren't quite able to choke back. It feels wrong on your tongue, perhaps because it gets caught in Kate's fingers.

At that, Kate hurries up her pace. It's constant pressure and a steady rhythm, and you find that your physiology is not your biggest fan. Your toes start curling in your shoes, and so do your fingers behind your back, and there's an ache: at the base of your spine, the inside of your knees, the back of your throat.

And then orgasm hits, and you shudder in Kate's hold, in her lap, with a hand on your clitoris and and another in your mouth, and everything is too raw and chafing.

Kate takes her hand away from your crotch and wipes it on your thigh, leaving sticky residue on your skin. Next she removes her fingers from your mouth, and the first thing you do is swallow your spit. The last she does is take out a utility knife out of her pocket and cut off the binding at your wrist.

Your shirt is still up to your armpits and your breasts are still hanging out of the bra, and your pants are down to your ankles and Kate's knees are still spreading you open. Your wrists have red lines on them, and your shoulders and elbows mutter their discomfort when you bring them forward.

You wipe your chin on the back of your palm, put your breasts back in your bra, and pull your shirt down. You stand up on wobbly legs and pull your pants and underwear in one move, well-aware that Kate has front-line view to your ass. Better your ass than your crotch, you think angrily, and struggle not to start crying. Your hands are covered with drool and sweat, and you don't want to smear them all over your cheeks as well.

After you're dressed, you're tempted to walk off home on your own. But that would be stupid, because it's a long run away, and your parents would expect you to return with Kate, besides. You get in the car and so does Kate, and when she turns the ignition, the radio turns on to the last station you'd tuned it to.

You don't say anything.

Neither does Kate.

originally posted at dreamwidth
Tags: -fic, .tw, allison argent, kate argent, kate/allison, less than: 5k, rating: nc-17
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