Necessity

Authors Notes: I couldn't get this in the summary/warnings, but this fic contains dub-con and drug usage. :D I just couldn't get past the idea of The Caller using a date rape drug on poor Stu.

Enjoy!

_________________________________
Necessity


The Christmas after Kelly left him, Stu went down to the little store on the corner that sold Halloween and party supplies, and stared blankly at the costumes there for ages. He wasn't particularly certain why he was even considering attending the industry costume masquerade he'd been invited to - some big cocktail night and fundraiser at a hotel hosted by some organization he didn't particularly care about. In fact, he was probably only on the invite list because they'd invited half of New York. It had been months since the ordeal in the phone booth that had both got him on all the local television studios and ultimately cost him both his wife and his livelihood, and people had forgotten about Stu Shepard as yesterday's papers were thrown out for newer news. And he had to admit... as an honest publicist, he was pretty much crap.

Regardless of all that, he found himself walking home from the store with a black felt gaucho hat, a black mask, cape and a plastic sword in scabbard. The Saturday before Christmas, he dressed in black slacks and a black raw silk shirt, tying the mask around his eyes and settling the hat over his hair, the sword clipped over his belt. The cape gave a satisfying swirl when he flipped it over his shoulders.

When he handed his invitation to the woman at the reception desk in front of the hotel ball room, she grinned.

"Zorro, huh?"

"Can't lose with a swanky swashbuckler," he replied with a grin, but didn't invite any further flirting. It was, he reflected, a bit like being a recovering alcoholic and visiting a bar, to be here among all these industry people. The temptation to fall back into old patterns of manipulation and deceit was strong, with the throngs of pretty stars, successful agents and powerful media moguls. Instead, he spoke little and drank a bit more, just listening to people talk. It wasn't a bad thing, to listen, though it was a little tedious at times. He found people liked to be listened to.

He was in the middle of listening to some columnist from Better Homes and Gardens talk about her push for organic tomatoes when he saw him, half hidden by the people around him. The man was wearing an ornate, embroidered powder blue frock coat with short pants, stockings and matching shoes, hair hidden by a black period wig pulled back in a ponytail with a bow. His mask was white, hiding almost his entire face apart from his lips... and it was the lips that gave him away. It had only been once that Stu had seen that mouth in person, when he was sitting in the back of an ambulance, high on morphine, helpless to alert anyone to the fact that the man who had held him hostage was standing in front of him, casually complimenting him on his shoes. But even seeing them that one time, the curve of them was imprinted on his mind, and every time he picked up an anonymous incoming phone call to hear the man's rich, throaty voice, he imagined those lips.

The man caught his gaze, the corners of his mouth turning up into a slight smirk, then disappeared into the crowd. When he finally managed to excuse himself from the tomato lady, the man in the frock coat was no where to be found.

It was more than a little aggravating. Why the hell was it so hard to find a man in a powder blue frock coat amidst the throngs of tuxedo-clad Bruce Waynes with the occasional Batman? He would catch glimpses of the man, here and there, from across the room, but by the time Stu managed to make his way to where he had been, he would be gone again. Stu wasn't sure if he should be trembling with excitement that the man was actually here, here in the flesh instead of an anonymous voice on the phone, or pissed off to hell that he was being toyed with yet again.

Four hours into the event, and Stu was more than a little tipsy. The crowd had thinned out a little, but it hadn't made it any easier to find the man in the blue frock coat. He hadn't seen a hint of the man in almost an hour, and Stu tried to convince himself that the man had given up on whatever he was trying to do and left.

He was dizzy, the wine hitting much harder than he'd expected, and made his way carefully out of the ballroom and to the elevators, heading up to the third floor to find the most convenient parkade entrance for a breath of cold air to clear his head and smoke a cigarette. Smoking only seemed to make it worse, however, making his head spin and his vision swim, and when he staggered back into the hotel, he had to lean up against the wall heavily just to avoid falling. He closed his eyes and tried to draw deep breaths, to control himself. This wasn't alcohol, he realized suddenly. This was definitely something else, something that left him dizzy and disoriented, limbs clumsy and unresponsive but at the same time his nerves buzzed with sensitivity, leaving his mind unable to focus on anything around him, just the feel of the cold wall against his face, the brush of his silk shirt against his skin.

When the man in the powder blue frock coat came up behind him and looped a warm arm securely around his waist, supporting him, he could only stare at him blearily, stumbling a little as the man guided him down the hall. The man didn't look at him, face still masked and impassive, but Stu thought he could see the hint of a smile on those well shaped lips.

They stopped in front of a hotel room door finally, and in his state Stu had no idea where they were in relation to the party, or even if they'd taken the elevator to another floor. "What did you..." he tried to ask as the man swiped into the hotel room, opening the door and guiding him inside, but he found that his vocal cords were as unresponsive as the rest of him.

"Who..." he tried to ask again as the door closed behind him, only to find himself pushed up against the door, held upright in strong arms as the man's mouth came to his, hard and demanding and more hungry than he ever could have imagined a kiss could be. Stu was moaning before he could even think about it, trying to control himself enough to return the embrace, to arch closer to him. The press of this man's lips to his, the swipe of his tongue, the taste of it - everything was so acute, so maddeningly good against hypersensitive nerves, and Stu quickly found that one part of him didn't need conscious thought to respond, already growing hard as he arched against the man's body.

"I'm going to apologize for this in advance, Stu," the man murmured in his ear, and oh god, it was definitely him, it was so very much him, and the throaty rumble of his voice made Stu's cock twitch in anticipation. He'd heard this voice so many times on the phone, and it was almost weekly now that the man would call him. To check up on him, he said. Make sure he was still doing it right. But the phone call inevitably turned salacious, and he would always end up in bed with a hand down his shorts, crying out and stroking himself helplessly to the sound of this voice.

If he hadn't been drugged, he might have been anxious, nervous, hearing those words. But he damn well wanted it, whatever this man was planning to do to him. And drugged like this, he couldn't even work up the will to offer the socially appropriate protests, couldn't do anything but arch against him and groan, melting between him and the door.

In no time at all, he was hardly standing, feeling like his body was practically boneless except for one. The man slipped an arm under his hips, pulling him up a little to stand. "My poor Stu," he murmured with a soft chuckle. "Can't hold your wine, can you?"

Of course not - you drugged me, he wanted to say. Instead he let himself be half carried more into the room and laid down on the bed, hat and mask and sword set aside. The man perched beside him, blue eyes vibrant behind the mask, and he reached out to touch him, fingers ghosting over his cheek, as if mapping his face with his hands and his gaze. Stu tried to resist the urge to close his eyes, drinking in the sight of him, and reached up clumsily for his face, fingers missing and landing on his shoulders. "Mask," he managed to murmur, voice unexpectedly raw, and the man watched him for a long moment, obviously considering, then slipped the white mask off and placed it on the table beside the bed with Stu's.

God, he was gorgeous, blue eyes intense and lips parted slightly as his hand slipped lower to stroke slowly over the raw silk of his shirt, fingers finding every curve of his chest through the thin, slick fabric, toying with a nipple with his fingertips. It felt even more arousing than it would normally, nerves tingling and warm everywhere the man's fingers had been, his hands slowly working his body to almost a fever pitch without even taking his clothes off, until Stu was breathless and moaning, and the only word that seemed to be left in his vocabulary was please.

When the man's hands finally strayed to his belt, he almost gave a cry of relief, feeling his slacks pulled undone, the waistband of his boxers dragging over his aching cock as the man pulled his pants off carefully. He should have felt vulnerable, laying here half naked hardly even knowing where he was, laying here with another man over him, controlling him, a man he knew was dangerous, a man who didn't even have a name. But all he could feel was desire. He wanted him - he'd wanted him for months, secretly, shamefully. Wishing with each phone call that the man would reveal himself to him, ask him to meet.

The man's nimble fingers whispered up his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt. At some point the powder blue frock coat had disappeared along with the frilled blouse underneath and the short pants, leaving the man only in boxers and a thin white t-shirt, and he fell on Stu's bare skin hungrily with his mouth, kissing and sucking down his neck and over his chest, pressing between his legs and grinding against him slowly. Before Stu knew it, his stomach and thighs were being kissed and licked and sucked, the man's fingers pressed between his thighs, wet and slick as they slowly pressed inside him. He cried out softly at the hot ache of sensation, trying to comprehend what was happening, how he was letting this happen. He should be fighting and yelling and not - oh god - pressing back against those fingers, and he definitely shouldn't be begging, breathlessly, again and again.

He was vaguely aware of latex being rolled carefully onto his cock, the man's fingers stroking him slow and firm as Stu found his thighs urged apart more, and he looked up dazedly to meet the man's blue eyes. For a moment, the man almost seemed to falter, then leaned down to claim Stu's lips almost tenderly, warm and intense. Stu felt the ache again, far more intense than the man's fingers had been, hard and thick and part of him could hardly believe that his body could take this, take the invading pressure. He was crying out against the man's mouth, half clutching at the blankets underneath him, but at the same time it was so intense, so hot and overwhelming and strangely good, and he could hear the man gasping over him, voice soft and low, telling him what a good boy he was, how good he felt, how obedient he'd been.

"More," he gasped, hardly even knowing why he was saying it other than he needed it, needed more sensation to appease the hunger, the ache. He felt the man's hips rock against him slowly, felt the head of his cock rub against - something - hot and bright and sensitive inside him, and the resulting burst of sensation almost woke him completely from the drug's hold. His arms wrapped tightly around the man, keeping him from pulling away as he arched under him, fingers digging into his back. "Oh god, more - !"

"That's it," the voice murmured, catching on his words, throaty and raw. "Fuck, Stu, let me hear it. Oh god, let me hear you scream." He was moving harder now, a little faster, somehow rubbing against that spot with each thrust, and all Stu could do was hold tight and close his eyes, crying out helplessly with each breath.

"Please," he gasped helplessly, almost whimpering, not even quite knowing what he was asking for. "God, please - !" The ache was almost unbearable, pleasure and sensation hot and bright and intense, surging inside him, trying to break free. He arched up against him as much as he could, head falling back as the man's lips bit and sucked at his neck a little roughly, thrusts growing almost frantic, erratic as Stu shuddered helplessly around him.

"You're mine, you hear me?" The man's voice was almost a growl, thick with passion but firm. "No one will ever own you like I do. Never. You're mine, Stu. Always."

It was a thought Stu hadn't considered, and somehow the most intense thing he could have ever imagined. "Yes - !" he half sobbed, and bucked up against him as it all finally came to a peak, sensation crashing helplessly around him as the pleasure rushed through him, the world entirely nonexistent beyond the man that was over him and deep inside him and crying out harshly against his skin.

As his breath calmed and pulse slowed, the fuzzy influence of the drug took hold again a little, and Stu found that all he could do was lay there, warm and breathless and sleepy as the man cleaned them up and pulled his own clothes back on. Then he found the covers of the bed pulled over him, tucked around his still mostly naked form almost tenderly. Finally, the man picked up the mask from the bedside table and slipped it back over his face, reaching out to cup Stu's cheek with a hand.

"I have to go now, Stu. You can stay here for the night. The room is paid for in cash under a fake name. Don't try to follow me or find me."

"You didn't... have to drug me...." Stu managed to whisper softly, and saw the man give a soft, sad smile, fingers trailing over his face.

"Yes, I did," he murmured, then stood and left.

~~~~~~