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Archangel Protocol

Fallen Host

Messiah Node

Apocalypse Array


After Archangel Protocol

Dee [vignette]



"Missing" from Fallen Host
Em and Morningstar


"Missing" from Apocalypse Array (in .PDF format)



Non-Mouse Fiction:

Alternate Beginning of Fallen Host

To Catch A Gene Thief



het slash

Rated – R (Strong language, graphic sex, volence)
Continuum: Messiah Node, What If… (What if Mouse hadn’t been stupid and groped Emmaline, and, instead, had spent some time working for Morningstar before discovering that Morningstar was Satan Incarnate.)

Part One: Wicked Angel

by Armand LeBeau

Nothing about Morningstar is what you could call a “soft touch.”

I’m in deep-code zombie mode when I suddenly feel his hands on my shoulders. I jolt into the present instantly. The palms bearing down on either side of my neck are full, as usual, of threat and violence. More than that is his capital P, Presence. It always makes my skin crawl… and my heart race.

“How’s it coming, Christian,” he purrs into my ear. Morningstar’s voice is silken, if whiskey-scratched, like an aging rock star. I’ve been working on his girlfriend’s A.I. problem. She’s got a rogue one, and Morningstar mistakenly thinks I know a thing or two about how to rein in sentient software. As if….

“It’s Mouse,” I remind him as I shake off his hands with a grunt. “And I work much better without interruption, thank you.”

I’m really hoping Morningstar gets the hint and leaves me alone – not that there’s a whole lot of privacy in this one bedroom Parisian hotel he keeps me in. At least in prison I got a room to myself, even if it was maximum security. Granted this place has a window with a rather spectacular view of the glassed Notre Dame, but my bunkmates are horny as hell… and a lot less modest than I’d prefer, especially given the fact that I sleep in the bathtub most nights.

“Look, seriously, Morningstar, couldn’t you go harass your Inquisitor girlfriend or something?”

A fingertip strokes the contour of my cheekbone and continues down the length of my neck. I freeze. He leans in again, his lips centimeters from my ear, “You squirm better.”

I swivel my chair around to face him, ready to tell him that sexually intimidating the staff is going to result in a French-style worker’s strike, but, well, I miscalculate. I suddenly find myself eyeball to crotch, with my mouth hanging open stupidly. He’s… happy to see me, I guess. At least I hope that’s what accounts for the large bulge clearly visible in his jeans.

“Uh,” I say, starting to turn away. “Just… stop that. I’m busy or something.”

He grabs my shoulders again before I can spin the chair back to the terminal. Leaning in close, his legs force mine apart. Even though I can’t twist my body away, I glance away, at the floor, anywhere but… there.

I hear him chuckle lowly – a surprisingly alluring, inviting sound. “You’re so demure, Mouse. It suits you.”

“Nice,” I mutter. My cheeks redden, no doubt making me look even more like a blushing schoolboy. I hate that I can’t control my response. Worse, I’ve known enough men like Morningstar to know it probably makes him more into me. Even without looking up, I can feel the heat of Morningstar’s gaze. My body reacts to his intense inspection at the same time my gut twists.

What is it about me that makes guys want me this way?

Well, it’s not happening today. I’m not fifteen any more. Standing up, I propel myself out of the chair. It bangs against the flimsy hotel desk, making the sequencer wobble. I shove my palms hard against Morningstar’s chest. “Get off me, you creep.”

He stumbles back only a little and rights himself quickly, damn it. I was hoping to do more damage.

“Your syntax is off, little Egyptian. I think you mean, ‘get me off,’” Morningstar says with another one of those silky, sexy laughs and a pointed stare at my growing erection.

“That’s not about you,” I say, with a dismissive wave at my pants, trying desperately to believe my own words. I mean, what else could it be? I tell myself it’s history… personal memories from long ago. “Look, don’t take it personally. It’s completely random.”

“It is, is it?” He moves in fast, pushing me up against the desk so hard the biosequencer bounces off my back and heads toward the floor. It lands with a relatively soft thud, not a crash, so I have hopes that it’s not completely damaged.

“Oh shit,” I yelp, squirming out from under the sudden press of Morningstar’s body to get a look at the equipment.

To my surprise, he backs off enough for me to turn around to reach for it. Oh. I’m such an idiot, I think, as I find myself now nearly bent over the table with Morningstar pinning me from behind. Oh, how about just drop a bar of soap, prison boy? No, just a biosequencer, that ought to make any geek boy reach for his knees. Merciful Allah, and I wonder why this sort of thing always happens to me.

I prop myself up on my elbows, even though the move grinds his erection right into the hollow of my butt. He makes a little happy noise in the back of his throat, kind of like a purr. “Oh, great,” I say, trying to crane my head around to look at him, “I’m not really… this isn’t my sort of thing… I mean, aren’t you already getting enough from the Inquisitor?”

Morningstar’s hands slide under my shirt. His fingers are warm against the bare skin of my ribcage, making me shiver. Gentle autumn rain spatters the window pane. Expertly, he divests me of my tee-shirt. Goose bumps rise on my suddenly exposed flesh.

Okay, that feels kind of good. Shame colors my cheeks again.

Wordlessly, his palms slide back down the length of my back pressing me lightly into the desk. Involuntarily, my back arches.

My cock aches, but I still try to talk him out of it. “I’m know I’m hard to resist and everything, but what’s Emmaline going to think if she walks through that door, huh? You really don’t want to do this.” I sound a bit breathy even to my own ears.

“Oh, but I do. And,” his fingers trace up to my shoulder blades again, “I think you want it too.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree-oooh!” I would have sounded a lot more convincing had he not kissed me right behind the ear just then, and my body hadn’t done that whole flopping around in ecstasy spasm. I totally wasn’t expecting kissing. Men don’t usually kiss me. Certainly not so feather light and soft along the edge of my hairline, tracing the barely visible silver wire that disappears into the base of my neck. I forget to breathe.

Morningstar’s hand slides down around my leg to cup my cock and, after taking in a sharp hiss of breath, I finally find the presence of mind to ask, “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

“You know what I want.” He tightens his grip until I gasp in a combination of pleasure and pain. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

Okay, Mouse, say the right thing here. “No.”

Wait! What was that?

Okay, try it again. Take a deep breath. Think clearly. Now: “No. Don’t stop.”

I drop my head onto the table and bang my forehead. I let out a soft, strangled cry of frustration. Do I really want him like this? I don’t know. I can’t deny that I’ve watched them late at night – noticed the way his auburn hair glows with a dull fire in the moonlight. He’s got a body like a god – all broad shoulders and sculpted muscles. It’s almost unreal. But, I watched her, too. The way she struggled to dominate him, even in sex. That’s hot. Plus, I’d told myself it was her body -- the full, perky breasts, the narrow hips, and the silky wisp of hair between her legs – that’s what turned me on.

Still, it feels so good to be touched by someone, anyone. Some days you’ve got to take what you can get.

That dry chuckle tickles my ear, making my body push harder against him. I practically rut against his hand. With skill that makes me think he’s done this sort of thing many times, Morningstar quickly undoes the fly of my jeans one-handed. He strokes me hard and fast, like the sound of my ragged breath.

“Call me master,” he whispers.

Oh, I get it now. He wants me because I’m nothing like her. I’m little. I’m easy to take down in a fight. “Fuck you.”

Morningstar yanks my jeans down so hard I swear I’m going to have carpet burn. Then, with one hand keeping me pinned to the desk, he slaps my ass. That’s right, the fucker spanks me. Hard. Hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“Call me master, bitch.”

It would be nice if, just once, my mouth would obey my brain. It’s not even a whimper, you know the kind that might soften his blows, make him have a little sympathy. No, it’s a strong rebel yell: “Fuck off.”

I must want to be hurt.

I swear he leaves a hand print this time. I totally don’t intend to, but I scream like a girl. I’m sobbing a little bit, too. I can’t quite help that. It stings.

Then I hear the jangle of a belt buckle and I get a little panicked. Just before I’m ready to acquiesce, he lays the belt on the table, the buckle right in front of my face. “For later,” he murmurs, “If you continue to misbehave.”

My cock throbs in anticipation, even as I whisper, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never kid around,” he says, and I believe him.

The hand in the small of my back holds me down effortlessly, while the other now caresses the hot, painful welts on my ass. His fingers spread the mounds of my butt, sliding precariously close to my anus. Slipping past with the merest hint of pressure, he takes hold of my balls. The groan that escapes my clenched teeth is completely primal, instinctive.

“Surrender your will to me, Christian,” Morningstar insists.

I don’t know how I can be in a more supplicative pose, with my body arching agonizingly into the rough fabric of his jeans. I clutch at the edges of the desk, muscles straining. Despite the rawness of my need, my stomach drops at his request. There’s something about him that makes me deeply fear actively accepting his dominance over me. Physically, he has me already, but why do I feel as though more is at stake?

“Go to hell,” I choke, despite the throbbing of my cock.

The rubbing of his fingers against my balls stops so suddenly, I cry out. “Oh,” he says in a voice so soft it makes my entire body shiver, “that was a very, very naughty thing to say.”

His hand goes for the belt.

“No, no, no! You’re my master. You own me,” I babble as I try desperately to break his hold on me. I even manage to kick his shins, but it’s too late. The leather stings against my skin. The second blow is worse. By the third, I don’t even know what I’m saying, but I probably agree to give over my first born son, my soul, anything.

“That’s much better,” he says, his voice oozing like a caress in my ear. He kisses me again, no doubt tasting tears. “I can be a benevolent master if you can learn to behave.”

A perennial problem of mine, actually, but I can only moan. I hope he takes that as agreement. My body can’t take any more of the consequences of my rebellious nature.

“Show me your gratitude,” he says. I hear him unzip his pants. I instantly grok what he wants. Luckily, I’m not completely inexperienced in this particular department.

When Morningstar releases me, I slide on to the floor. Though I’d really like to just lie on the carpet balling my eyes out, I find the strength to pull myself up to my knees. It’s a bit awkward with my pants all tangled around my ankles and the intense pain moving causes. But, I steady myself with shaking hands that grip his waist.

Hmmm, turns out he’s a natural redhead.

His fingers stroke my hair, gently nudging me. If only I was getting paid, I think as I take him into my mouth.

It doesn’t take me long to get back into the rhythm of it all. Apparently, giving head is one of those skills like riding a bike, something you never forget. Plus, you know, I used to be pretty damn good at it. My mad boy-pleasing skillz got me though the Black Out years.

He pulls out and cums all over my fae.

With a savage kick to my rib cage, he drops me to the floor. I lay on the rug trying to catch my breath. I hear him zip up and walk out the door without even a backwards glance.


Part Two: Angel of Mercy



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