This Van Helsing story is slash fan fiction. It contains adult concepts, sensuality and explicit sexual situations between men.
If you're underage or offended by such things, you have been warned not to read the fiction.


Cousin Shelley

Carl winced. It always hurt initially, because Van Helsing didn’t go slow. He wasn’t capable of going slow, not in the beginning. He’d explained that, his lips against Carl’s ear, every time. By the time he came to Carl, always during a full moon, his need was urgent, his patience gone.

“I’m sorry, Carl, so sorry,” he whispered, before tonguing Carl’s ear. Carl arched against him, and again tried to wrap his arms around the man, but the ropes at his wrists prevented this. He knew that it appeared he was trying to pull free, and Van Helsing seemed to approve of that, pumping into him harder.

Carl had never told him it wasn’t necessary to tie his wrists, he wasn’t unwilling, he wanted Van Helsing as much as the man wanted him. Carl had never told him, because he knew Van Helsing didn’t want to hear it. He needed it to be this way, an act Carl had no choice in, something he did out of need. An unnatural need. The wolf, Carl knew, was his excuse. That was what allowed this, Van Helsing’s belief that Carl might believe it wasn’t wholly him, but the animal that had possessed him for a brief time.

To come to Carl, completely as a man, with merely a man’s needs, went against everything the Church, against everything God, stood for. And Van Helsing served God. The left hand of God could not feel something so forbidden, or commit such sin.

Not on his own.

Each time Van Helsing released him, Carl silently held him, comforted him. He let the man retain the illusion that Carl believed this to be something simply out of their hands.

Van Helsing’s mouth covered Carl’s as they both came. Carl knew that now, for the next few hours, there wouldn’t be anymore pain. He would be taken as many times as Van Helsing could manage, but he would be slower now, his immediate need sated. Now he would take his time, as if making it up to Carl for touching him in the first place.

“So sorry. . .”

Carl woke on his back, hard as he always woke from this dream. He wondered what it meant that he had recurring dreams of being taken that way, having no choice, ravished, Van Helsing so overcome with passion for him that he merely took, because he also had no choice. What did those dreams make him?

He touched himself beneath the blanket, rubbing the pleasant ache. He glanced over at Van Helsing, his bedroll only an arm’s length away, and found the hunter on his side, staring back at him. His hand stilled. Van Helsing’s eyes moved lower, and Carl tried to press himself down, make his state less noticeable, then realized that trying to do so probably only drew the man’s attention there.

He smiled at Van Helsing, embarrassed, but the man didn’t smile back. Carl noticed movement beneath Van Helsing’s blanket.

“Don’t stop, Carl,” the man said so low, Carl almost thought he’d imagined it. But he began stroking himself again. He looked at Van Helsing the whole time, trying to read what was going on behind his eyes. He was so close, but he wanted more than this.

Carl rolled then and reached for him, but Van Helsing stopped him with an unyielding grip around his wrist. Carl felt the urge to tell Van Helsing that there would be no need to tie him.

“No,” the man said as he held Carl’s wrist. He stopped touching himself, and his whole body seemed to deflate. His eyes closed and when he opened them, the guilt there was enough to make Carl wrench his arm free.

“No,” Carl repeated. “Don’t you stop.” This time, he took Van Helsing’s wrist in his hand, his grip as tight as he could make it. He whipped the blanket away and captured his other wrist, and quick enough to impress himself he straddled Van Helsing and held the man’s wrists against the ground on either side of his head. Van Helsing was stronger, he knew. He could have thrown Carl off easily.

Frustration from nights of his recurring dream made Carl bolder than he might have been otherwise. “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he said, before kissing the man and grinding their hips together, intent on giving them both pleasure just like this. “Finish what you started,” he said, not a request, an order. Van Helsing obeyed.