SEKRIT CABAL PORN BATTLE (version 3.0)
THE SEKRIT CABAL PORN BATTLE HAS BEGUN.
How to Participate:
Pick a prompt, any prompt, from the list below - then write a porny ficlet answering said prompt. Post it in the comments to this post, and then enjoy yourself basking in praise. Remember, this is a porn battle, so each ficlet should have at least an R rating for sexuality.
( Posting Rules: )
How to Participate:
Pick a prompt, any prompt, from the list below - then write a porny ficlet answering said prompt. Post it in the comments to this post, and then enjoy yourself basking in praise. Remember, this is a porn battle, so each ficlet should have at least an R rating for sexuality.
( Posting Rules: )
Prequel #2 - Sanguinary - by vibishan, Casino Royale/Prison Break/Incredible Hulk, Blonsky/Bond/Mahone, NC-17
The doorbell rings as Mahone is on his way to work. Fixing the tie around his neck, hand around the briefcase handle, turns the knob -
And there’s Blonsky, shameless. He looks almost natural in civilian clothes.
“I have to go to work,” says Mahone. In some kind of protest.
“Shut up,” says Blonsky. Softer than a snarl, but with the same kind of force attached.
Mahone finds himself dropping the briefcase, the tie stripped from his neck ruthlessly - did it tear? - shirt stripped from his shoulders, and god, Blonsky moves fast, especially with the near-disappearance of that broken hesitation Mahone felt the first time.
“Do you hate yourself for it?” Blonsky hisses in Mahone’s ear.
Bad leverage, bad position, but it doesn’t stop Mahone from socking Blonsky in the jaw. Not a good place to hit someone - usually damages the hand more than the face - but it has the weight of training and experience, army and FBI, behind it.
Blonsky shoves Mahone back onto the floor of the entrance hall, in retaliation. Fucks Mahone there, in long, rough strokes - clear he was prepared, clear this was exactly what he wanted, because he already had lubrication with him. And Mahone bucks against him, fights - not because it isn’t what he wants, but because it feels good to be beaten.
Bond never re-enters the picture. Not the type to stay, anyhow.
The third time, Blonsky recognizes the signs sooner than Mahone does. Shaking hands, and the headache, the headache, and before Mahone knows it, Blonsky has that goddamned pen. He slips the pill onto Mahone’s tongue, with the tip of his thumb. There’s that confidence, that feral curiosity, but Blonsky seems surprised that he dared to take that next step.
Then, it’s gone too far. This is it. Mahone should stop it, now, because Blonsky’s seen too far. And he doesn’t see Blonsky, for months.
Again, though, he returns home to find a window broken. Finds Blonsky in the living room, idly twirling a bent wire between his fingers. He relishes the danger he finds in Blonsky’s eyes.
A few minutes later, he’s sprawled back across the couch, Blonsky swallowing around his cock. Teeth gritted, fists clenched, he can only hold on as Blonsky rips his climax from him, startlingly, insanely fast.
Blonsky pauses, an oddly blank look in his eyes.
Mahone doesn’t know what he’s doing, can’t think of what he’s doing. But his palm slides along the stubble-rough edge of Blonsky’s jaw, and when they kiss, it’s gentle.
“It’s just me,” murmurs Mahone.
This is the right answer.
Blonsky falls asleep in Mahone’s bed. He’s gone in the morning, and Mahone wonders if it’ll be another few months. -it’s not like Blonsky left a contact address or number, or like Mahone even knew what kind of soldier he was. Mahone is the one with the roots, here. Blonsky is the one who finds him.
Right, then.
Mahone sells the house. Sells his furniture. Sells the TV. The day has come sooner than he thought; he leaves his job behind, his badge the only feature on an emptied desk.
Once in Mexico, he buys a boat, and casts loose. He has no roots now. Just - enough money, with thrifty spending, to last him the rest of his life. Six months in, and he’s started to speak passable Spanish. Nine months, and the tan might have permanently changed the color of his skin.
He doesn’t throw away Michael Scofield’s mug shot. But he doesn’t think, anymore, about watching them bury the body.
Eleven months in.
Blonsky is waiting, on the boat, when Mahone gets back from the market.
Mahone half-smiles. “You know anything about sailing?”
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