Comment!fic Collection
Title: Persistence
Author: Corona
Fandom: CO Torchwood/Captain Scarlet
Pairing: Captain Jack/Captain Scarlet
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Jack is persistent
AN: fredbassett and the sock puppets made me do it! For the purposes of this fic Captain Scarlet is not a puppet, because even for Jack that would be weird!
Jack tips the hat back just a little, far enough that he can see all of Scarlet's face, though it doesn't help half as much as he thought.
There's something inscrutable behind his eyes. Something hard that's been broken and repaired in a way that means it can't be broken again.
Something indestructible you might say.
What are the chances of two people being indestructible in different ways.
What are the chances, well it's a big universe.
He tips the hat back a little further, far enough to let hair escape, not as neat or as careful as the rest of his uniform but still structured, still restrained.
Jack admires restraint.
He has so little of it himself.
"Fraternisation is frowned upon," Scarlet says in that careful voice of his, and he makes it sound like life or death, god he makes everything sound like life or death.
"I don't work with you," Jack points out. "I don't think you really let anyone work with you do you? So it can't really count, not in the strictest sense of the word."
"You're persistent."
Jack draws the cap all the way off, lets it fall.
"I am persistent, but then I think a little persistence might do you some good."
There's a sigh of quiet, conflicted air against the edge of his jaw.
"I'm not exactly-"
"Neither am I," Jack tells him and kisses him.
As inhuman as Scarlet thinks he is he's warm nonetheless. He feels real to Jack, feels more than real, there's a grasp of his hands, uncertain at first but tempted into catching hold of him when Jack presses him into the wall. Willing to let him push, and then between one breath and the next willing to push as well.
He knows how to kiss back, knows how to open and press and just when Jack thinks he's won...how to dominate.
The uniform comes off surprisingly easily, the zip drags all the way down in a whisper of sound, red material pushed all the way down Scarlet's arms.
Jack can't resist getting a foot between those red boots, because seriously they're possibly the filthiest things he's ever seen.
Scarlet makes a quiet noise of amusement and tilts his head away.
"You do this a lot don't you?"
Jack slides his hands under the waistband of tight black trousers, finds Scarlet warm there too, warm and naked and it's a surprise that turns his reply into a soft noise that Scarlet kisses into silence.
"Is that regulation?" He says when his mouth is free.
"No it's personal preference."
Scarlet drags Jack's shirt out of his pants, then pulls him in with one sharp tug on the loose waistband, which is then made even looser with one devious movement of Scarlet's hand.
"You're quite inefficient you know."
"So I've been told," Jack grins, slithers his hands round from back to front, slides one down and finds Scarlet warm and already hard, pressing in against his palm
The wall is holding them both up, and continues to, while Jack works black fabric over smooth hips and down impossibly strong thighs. They're far too tight, and Jack's shirt is far too long.
But awkward is good, Jack has always loved awkward.
"Have you ever been pushed Captain?"
"You wouldn't believe how far," Scarlet says softly and then they're just a tangle of thighs and warmth, pressing up and in.
Jack can't resist kissing him again, snatching a handful of his sinfully black hair and twisting until they're at just the right angle.
They both need to breathe, but it's not an absolute necessity, and Jack takes it all the way to the line, fingers dug in the soft, shifting skin of Scarlet's ass, while his teeth are a flash of pain and filth across the edge of Jack's cheek.
It's dirty and graceless and brief and Jack is going to make a fucking mess of his pretty black polo neck. But not first, because Scarlet drags him close enough to crush all the breathe out of him and groans into his mouth in a way which isn't neat or efficient at all. It sounds obscene, and Jack is utterly gone.
Title: Puppets
Author: Corona
Fandom: CO Primeval/Captain Scarlet
Pairing: Captain Ryan/Captain Black
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Crack! Puppet non-con! Heaps of silliness!
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Captain Black has captured Captain Ryan
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, made entirely of crack and madness!!
Ryan takes stock of his situation.
He's missing his weapons, equipment, radio and most of his clothes and he seems to be in some sort of underground lair.
Did people actually have underground lairs?
Outside of action movies and The Phantom Of The Opera?
Also, he's apparently been captured by a puppet.
An actual puppet, made of wood, and controlled by...what appear to be strings. They disappear into the ceiling like some sort of bad nightmare puppet theatre.
He even has puppet stubble! Who the hell gives a puppet stubble, that's just wrong!
"Captain Ryan I presume."
Oh my god, the puppet apparently also talks!
"I am Captain Black and I will have you in my terrible bondage!"
The man-puppet-thing? Flails in a way that's very, very disturbing.
Ryan gets smacked in the face with a little wooden hand, which really fucking hurts.
"Ow! For the love of-"
He tries to slide out of...flailing distance but only gets so far before he's pulled up short by his own arm
Which has gotten tangled up in Captain Black's strings, suggesting the mad flailing had been some sort of ruse.
Can puppets have ruses?
Why couldn't Ryan have had a nice dinosaur try and eat him instead. He knew where he stood with dinosaurs!
He kicks out with a boot, which smacks into Captain Black's little wooden chest and doesn't move him an inch. Which is screwed up because he's tiny!
"I'm indestructible!"
"You're made of wood," Ryan points out and gives another jerk on the strings, making Captain Black jiggle about. "Really hard wood."
One of Captain Black's little arms flies up.
The string's like fishing line, Ryan's going to end up with no circulation in his wrist if he keeps it up.
"Look it wouldn't work, you're a puppet and I'm-." he stops.
There's a little wooden hand caressing his thigh.
Ryan has never been quite this disturbed in his entire life.
"Ok that's just wrong," Ryan shifts his thigh out of reach.
"You are entirely in my power now Captain Ryan!"
Captain Black tries to drag his leg back, but his little puppet hands don't appear to bend.
"Entirely mine, to do with as I wish."
He's still failing to get a grip on anything so he settles for flailing his way closer and everything is suddenly disturbingly wooden.
Ryan's about to be molested by a puppet and he's never going to live it down!
Title: Wet
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Ryan/Stephen
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Sometimes Ryan does what he's told
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, on request!
The water's a shade off of hot, pouring in an insistent fall across the back of Ryan's head, and his face every time Stephen pushes him into the wall. Harder on every breath, his fingers won't stop moving, sliding down Ryan's back, dropping to catch his shifting thighs and then back up to dig in what they can reach of his hair.
"Turn around," Stephen says against his mouth.
"Are you going to fuck me?" Quick kiss that's more water than mouth.
"Eventually, turn around."
Ryan grunts but complies, swiveling in the water, tipping his head down so it doesn't drown him.
"Put your hands on the wall," Stephen hisses in his ear, and there's a heaviness in his voice, a determination flavoured with deviousness.
It's the kind of voice that can get people in fucking trouble, but Ryan lays his hands on the wet tiles, dips his head.
Stephen's mouth slides open on the back of his neck, tongue and teeth where throat meets shoulders.
There are hands on his waist, tilting his hips back, plastering him against Stephen's slippery stomach and the slide and press of his cock.
Fingernails catch on skin and Stephen eases back.
"Stay where you are," he says, face sliding against the wet skin of Ryan's back, and then he drops to his knees.
Ryan hears him hit the floor, and he leans forward far enough to press his forehead against the tiles.
Hands slide up his thighs, wet and insistent and then pushing just a little.
Ryan swears and shifts his thighs apart, slides his hands higher, over muscle that twitches at his touch, spreading, thumbs sliding between, and the water curves all the way down his spine.
Stephen doesn't start gentle, one long slide of tongue across his hole, hard enough to make Ryan press his teeth together and groan, then again one long determined wet slide.
Fingers dig into his arse, all sharp nails and demand and it's an added sensation that manages to make everything sharper and more pointed.
"Christ!" Ryan lays his face on the wall and concentrates on the cold seeping into his face, while Stephen digs in with his thumbs, spreads him obscenely wide, and the slide of tongue becomes a push, quick and wet and fucking obscene.
Ryan groans into the wall, and he thinks nothing, fucking nothing, of the shameless way he tilts his hips, pushes back.
Like Stephen needs the encouragement.
Because he's good at this, really, really good at this, and if Ryan starts demanding he won't fucking stop he'll just babble like a madman and everything will be-
Jesus fucking christ! Stephen has slid a thumb inside him as well, one quick slippery push and then out again. Flare of sensation inside and then out. It's an awkward, dirty, really, really fucking good way to work him open and Ryan doesn't dare touch his own cock.
Because no way on this earth could he not come if he did that.
Title: Armed
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Ryan/Lester
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Misuse of military equipment
AN: Written for fredbassett 's comment!porn collection
Lester rather thinks he's doing marvelous job of not being awake. It's something he doesn't particularly work hard at, which makes a nice change.
Though Ryan isn't exactly making it easy.
He's doing something clandestine further down the bed, something clandestine that involves dragging what feels suspiciously like straps up the bare length of his thighs.
"What are you doing?" Lester asks, and he's not particularly pleased at the fact that he's now no longer quite as asleep as he was before.
There's no answer, just another drag of material that shifts his thigh in a most unnerving way and a quiet but altogether more suspicious click. It's not the sort of click that Lester has experience with but it's vaguely familiar all the same.
Self-preservation if nothing else demand he look.
His legs are very heavy, and apparently now armed.
"Please tell me those aren't loaded?"
"They're not loaded," Ryan says simply, which isn't really a comforting thought.
"And you felt the need to arm me because."
"I was practicing my stealth tactics," Ryan says, in a voice that's entirely too obedient and sensible to be believed. It's a very military sort of bullshit.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"And not in fact using those stealth tactics that cost the taxpayer millions of pounds to entertain yourself?"
Ryan raises an eyebrow, and Lester debates prodding at that interesting expression for a long moment.
"Are they supposed to be this tight?"
"Yes," Ryan says, and his voice is drifting curiously into a range that's all throat and distraction.
Lester lifts a foot and pushes, Ryan bends with the movement, until he comes to a point where he's forced to either fall on his back or push against it.
He falls on his back, which is a particularly attractive position for him.
Lester follows, because how could he not. When he shifts to his knees the straps dig in sharply and it takes a moment to work out how to move, how to shift up the bed far enough that he can knock Ryan's legs closer together and carefully swing a leg over his waist.
And it really is very distracting having extra weight there.
Ryan makes a noise when the straps slide and catch on his waist, a noise that he seems completely unable to keep in his throat.
Oh this could be interesting, this could be very interesting indeed.
Title: Vae Victus
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Nick/Lester
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Nick decides Lester has done enough talking
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, on request!
It's easy enough to drag Lester's tie out from the collar of his shirt, the entire length of it, while he complains vocally into the glass surface of his own desk.
"If you think-"
Nick finds his mouth with unerring accuracy, catching it halfway through a word and filling it full of folded silk.
"You," Nick says in a careful but determined tone of voice "Do not get to talk."
He folds the edges of Lester expensive tie together and pulls it tight at the back of his head. Lester makes an irate, muffled noise through rapidly dampening material.
"You've done more than enough talking today." Nick strips his jacket halfway down his arms and then fists a hand in the fabric, leaving Lester pressed against the desk, trying to free his own elbows." You've mocked me, berated me, questioned my methods in front of my team."
Lester makes a complicated noise through the material which is quite clearly the better part of all the vowels in 'yes, well your team is nothing to write home about.'
He just doesn't ever stop.
"I'm starting to get the feeling you weren't smacked enough as a child," Nick says conversationally. Which gets him something long, complicated and definitely insulting.
"Perhaps I should remedy that?"
Lester goes very still, and then manages something which sounds incredibly close to 'don't you fucking dare'
Which really...is the wrong tactic, and someone who actually went to school would know that.
Nick drags Lester's shirt out of his trousers in one sharp movement and it's warm in his hands, easy to shift up smooth, twitching skin. The belt practically falls open and the trousers are far, far too easy to slide over Lester hips.
There's another snarl of words and vitriol and a movement backwards which is easy enough to stop with a lean and a push.
Lester's boxer shorts and silk, slippery, smooth as skin.
"Exactly how expensive are these anyway," Nick flicks the waistband twice, makes an interested noise...and then rips them straight up the back.
Lester sucks air through his nose in a way which isn't quite the indignant outrage he was probably going for. It finishes in something soft and breathless and then there's the thump of flesh hitting the table.
Lester spits something filthy through his own tie.
Which makes it surprisingly easy.
Nick brings his hand round sharply and smacks him on the arse. It's not a gentle blow.
Lester exhales through his nose, makes a noise that's shocked and furious, but Nick doesn't let him get his breath back to work on another muffled insult. He shoves the trailing edge of his shirt to one side and hits him again with the flat of his hand.
It makes a furious smack and judging by the way Lester's head hits the table his aim is just about right.
There's a garbled completely unintelligible noise through wet material, but it's not an insult. Nick doesn't think Lester meant it because he's grumbling to himself through the material jammed in his teeth.
Nick's so busy trying to work out what it is that by the time he realises he hasn't moved his hand it's already sliding across warm, reddened skin.
Title: Lost
Author: Corona
Fandom: Robin Hood
Pairing: Allan/Will
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Allan has had enough, Will is lost
Will didn't stumble when Allan tugged him aside along the route. He did give him a dirty look though, because pulling people about like cattle was not a way to make friends.
"Allan!" Edged against a tree just off what passed for a track way.
"You're driving me insane," Allan said quietly, mostly grumbled under his breath and Will was honestly lost.
"What? Why?"
Allan shifted, bracketed him against the tree with his arms. His back was now pressed into the bark, but Allan didn't look angry, not angry enough that it would have meant a scuffle at least. There was something tense about him though, something half wild under all that watchful.
He was watching Will swallow, nostrils flaring just a little and Will knew that look, though he'd never considered it friendly nor welcome. He was more than a little surprised to see it on Allan's face.
"What?" He asked, straightening a little. Allan's head turned, glanced up the road. Will sighed, made to move away. Allan's hand stopped him, wound round his wrist. He stopped, sighed, leant back again.
"Allan-" Sharp press of lips, warm and hard and nothing like Will had been expecting, Allan pulled away just as fast, and oh....
Allan was not half as good at hiding his expression as he thought he was.
A catch of eyes, long enough that Will thought he must need to say something, to say that it was ok, that he could. That he wanted him to.
But Allan swore, drifted back in, and this time his mouth was edged open, carefully, warily, like he might protest if Allan pushed too hard.
Will twisted his head sideways.
"You don't have to be careful," he said softly. "I'm not a girl." There was a rumble of laughter from Allan, hard enough to that he felt the warmth of his exhale.
Then Allan took hold of his waist, pulled him back, pulled him in.
Title: Assistance
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Nick/Connor
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Cutter helps Connor.
AN: Written for deinonychus_1Connor decides that, given the general state of your clothing once a dinosaur has all but exploded all over you, you could be forgiven for getting into the showers without actually taking anything off.
Because seriously everything is ruined, trainers, jeans, shirt, waistcoat. Everything is a horrible mess of epic prehistoric proportions.
Connor is pretty sure he had things on him which were never designed to see light.
So yes, he did just step under the water in the vain hope that he could stop smelling like the stomach of some creatures in less time than it took to have to take another breath.
Ok that part had pretty much worked.
But now everything is soaking wet and it won't come off, slipping and catching where it seems to have shrunk to half its original size.
He's stuck inside his clothes, and the fact that he now doesn't smell isn't making the situation any easier to deal with.
It's made worse when he gets his head halfway out of his shirt only to discover that it's absolutely impossible to get up his body, and he's going to be stuck in here forever until he slowly suffocates in the wet material.
Oh god that will be so embarrassing!
"Having trouble?"
Connor manages, through sheer effort to get his head back out of his shirt again, only to discover that now he has hair all the way over his face and he can't see a thing.
And he's pretty sure Cutter is laughing at him.
"No," he says once he can see. Then decides that lying is probably just going to make him look stupid. "Yes, my clothes have shrunk."
Cutter steps over and looks at him with that terribly amused look on his face.
"I take it you don't want to keep them?"
"Not a chance," Connor says flatly.
Cutter tugs him forward a little by his shirt, then catches the end of the material and pulls hard.
The whole thing rips up Connor's chest in one movement, material separating in one vicious tear that makes him jerk forward in the shower.
It then flaps, dejectedly in the spray of water.
"There you go." Cutter pats him on the shoulder helpfully, and wanders off, presumably to the lockers.
Connor very carefully leans his head against the wall, and makes a very quiet noise.
He's free of his stubborn shirt, and also possibly harder than he's ever been in his entire life.
Title: Now I'm Strong and I Won't Kneel
Author: Corona
Fandom: Supernatural/Hercules
Pairing: John Winchester/Hercules
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: They're both used to sharing their space, even if the people that filled those spaces are long gone.
AN: Comment!fic for harem_entI love when you make me write crazy things! Fits a set2music
title perfectly, so I snagged it for that too.
The motel rooms are always too hot, summer is too long and too hard and John always feels like he's choking in dust.
But jackets are non-negotiable, too many demons, too many knives, and if the jacket's going to save his life he can put up with the heat.
Still he doesn't need it now and it's pushed over his shoulder, dragged down his arms by hands that are too large and too strong. John isn't used to being the small one and that jars, that pulls and pushes at his skin.
But this man has saved his life, more than once, he isn't quite human but he's nothing close to evil and though it rankles at John that he doesn't know quite what he is. He's strong, he's really fucking strong. Stronger even than John thinks he sometimes shows. He hides it like he's used to it.
But John thinks that's why he gave himself that name.
So, not human, and that at least should make it impossible because John doesn't do this, not with men and not with- . He can't say monsters, because that's the one thing Hercules is not.
And he thinks this man, if no other, knows the difference.
So he doesn't pull away, he doesn't slide his hands out of hair that's just a fraction too long to be fashionable. It runs through his fingers like a woman's though and smells like something heavy and unnameable, crushes tight when he catches the back of Hercules neck and pulls him all the way in.
His shirt is dragged up his back and Hercules is more than tall enough to peel it all the way off and throw it across the room before drawing him in again.
Jeans are shoved over hips and discarded to the floor, and John has stubbornness enough to keep pushing, to keep pushing until they're both tipped onto the bed, and they still have balance enough for men drifting past their prime.
Though he gets the feeling Hercules would catch him if he needed it.
A man with an impossible name. A man who's all strength and no ego, who drags him in by his waist like he weighs nothing at all, thighs sliding open round hips that aren't as wide as the shoulders might suggest.
Hercules kisses like he's starving, like there's no time and all the time in the world, hand twitching and catching in his hair like it wants so desperately to clench, to pull, and knows it never can. He leaves John's mouth wet and stinging and empty.
There are hands sliding up his thighs, catching the curve of his hips in a way that shouldn't be possible, dragging him round. Large hands slide up his arms, lift them and settle them on the cold of the plaster and there are teeth in his neck and fingers dug into his skin and everything is too hard and he can't breathe.
It's a question that's never asked, but John has learned how to read those better than most.
He says yes, says yes and doesn't know why, heart thumping and skin three sizes too small, palms flat on the wall, breath short and harsh out of his throat while slippery fingers open him, too quick and too wide and it's too much.
But he never once says stop.
It hurts more than a little, and though he thought he knew pain this is different, this is...stranger and needier and he thinks he should be ashamed but he can't be. It's slow and controlled and careful and John still has to breathe through every push, every drag against his prostate heavy and torturous and fucking beautiful.
He comes at that pace, groaning and catching the long fingers round his waist, and there is stillness, and breath against the back of his neck, and need. Fierce and hard and hot enough to burn.
He leans into the wall and braces himself, and there is a mouth open on his throat now, teeth hard and thankful, they never break the skin, not even when a thrust that jars his spine makes them dig deep enough to fucking hurt.
But John is still breathing and aching, and quiet in a way that has nothing to do with noise and everything to do with peace.
The bed takes their weight again, John breathing into the edge of a pillow, Hercules tipped the other way, and there shouldn't be enough room but somehow they make it work.
They're both used to sharing their space, even if the people that filled those spaces are long gone.
"What's your real name?"
"You know my real name." Hercules looks nothing but amused sprawled out on the other side of the bed. Like there's all the time in the world, rather than broken moments to tape, stitch or simply drown out the pain of all the parts that are bleeding.
"Seems to me that's a heavy burden to put on yourself," John points out.
Something unreadable goes through pale eyes.
"It was just a name when I was given it."
John laughs, because how could something like that ever be just a name.
"How old are you thirty? Thirty five? I'd wager you've done some labours in your time but nothing quite that...mythic."
"Mythic," Hercules turns the word over and over in his mouth before finally releasing it with a laugh.
A laugh that's lost and bitter and somehow nostalgic.
And John can't help but wonder what it would be like to be half god. He says nothing for a long time, because he can't think of anything to say, for all that he's seen, all the places he's been. That just seems to impossible to be real.
And that's something isn't it, him being a judge of what's real and what isn't.
Author: Corona
Fandom: CO Torchwood/Captain Scarlet
Pairing: Captain Jack/Captain Scarlet
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Jack is persistent
AN: fredbassett and the sock puppets made me do it! For the purposes of this fic Captain Scarlet is not a puppet, because even for Jack that would be weird!
Jack tips the hat back just a little, far enough that he can see all of Scarlet's face, though it doesn't help half as much as he thought.
There's something inscrutable behind his eyes. Something hard that's been broken and repaired in a way that means it can't be broken again.
Something indestructible you might say.
What are the chances of two people being indestructible in different ways.
What are the chances, well it's a big universe.
He tips the hat back a little further, far enough to let hair escape, not as neat or as careful as the rest of his uniform but still structured, still restrained.
Jack admires restraint.
He has so little of it himself.
"Fraternisation is frowned upon," Scarlet says in that careful voice of his, and he makes it sound like life or death, god he makes everything sound like life or death.
"I don't work with you," Jack points out. "I don't think you really let anyone work with you do you? So it can't really count, not in the strictest sense of the word."
"You're persistent."
Jack draws the cap all the way off, lets it fall.
"I am persistent, but then I think a little persistence might do you some good."
There's a sigh of quiet, conflicted air against the edge of his jaw.
"I'm not exactly-"
"Neither am I," Jack tells him and kisses him.
As inhuman as Scarlet thinks he is he's warm nonetheless. He feels real to Jack, feels more than real, there's a grasp of his hands, uncertain at first but tempted into catching hold of him when Jack presses him into the wall. Willing to let him push, and then between one breath and the next willing to push as well.
He knows how to kiss back, knows how to open and press and just when Jack thinks he's won...how to dominate.
The uniform comes off surprisingly easily, the zip drags all the way down in a whisper of sound, red material pushed all the way down Scarlet's arms.
Jack can't resist getting a foot between those red boots, because seriously they're possibly the filthiest things he's ever seen.
Scarlet makes a quiet noise of amusement and tilts his head away.
"You do this a lot don't you?"
Jack slides his hands under the waistband of tight black trousers, finds Scarlet warm there too, warm and naked and it's a surprise that turns his reply into a soft noise that Scarlet kisses into silence.
"Is that regulation?" He says when his mouth is free.
"No it's personal preference."
Scarlet drags Jack's shirt out of his pants, then pulls him in with one sharp tug on the loose waistband, which is then made even looser with one devious movement of Scarlet's hand.
"You're quite inefficient you know."
"So I've been told," Jack grins, slithers his hands round from back to front, slides one down and finds Scarlet warm and already hard, pressing in against his palm
The wall is holding them both up, and continues to, while Jack works black fabric over smooth hips and down impossibly strong thighs. They're far too tight, and Jack's shirt is far too long.
But awkward is good, Jack has always loved awkward.
"Have you ever been pushed Captain?"
"You wouldn't believe how far," Scarlet says softly and then they're just a tangle of thighs and warmth, pressing up and in.
Jack can't resist kissing him again, snatching a handful of his sinfully black hair and twisting until they're at just the right angle.
They both need to breathe, but it's not an absolute necessity, and Jack takes it all the way to the line, fingers dug in the soft, shifting skin of Scarlet's ass, while his teeth are a flash of pain and filth across the edge of Jack's cheek.
It's dirty and graceless and brief and Jack is going to make a fucking mess of his pretty black polo neck. But not first, because Scarlet drags him close enough to crush all the breathe out of him and groans into his mouth in a way which isn't neat or efficient at all. It sounds obscene, and Jack is utterly gone.
Title: Puppets
Author: Corona
Fandom: CO Primeval/Captain Scarlet
Pairing: Captain Ryan/Captain Black
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Crack! Puppet non-con! Heaps of silliness!
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Captain Black has captured Captain Ryan
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, made entirely of crack and madness!!
Ryan takes stock of his situation.
He's missing his weapons, equipment, radio and most of his clothes and he seems to be in some sort of underground lair.
Did people actually have underground lairs?
Outside of action movies and The Phantom Of The Opera?
Also, he's apparently been captured by a puppet.
An actual puppet, made of wood, and controlled by...what appear to be strings. They disappear into the ceiling like some sort of bad nightmare puppet theatre.
He even has puppet stubble! Who the hell gives a puppet stubble, that's just wrong!
"Captain Ryan I presume."
Oh my god, the puppet apparently also talks!
"I am Captain Black and I will have you in my terrible bondage!"
The man-puppet-thing? Flails in a way that's very, very disturbing.
Ryan gets smacked in the face with a little wooden hand, which really fucking hurts.
"Ow! For the love of-"
He tries to slide out of...flailing distance but only gets so far before he's pulled up short by his own arm
Which has gotten tangled up in Captain Black's strings, suggesting the mad flailing had been some sort of ruse.
Can puppets have ruses?
Why couldn't Ryan have had a nice dinosaur try and eat him instead. He knew where he stood with dinosaurs!
He kicks out with a boot, which smacks into Captain Black's little wooden chest and doesn't move him an inch. Which is screwed up because he's tiny!
"I'm indestructible!"
"You're made of wood," Ryan points out and gives another jerk on the strings, making Captain Black jiggle about. "Really hard wood."
One of Captain Black's little arms flies up.
The string's like fishing line, Ryan's going to end up with no circulation in his wrist if he keeps it up.
"Look it wouldn't work, you're a puppet and I'm-." he stops.
There's a little wooden hand caressing his thigh.
Ryan has never been quite this disturbed in his entire life.
"Ok that's just wrong," Ryan shifts his thigh out of reach.
"You are entirely in my power now Captain Ryan!"
Captain Black tries to drag his leg back, but his little puppet hands don't appear to bend.
"Entirely mine, to do with as I wish."
He's still failing to get a grip on anything so he settles for flailing his way closer and everything is suddenly disturbingly wooden.
Ryan's about to be molested by a puppet and he's never going to live it down!
Title: Wet
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Ryan/Stephen
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Sometimes Ryan does what he's told
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, on request!
The water's a shade off of hot, pouring in an insistent fall across the back of Ryan's head, and his face every time Stephen pushes him into the wall. Harder on every breath, his fingers won't stop moving, sliding down Ryan's back, dropping to catch his shifting thighs and then back up to dig in what they can reach of his hair.
"Turn around," Stephen says against his mouth.
"Are you going to fuck me?" Quick kiss that's more water than mouth.
"Eventually, turn around."
Ryan grunts but complies, swiveling in the water, tipping his head down so it doesn't drown him.
"Put your hands on the wall," Stephen hisses in his ear, and there's a heaviness in his voice, a determination flavoured with deviousness.
It's the kind of voice that can get people in fucking trouble, but Ryan lays his hands on the wet tiles, dips his head.
Stephen's mouth slides open on the back of his neck, tongue and teeth where throat meets shoulders.
There are hands on his waist, tilting his hips back, plastering him against Stephen's slippery stomach and the slide and press of his cock.
Fingernails catch on skin and Stephen eases back.
"Stay where you are," he says, face sliding against the wet skin of Ryan's back, and then he drops to his knees.
Ryan hears him hit the floor, and he leans forward far enough to press his forehead against the tiles.
Hands slide up his thighs, wet and insistent and then pushing just a little.
Ryan swears and shifts his thighs apart, slides his hands higher, over muscle that twitches at his touch, spreading, thumbs sliding between, and the water curves all the way down his spine.
Stephen doesn't start gentle, one long slide of tongue across his hole, hard enough to make Ryan press his teeth together and groan, then again one long determined wet slide.
Fingers dig into his arse, all sharp nails and demand and it's an added sensation that manages to make everything sharper and more pointed.
"Christ!" Ryan lays his face on the wall and concentrates on the cold seeping into his face, while Stephen digs in with his thumbs, spreads him obscenely wide, and the slide of tongue becomes a push, quick and wet and fucking obscene.
Ryan groans into the wall, and he thinks nothing, fucking nothing, of the shameless way he tilts his hips, pushes back.
Like Stephen needs the encouragement.
Because he's good at this, really, really good at this, and if Ryan starts demanding he won't fucking stop he'll just babble like a madman and everything will be-
Jesus fucking christ! Stephen has slid a thumb inside him as well, one quick slippery push and then out again. Flare of sensation inside and then out. It's an awkward, dirty, really, really fucking good way to work him open and Ryan doesn't dare touch his own cock.
Because no way on this earth could he not come if he did that.
Title: Armed
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Ryan/Lester
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Misuse of military equipment
AN: Written for fredbassett 's comment!porn collection
Lester rather thinks he's doing marvelous job of not being awake. It's something he doesn't particularly work hard at, which makes a nice change.
Though Ryan isn't exactly making it easy.
He's doing something clandestine further down the bed, something clandestine that involves dragging what feels suspiciously like straps up the bare length of his thighs.
"What are you doing?" Lester asks, and he's not particularly pleased at the fact that he's now no longer quite as asleep as he was before.
There's no answer, just another drag of material that shifts his thigh in a most unnerving way and a quiet but altogether more suspicious click. It's not the sort of click that Lester has experience with but it's vaguely familiar all the same.
Self-preservation if nothing else demand he look.
His legs are very heavy, and apparently now armed.
"Please tell me those aren't loaded?"
"They're not loaded," Ryan says simply, which isn't really a comforting thought.
"And you felt the need to arm me because."
"I was practicing my stealth tactics," Ryan says, in a voice that's entirely too obedient and sensible to be believed. It's a very military sort of bullshit.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"And not in fact using those stealth tactics that cost the taxpayer millions of pounds to entertain yourself?"
Ryan raises an eyebrow, and Lester debates prodding at that interesting expression for a long moment.
"Are they supposed to be this tight?"
"Yes," Ryan says, and his voice is drifting curiously into a range that's all throat and distraction.
Lester lifts a foot and pushes, Ryan bends with the movement, until he comes to a point where he's forced to either fall on his back or push against it.
He falls on his back, which is a particularly attractive position for him.
Lester follows, because how could he not. When he shifts to his knees the straps dig in sharply and it takes a moment to work out how to move, how to shift up the bed far enough that he can knock Ryan's legs closer together and carefully swing a leg over his waist.
And it really is very distracting having extra weight there.
Ryan makes a noise when the straps slide and catch on his waist, a noise that he seems completely unable to keep in his throat.
Oh this could be interesting, this could be very interesting indeed.
Title: Vae Victus
Author: Corona
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Nick/Lester
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Nick decides Lester has done enough talking
AN: Written for fredbassett 's birthday, on request!
It's easy enough to drag Lester's tie out from the collar of his shirt, the entire length of it, while he complains vocally into the glass surface of his own desk.
"If you think-"
Nick finds his mouth with unerring accuracy, catching it halfway through a word and filling it full of folded silk.
"You," Nick says in a careful but determined tone of voice "Do not get to talk."
He folds the edges of Lester expensive tie together and pulls it tight at the back of his head. Lester makes an irate, muffled noise through rapidly dampening material.
"You've done more than enough talking today." Nick strips his jacket halfway down his arms and then fists a hand in the fabric, leaving Lester pressed against the desk, trying to free his own elbows." You've mocked me, berated me, questioned my methods in front of my team."
Lester makes a complicated noise through the material which is quite clearly the better part of all the vowels in 'yes, well your team is nothing to write home about.'
He just doesn't ever stop.
"I'm starting to get the feeling you weren't smacked enough as a child," Nick says conversationally. Which gets him something long, complicated and definitely insulting.
"Perhaps I should remedy that?"
Lester goes very still, and then manages something which sounds incredibly close to 'don't you fucking dare'
Which really...is the wrong tactic, and someone who actually went to school would know that.
Nick drags Lester's shirt out of his trousers in one sharp movement and it's warm in his hands, easy to shift up smooth, twitching skin. The belt practically falls open and the trousers are far, far too easy to slide over Lester hips.
There's another snarl of words and vitriol and a movement backwards which is easy enough to stop with a lean and a push.
Lester's boxer shorts and silk, slippery, smooth as skin.
"Exactly how expensive are these anyway," Nick flicks the waistband twice, makes an interested noise...and then rips them straight up the back.
Lester sucks air through his nose in a way which isn't quite the indignant outrage he was probably going for. It finishes in something soft and breathless and then there's the thump of flesh hitting the table.
Lester spits something filthy through his own tie.
Which makes it surprisingly easy.
Nick brings his hand round sharply and smacks him on the arse. It's not a gentle blow.
Lester exhales through his nose, makes a noise that's shocked and furious, but Nick doesn't let him get his breath back to work on another muffled insult. He shoves the trailing edge of his shirt to one side and hits him again with the flat of his hand.
It makes a furious smack and judging by the way Lester's head hits the table his aim is just about right.
There's a garbled completely unintelligible noise through wet material, but it's not an insult. Nick doesn't think Lester meant it because he's grumbling to himself through the material jammed in his teeth.
Nick's so busy trying to work out what it is that by the time he realises he hasn't moved his hand it's already sliding across warm, reddened skin.
Title: Lost
Author: Corona
Fandom: Robin Hood
Pairing: Allan/Will
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Allan has had enough, Will is lost
Will didn't stumble when Allan tugged him aside along the route. He did give him a dirty look though, because pulling people about like cattle was not a way to make friends.
"Allan!" Edged against a tree just off what passed for a track way.
"You're driving me insane," Allan said quietly, mostly grumbled under his breath and Will was honestly lost.
"What? Why?"
Allan shifted, bracketed him against the tree with his arms. His back was now pressed into the bark, but Allan didn't look angry, not angry enough that it would have meant a scuffle at least. There was something tense about him though, something half wild under all that watchful.
He was watching Will swallow, nostrils flaring just a little and Will knew that look, though he'd never considered it friendly nor welcome. He was more than a little surprised to see it on Allan's face.
"What?" He asked, straightening a little. Allan's head turned, glanced up the road. Will sighed, made to move away. Allan's hand stopped him, wound round his wrist. He stopped, sighed, leant back again.
"Allan-" Sharp press of lips, warm and hard and nothing like Will had been expecting, Allan pulled away just as fast, and oh....
Allan was not half as good at hiding his expression as he thought he was.
A catch of eyes, long enough that Will thought he must need to say something, to say that it was ok, that he could. That he wanted him to.
But Allan swore, drifted back in, and this time his mouth was edged open, carefully, warily, like he might protest if Allan pushed too hard.
Will twisted his head sideways.
"You don't have to be careful," he said softly. "I'm not a girl." There was a rumble of laughter from Allan, hard enough to that he felt the warmth of his exhale.
Then Allan took hold of his waist, pulled him back, pulled him in.
Title: Assistance
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Nick/Connor
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Cutter helps Connor.
AN: Written for deinonychus_1Connor decides that, given the general state of your clothing once a dinosaur has all but exploded all over you, you could be forgiven for getting into the showers without actually taking anything off.
Because seriously everything is ruined, trainers, jeans, shirt, waistcoat. Everything is a horrible mess of epic prehistoric proportions.
Connor is pretty sure he had things on him which were never designed to see light.
So yes, he did just step under the water in the vain hope that he could stop smelling like the stomach of some creatures in less time than it took to have to take another breath.
Ok that part had pretty much worked.
But now everything is soaking wet and it won't come off, slipping and catching where it seems to have shrunk to half its original size.
He's stuck inside his clothes, and the fact that he now doesn't smell isn't making the situation any easier to deal with.
It's made worse when he gets his head halfway out of his shirt only to discover that it's absolutely impossible to get up his body, and he's going to be stuck in here forever until he slowly suffocates in the wet material.
Oh god that will be so embarrassing!
"Having trouble?"
Connor manages, through sheer effort to get his head back out of his shirt again, only to discover that now he has hair all the way over his face and he can't see a thing.
And he's pretty sure Cutter is laughing at him.
"No," he says once he can see. Then decides that lying is probably just going to make him look stupid. "Yes, my clothes have shrunk."
Cutter steps over and looks at him with that terribly amused look on his face.
"I take it you don't want to keep them?"
"Not a chance," Connor says flatly.
Cutter tugs him forward a little by his shirt, then catches the end of the material and pulls hard.
The whole thing rips up Connor's chest in one movement, material separating in one vicious tear that makes him jerk forward in the shower.
It then flaps, dejectedly in the spray of water.
"There you go." Cutter pats him on the shoulder helpfully, and wanders off, presumably to the lockers.
Connor very carefully leans his head against the wall, and makes a very quiet noise.
He's free of his stubborn shirt, and also possibly harder than he's ever been in his entire life.
Title: Now I'm Strong and I Won't Kneel
Author: Corona
Fandom: Supernatural/Hercules
Pairing: John Winchester/Hercules
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: They're both used to sharing their space, even if the people that filled those spaces are long gone.
AN: Comment!fic for harem_entI love when you make me write crazy things! Fits a set2music
title perfectly, so I snagged it for that too.
The motel rooms are always too hot, summer is too long and too hard and John always feels like he's choking in dust.
But jackets are non-negotiable, too many demons, too many knives, and if the jacket's going to save his life he can put up with the heat.
Still he doesn't need it now and it's pushed over his shoulder, dragged down his arms by hands that are too large and too strong. John isn't used to being the small one and that jars, that pulls and pushes at his skin.
But this man has saved his life, more than once, he isn't quite human but he's nothing close to evil and though it rankles at John that he doesn't know quite what he is. He's strong, he's really fucking strong. Stronger even than John thinks he sometimes shows. He hides it like he's used to it.
But John thinks that's why he gave himself that name.
So, not human, and that at least should make it impossible because John doesn't do this, not with men and not with- . He can't say monsters, because that's the one thing Hercules is not.
And he thinks this man, if no other, knows the difference.
So he doesn't pull away, he doesn't slide his hands out of hair that's just a fraction too long to be fashionable. It runs through his fingers like a woman's though and smells like something heavy and unnameable, crushes tight when he catches the back of Hercules neck and pulls him all the way in.
His shirt is dragged up his back and Hercules is more than tall enough to peel it all the way off and throw it across the room before drawing him in again.
Jeans are shoved over hips and discarded to the floor, and John has stubbornness enough to keep pushing, to keep pushing until they're both tipped onto the bed, and they still have balance enough for men drifting past their prime.
Though he gets the feeling Hercules would catch him if he needed it.
A man with an impossible name. A man who's all strength and no ego, who drags him in by his waist like he weighs nothing at all, thighs sliding open round hips that aren't as wide as the shoulders might suggest.
Hercules kisses like he's starving, like there's no time and all the time in the world, hand twitching and catching in his hair like it wants so desperately to clench, to pull, and knows it never can. He leaves John's mouth wet and stinging and empty.
There are hands sliding up his thighs, catching the curve of his hips in a way that shouldn't be possible, dragging him round. Large hands slide up his arms, lift them and settle them on the cold of the plaster and there are teeth in his neck and fingers dug into his skin and everything is too hard and he can't breathe.
It's a question that's never asked, but John has learned how to read those better than most.
He says yes, says yes and doesn't know why, heart thumping and skin three sizes too small, palms flat on the wall, breath short and harsh out of his throat while slippery fingers open him, too quick and too wide and it's too much.
But he never once says stop.
It hurts more than a little, and though he thought he knew pain this is different, this is...stranger and needier and he thinks he should be ashamed but he can't be. It's slow and controlled and careful and John still has to breathe through every push, every drag against his prostate heavy and torturous and fucking beautiful.
He comes at that pace, groaning and catching the long fingers round his waist, and there is stillness, and breath against the back of his neck, and need. Fierce and hard and hot enough to burn.
He leans into the wall and braces himself, and there is a mouth open on his throat now, teeth hard and thankful, they never break the skin, not even when a thrust that jars his spine makes them dig deep enough to fucking hurt.
But John is still breathing and aching, and quiet in a way that has nothing to do with noise and everything to do with peace.
The bed takes their weight again, John breathing into the edge of a pillow, Hercules tipped the other way, and there shouldn't be enough room but somehow they make it work.
They're both used to sharing their space, even if the people that filled those spaces are long gone.
"What's your real name?"
"You know my real name." Hercules looks nothing but amused sprawled out on the other side of the bed. Like there's all the time in the world, rather than broken moments to tape, stitch or simply drown out the pain of all the parts that are bleeding.
"Seems to me that's a heavy burden to put on yourself," John points out.
Something unreadable goes through pale eyes.
"It was just a name when I was given it."
John laughs, because how could something like that ever be just a name.
"How old are you thirty? Thirty five? I'd wager you've done some labours in your time but nothing quite that...mythic."
"Mythic," Hercules turns the word over and over in his mouth before finally releasing it with a laugh.
A laugh that's lost and bitter and somehow nostalgic.
And John can't help but wonder what it would be like to be half god. He says nothing for a long time, because he can't think of anything to say, for all that he's seen, all the places he's been. That just seems to impossible to be real.
And that's something isn't it, him being a judge of what's real and what isn't.