Fic: In the Detail (LoM. See warning before reading)
Right, first things first.
WARNING. This is Not Nice. At all. Do not read if you like nice things.
To explain. I've been toying with the whole Sam/Oswald pairing for a while, and since October is Porn Month in LoM, now seemed the ideal time. This, however, is not PWP in the conventionally accepted, fluffy 'mmm that's hot' sense. It's squicky crack, in all honesty.
Words: 1039
Pairing: Sam/Oswald - with a bonus squick if you're paying attention!
Set: During ep 5 of Season 2. You know when all the lights go off and Sam blacks out? Just after that. It's all a dream, thankfully.
OK, deep breath...
“No, no, no, no, NO!!”
And one by one, the lights went off, and the blackness descended. And out of the dark, shadows swirled, snatches of sentences, disjointed words. The facts of the case, swirling through and around his brain. What had he missed?
So many contradictions, it was dizzying. Or maybe that was just the drugs. He needed to find some order, make some sense of the overload of information. Go back to the start.
The morgue. There should be records of the autopsy report. Maybe there’d be a detail, some snippet of information that had been overlooked. God, after all, being in the detail.
He saw himself entering the mortuary building. Knew he was dreaming, went with it anyway. Allowed his brain to work through all the clues in its own way. He could still feel the effects of the stimulants zinging through his nervous system, coupled now with a strange kind of numbness, the opposing symptoms leaving him giddy and ready for anything.
Sam pushed open the swinging doors, vaguely relieved that his mind hadn’t decided to confront him with anything gruesome. The metal table dominated the room, stark, spotless. With a sudden flash of insight, Sam realised that this was a metaphor, his subconscious stripping away the extraneous details, laying bare the facts. Suddenly, he was less keen to find the pathologist, the object of his visit here.
And, as is so often the way with dreams, the thought provoked the image. Sam turned, stomach plunging with a sick sense of inevitability. Behind him, where a moment ago there had been nobody, stood Oswald. White coat, symbol of his status, unbuttoned to reveal the full inflated glory of the man beneath. Pendulous chest parted by a precise dark line of wiry hair, vast sagging belly giving him the appearance of a great white Buddha. Erect penis, pressed down by the mound of flesh above, pointing out horizontally, straight towards Sam. Arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome, expression utterly blank. Words floated out across the room, though Sam, watching closely, saw that Oswald’s mouth remained closed. The voice was ill-fitting - light, girlish, a voice that Sam recognised immediately.
“You want the truth, Sam? I am the truth. Embrace me.”
Even as his mind recoiled from the image confronting him, he felt, with detached horror, his body responding, the revulsion fuelling the arousal. Closed the gap between them, each step clattering on the stone floor. Paused, tension hanging in the air between them like a cloud, his own erection straining against his jeans.
“You know what to do.”
Again the disembodied voice, against which Sam seemed to have no defence. He knelt, reaching out to grasp handfuls of flaccid flesh, lifting it upwards, his mouth closing around the surprisingly thick shaft. A low rattling groan, long and sustained, escaped Oswald, and without warning iron-strong hands closed around the back of Sam’s head, forcing him forwards until his head swam and he was in danger of choking.
His tongue swirled, tentatively at first and then more daringly, around the head, the bitter salty tang inflaming him still further. He yearned to bring his hands down, to relieve the pulsing ache of his own desperate arousal. His fingers dug in deeper, burying themselves in the softness of Oswald’s hips, as he suckled with an urgency that overpowered him, his mouth clinging to the increasing hardness swelling to fill him. The skin under his hands rippled and quivered as the pathologist, with moans and harsh grunts, bucked faster and faster into Sam’s responsive face, and suddenly his mouth was filled with gluey warmth as Oswald came deep into his throat, Sam swallowing reflexively over and over again to accommodate his climax.
Oswald backed off, and Sam collapsed, desperate hands scrabbling at his engorged groin. Every inch of his skin was on fire, white-hot needles of pure aching lust tearing at his nerves. He could feel a scream building within him, heard himself sobbing, inarticulately garbled pleas and raw obscenities tumbling unbidden from his scrambled brain. From somewhere above, impossibly high, Oswald gazed down, impassively sympathetic.
“Poor Sam. Tell me what you need.”
“What I - I need - Oh God, help me. Please - help me.”
“Don’t be sad, Sam. I can make it all better.”
Oswald turned away, shrugging off the sterile white coat. Ambled without haste to the centre of the room, planting both hands firmly on the operating table. Some small voice buried deep within Sam was screaming at him in utter horror, but the urgency was too great, the arousal too overwhelming to be stopped. Scrambling to his feet, he practically ran across to where the pathologist stood braced and ready. Fumbling fingers frantically sought to free himself from the too-tight constraint of trousers and underwear, so that within seconds his erection, the swollen head already leaking and glistening, bobbed and strained in the cool air.
The usually placid pathologist’s jowls wobbled with anticipation, a trail of saliva dribbling downwards to pool on the pristine metal table, as Sam grasped hold of the capacious sagging buttocks, pulling them wide apart, the slick sheen of oil a give-away sign that, somehow, Oswald was already prepared for this. Which was just as well, as Sam was way past waiting. With a strangled groan, he plunged into the receptive flesh spread out in front of him, thrusting and shoving powerfully and unstoppably inwards. The act was without finesse, primevally carnal, the brutal slaking of an unbearable need. As he slammed into Oswald time and again, the ache within him grew until it transcended life itself, until he knew without question he would die of it.
And finally, legs buckling, pulse pounding a rhythmic drumbeat into his fevered brain, the ache overtook him, and he came, yelling, screams of rage and passion and insanity. Poured out his soul into the softly padded vessel writhing beneath him. Until there was literally nothing left, and oblivion claimed him once again.
As he struggled, sick and disorientated, towards consciousness in the confined familiarity of the locker room, the vestiges of the dream clung to him, and he heard the nightmarish little-girl voice one more time.
“All better now. Sleep well, Sam. I’ll be waiting.”
WARNING. This is Not Nice. At all. Do not read if you like nice things.
To explain. I've been toying with the whole Sam/Oswald pairing for a while, and since October is Porn Month in LoM, now seemed the ideal time. This, however, is not PWP in the conventionally accepted, fluffy 'mmm that's hot' sense. It's squicky crack, in all honesty.
Words: 1039
Pairing: Sam/Oswald - with a bonus squick if you're paying attention!
Set: During ep 5 of Season 2. You know when all the lights go off and Sam blacks out? Just after that. It's all a dream, thankfully.
OK, deep breath...
“No, no, no, no, NO!!”
And one by one, the lights went off, and the blackness descended. And out of the dark, shadows swirled, snatches of sentences, disjointed words. The facts of the case, swirling through and around his brain. What had he missed?
So many contradictions, it was dizzying. Or maybe that was just the drugs. He needed to find some order, make some sense of the overload of information. Go back to the start.
The morgue. There should be records of the autopsy report. Maybe there’d be a detail, some snippet of information that had been overlooked. God, after all, being in the detail.
He saw himself entering the mortuary building. Knew he was dreaming, went with it anyway. Allowed his brain to work through all the clues in its own way. He could still feel the effects of the stimulants zinging through his nervous system, coupled now with a strange kind of numbness, the opposing symptoms leaving him giddy and ready for anything.
Sam pushed open the swinging doors, vaguely relieved that his mind hadn’t decided to confront him with anything gruesome. The metal table dominated the room, stark, spotless. With a sudden flash of insight, Sam realised that this was a metaphor, his subconscious stripping away the extraneous details, laying bare the facts. Suddenly, he was less keen to find the pathologist, the object of his visit here.
And, as is so often the way with dreams, the thought provoked the image. Sam turned, stomach plunging with a sick sense of inevitability. Behind him, where a moment ago there had been nobody, stood Oswald. White coat, symbol of his status, unbuttoned to reveal the full inflated glory of the man beneath. Pendulous chest parted by a precise dark line of wiry hair, vast sagging belly giving him the appearance of a great white Buddha. Erect penis, pressed down by the mound of flesh above, pointing out horizontally, straight towards Sam. Arms spread wide in a gesture of welcome, expression utterly blank. Words floated out across the room, though Sam, watching closely, saw that Oswald’s mouth remained closed. The voice was ill-fitting - light, girlish, a voice that Sam recognised immediately.
“You want the truth, Sam? I am the truth. Embrace me.”
Even as his mind recoiled from the image confronting him, he felt, with detached horror, his body responding, the revulsion fuelling the arousal. Closed the gap between them, each step clattering on the stone floor. Paused, tension hanging in the air between them like a cloud, his own erection straining against his jeans.
“You know what to do.”
Again the disembodied voice, against which Sam seemed to have no defence. He knelt, reaching out to grasp handfuls of flaccid flesh, lifting it upwards, his mouth closing around the surprisingly thick shaft. A low rattling groan, long and sustained, escaped Oswald, and without warning iron-strong hands closed around the back of Sam’s head, forcing him forwards until his head swam and he was in danger of choking.
His tongue swirled, tentatively at first and then more daringly, around the head, the bitter salty tang inflaming him still further. He yearned to bring his hands down, to relieve the pulsing ache of his own desperate arousal. His fingers dug in deeper, burying themselves in the softness of Oswald’s hips, as he suckled with an urgency that overpowered him, his mouth clinging to the increasing hardness swelling to fill him. The skin under his hands rippled and quivered as the pathologist, with moans and harsh grunts, bucked faster and faster into Sam’s responsive face, and suddenly his mouth was filled with gluey warmth as Oswald came deep into his throat, Sam swallowing reflexively over and over again to accommodate his climax.
Oswald backed off, and Sam collapsed, desperate hands scrabbling at his engorged groin. Every inch of his skin was on fire, white-hot needles of pure aching lust tearing at his nerves. He could feel a scream building within him, heard himself sobbing, inarticulately garbled pleas and raw obscenities tumbling unbidden from his scrambled brain. From somewhere above, impossibly high, Oswald gazed down, impassively sympathetic.
“Poor Sam. Tell me what you need.”
“What I - I need - Oh God, help me. Please - help me.”
“Don’t be sad, Sam. I can make it all better.”
Oswald turned away, shrugging off the sterile white coat. Ambled without haste to the centre of the room, planting both hands firmly on the operating table. Some small voice buried deep within Sam was screaming at him in utter horror, but the urgency was too great, the arousal too overwhelming to be stopped. Scrambling to his feet, he practically ran across to where the pathologist stood braced and ready. Fumbling fingers frantically sought to free himself from the too-tight constraint of trousers and underwear, so that within seconds his erection, the swollen head already leaking and glistening, bobbed and strained in the cool air.
The usually placid pathologist’s jowls wobbled with anticipation, a trail of saliva dribbling downwards to pool on the pristine metal table, as Sam grasped hold of the capacious sagging buttocks, pulling them wide apart, the slick sheen of oil a give-away sign that, somehow, Oswald was already prepared for this. Which was just as well, as Sam was way past waiting. With a strangled groan, he plunged into the receptive flesh spread out in front of him, thrusting and shoving powerfully and unstoppably inwards. The act was without finesse, primevally carnal, the brutal slaking of an unbearable need. As he slammed into Oswald time and again, the ache within him grew until it transcended life itself, until he knew without question he would die of it.
And finally, legs buckling, pulse pounding a rhythmic drumbeat into his fevered brain, the ache overtook him, and he came, yelling, screams of rage and passion and insanity. Poured out his soul into the softly padded vessel writhing beneath him. Until there was literally nothing left, and oblivion claimed him once again.
As he struggled, sick and disorientated, towards consciousness in the confined familiarity of the locker room, the vestiges of the dream clung to him, and he heard the nightmarish little-girl voice one more time.
“All better now. Sleep well, Sam. I’ll be waiting.”