To Destroy and Humiliate and Sex with Menaces, lozenger8, Brown Cortina
Because I am a total masochist, I asked my friends list for prompts of "fics I would never, ever, ever write" here. With a view to attempting to write said fics, albeit in a snippet sort of way.
So, you can blame m31andy and jantalaimon for these two.
Woolf/Rathbone, NC-17
“It’s about corruption, Harry,” Rathbone says, plunging in deeper this time, a bead of sweat travelling from his silver hairline to his chin.
Woolf grunts, forced into vocalisation by a harsh push and relentless pounding. “Don’t humour me with fiction. It’s about power. You couldn’t give a toss about my lies, you have enough of your own.”
Rathbone grabs hold of the hair at the nape of Woolf’s neck and wrenches him back as he drives in. “Oh, really?” he whispers, breathy staccato and menace.
Woolf closes his eyes, lost in the sensation of being cracked open for all the world to see. Vulnerable, powerless, taken. Always been in charge before, even when he answered to a higher power. It was always his choice. But then, this was his choice too, on the surface of it.
“Yes,” Woolf replies to the question long since asked. He hesitates. “You won’t tell him, will you? You’ll keep it to yourself?”
“There’s nothing I want more than Gene Hunt-”
“We all know that.”
“-to suffer. And what better way than to learn that the man he so reveres is nothing but a cocksucking crim?” Rathbone punctuates every word with a thrust.
Woolf’s tone strains as his thighs bunch and flex. “Half my share of the latest lot. That’s my offer.”
Rathbone’s face is flushed and filmed with sweat. He’s having difficulty breathing if the rise and fall of his chest is anything to go by. “Why? Why offer at all?”
“Believe me, it’s for his benefit, not mine. I have nothing left to live for, as evidenced by your cock up my arse, Frank.”
Rathbone laughs as he comes, spilling into Woolf - the final taint of vice. He slumps over for a minute, slick skin against slick skin, Woolf supporting them only barely.
“You’ve made your bed, Harry,” Rathbone says eventually, pulling out. “Now lie in it.”
Woolf eases his hands off the back of the settee, his knuckles white. “Well I would, but we’re in your office.”
Harry Woolf/Prozzie!Sam/Frank Morgan, NC-17
It’s not about the body, Sam thinks, as Morgan forces his cock into his mouth, Sam’s lips stretched to accommodate. His body has been used and abused countless times, by people he’s loved, people he’s served, people who’ve wanted to serve him. Flesh and muscle and bone, that’s all the body is. Dozens of connections and impulses; hormones, nerves - nothing important, nothing at all, really.
It’s not about the soul, Sam muses, as Woolf grips under his arms and shoves in, hard, brutal, unthinking. Sam’s soul gave up the ghost years ago, when he first went on the take, first went on the street, had to forget about ethics and morals and who has a soul devoid of those? He doesn’t want a soul, anyway, it’s just another thing to lose, like his ability to smile and mean it, like his mind.
Morgan’s talking incessantly, insults spilling from his lips, “Let’s kick off, shall we, my little slut, you’re gagging for it, just as it should be. Nothing you like more than my thick cock down your throat, fucking you, fucking you senseless.”
Woolf, on the other hand, is wordless, only making sounds deep down in his chest as he rocks in and out, fingers digging into Sam’s soft but willing flesh. Sam feels like gritting his teeth at the intrusion, but he knows what that would gain him. There isn’t enough lubricant and Sam’s still managed to stay tight after all this time, so the pain is the other side of bearable.
Sam is the fulcrum of their desire, the point where they meet - old-style and new-style. Everything hinges on Sam, on their mutual application of Sam’s soulless body as their conduit. And Sam would laugh at the thought that he’s a ‘facilitator’, that he’s helping work through ‘negotiations’, except his mouth is full.
Woolf finally says something, something soft and quiet, but unmistakable. “You know, sensual Sam, what happens if you speak.”
Morgan throws his head back and his cock pulses. He comes down Sam’s throat. Woolf follows soon after, brought to bear by Sam contracting muscles he’s learned to control with ease and practice.
No, it’s not about the body, it’s not about the soul, it’s about the feeling.
So, you can blame m31andy and jantalaimon for these two.
Woolf/Rathbone, NC-17
“It’s about corruption, Harry,” Rathbone says, plunging in deeper this time, a bead of sweat travelling from his silver hairline to his chin.
Woolf grunts, forced into vocalisation by a harsh push and relentless pounding. “Don’t humour me with fiction. It’s about power. You couldn’t give a toss about my lies, you have enough of your own.”
Rathbone grabs hold of the hair at the nape of Woolf’s neck and wrenches him back as he drives in. “Oh, really?” he whispers, breathy staccato and menace.
Woolf closes his eyes, lost in the sensation of being cracked open for all the world to see. Vulnerable, powerless, taken. Always been in charge before, even when he answered to a higher power. It was always his choice. But then, this was his choice too, on the surface of it.
“Yes,” Woolf replies to the question long since asked. He hesitates. “You won’t tell him, will you? You’ll keep it to yourself?”
“There’s nothing I want more than Gene Hunt-”
“We all know that.”
“-to suffer. And what better way than to learn that the man he so reveres is nothing but a cocksucking crim?” Rathbone punctuates every word with a thrust.
Woolf’s tone strains as his thighs bunch and flex. “Half my share of the latest lot. That’s my offer.”
Rathbone’s face is flushed and filmed with sweat. He’s having difficulty breathing if the rise and fall of his chest is anything to go by. “Why? Why offer at all?”
“Believe me, it’s for his benefit, not mine. I have nothing left to live for, as evidenced by your cock up my arse, Frank.”
Rathbone laughs as he comes, spilling into Woolf - the final taint of vice. He slumps over for a minute, slick skin against slick skin, Woolf supporting them only barely.
“You’ve made your bed, Harry,” Rathbone says eventually, pulling out. “Now lie in it.”
Woolf eases his hands off the back of the settee, his knuckles white. “Well I would, but we’re in your office.”
Harry Woolf/Prozzie!Sam/Frank Morgan, NC-17
It’s not about the body, Sam thinks, as Morgan forces his cock into his mouth, Sam’s lips stretched to accommodate. His body has been used and abused countless times, by people he’s loved, people he’s served, people who’ve wanted to serve him. Flesh and muscle and bone, that’s all the body is. Dozens of connections and impulses; hormones, nerves - nothing important, nothing at all, really.
It’s not about the soul, Sam muses, as Woolf grips under his arms and shoves in, hard, brutal, unthinking. Sam’s soul gave up the ghost years ago, when he first went on the take, first went on the street, had to forget about ethics and morals and who has a soul devoid of those? He doesn’t want a soul, anyway, it’s just another thing to lose, like his ability to smile and mean it, like his mind.
Morgan’s talking incessantly, insults spilling from his lips, “Let’s kick off, shall we, my little slut, you’re gagging for it, just as it should be. Nothing you like more than my thick cock down your throat, fucking you, fucking you senseless.”
Woolf, on the other hand, is wordless, only making sounds deep down in his chest as he rocks in and out, fingers digging into Sam’s soft but willing flesh. Sam feels like gritting his teeth at the intrusion, but he knows what that would gain him. There isn’t enough lubricant and Sam’s still managed to stay tight after all this time, so the pain is the other side of bearable.
Sam is the fulcrum of their desire, the point where they meet - old-style and new-style. Everything hinges on Sam, on their mutual application of Sam’s soulless body as their conduit. And Sam would laugh at the thought that he’s a ‘facilitator’, that he’s helping work through ‘negotiations’, except his mouth is full.
Woolf finally says something, something soft and quiet, but unmistakable. “You know, sensual Sam, what happens if you speak.”
Morgan throws his head back and his cock pulses. He comes down Sam’s throat. Woolf follows soon after, brought to bear by Sam contracting muscles he’s learned to control with ease and practice.
No, it’s not about the body, it’s not about the soul, it’s about the feeling.