The Divinest Thing In Us
Title: The Divinest Thing In Us
Author: lozenger8
Recipient: halotolerant
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 696 words.
Notes/Warnings: Warren/Crane. OK then, I'll take this chance! Something involving Tony Crane (mmm, Marc Warren) from S2E1, preferably slash but I don't mind who with, dark or not as you choose and without getting tangled into anything too time-travel circular paradoxy. "You know, everyone who tries to stop me ends up begging me to stay."
The light flickers pathetically, it practically whimpers, as Stephen leans against a solid block of crates, one hand cupped around silver lighter and cigarette. Ten minutes ago. That's when the runt should have been here. Ten minutes. And counting. He thinks himself high and mighty; strong, young, capable - a pretty face, with a pretty mind and a pretty determination to be the shiny gold star above Manchester.
His prettiness shall be his downfall.
Scuffing feet emerge in the doom and gloom of the alley and a shock of brown hair comes into view, set above piercing blue eyes and a face that's angular and attractive.
"I'm late." It's a statement, not a question, not an apology, no excuses.
"Yes, you are, my little Pinball Wizard. Any reason?"
"Eve wouldn't let me go, said I'd work to do, colours to co-ordinate, whatever that means."
"Setting up is always so tedious."
"Been a while since you had to do anything of the sort."
Stephen almost smiles at the action that accompanies these words. Crane juts his head forward and quirks an eyebrow. He's suggesting Stephen's past it before the night has even begun.
"Planning on opening a brand new club in the new year. The Bunny."
"The Warren. The Bunny. Cute that. Take you long?"
Stephen deflects the contempt with a question of his own. "The government is trying to abolish venues that advocate what they view as a seedy subculture. Why should your gambling hall be any better than Joe Dick's or Dick José's?"
Crane grins; shit-eating, cocksure. "'Cause it'd be mine, that's why."
"They'd still try and stop you," Stephen says, well-versed in dirty deals.
"You know, everyone who tries to stop me ends up begging me to stay."
"I'm still not convinced of your inherent… worth, Tiny Tony."
"Mr Warren, you flatter me with insults, but know that I'll do whatever it takes. I've said it before, I'll say it again, and I do mean whatever it takes. I need some financial backing. I need safety from the petty thugs with high ideals. I'll be your slut for years, if it means I get what I need."
Crane sets his shoulders and stares, brazen. So indelicate. Able to make vulnerability sound like a strength. Crane thinks he'll own Stephen once he's got his gob wrapped around his cock. He thinks Stephen is one of his petty thugs. It would be a good idea to disabuse him of the notion as soon as possible.
"Drop to your knees, lad, show me what you've got."
"Here?"
"No time like the present to give one."
Crane bites his lower lip and almost looks like he's going to refuse, but a second later there's a thump and buttons undone. Stephen settles back, ensuring his feet are firmly planted. Nothing like weak knees to sour a potentially important display of power.
He chose this alley so that if he made what was sure to be the right decision, no one would know they'd ever entered negotiations. He chose this alley because he liked the idea of Crane amongst the muck and grime that was in this blood.
Crane is inexperienced, not the kind of cocksucker who's been working the street, but there's something undeniably enjoyable about the excess of saliva and rigorous movement of his tongue. Stephen stares down and watches carefully as a steady, automatic expression washes over Crane's Dorian Gray visage. A mere boy of forty-something. Youth and vitality that come with hard knocks and scrabbling. Just as he said - he'll do this, if he has to. Crane works his lips around Stephen's cock, hollows his cheeks. It's warm and wet and feels like control.
This is it, Stephen thinks, this is the time. He laces his fingers through Crane's hair and holds his head, shallowly rocking on his heels. Crane makes a low sound, straining to move away, but Stephen thrusts harder. Crane's eyes widen and he stares up, fingernails scraping against Stephen's thighs.
The light - that flickering, feeble light - glints off Stephen's teeth as he grins down at Crane and abuses his poor, pretty face.
He'll write a cheque in the morning.
Author: lozenger8
Recipient: halotolerant
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 696 words.
Notes/Warnings: Warren/Crane. OK then, I'll take this chance! Something involving Tony Crane (mmm, Marc Warren) from S2E1, preferably slash but I don't mind who with, dark or not as you choose and without getting tangled into anything too time-travel circular paradoxy. "You know, everyone who tries to stop me ends up begging me to stay."
The light flickers pathetically, it practically whimpers, as Stephen leans against a solid block of crates, one hand cupped around silver lighter and cigarette. Ten minutes ago. That's when the runt should have been here. Ten minutes. And counting. He thinks himself high and mighty; strong, young, capable - a pretty face, with a pretty mind and a pretty determination to be the shiny gold star above Manchester.
His prettiness shall be his downfall.
Scuffing feet emerge in the doom and gloom of the alley and a shock of brown hair comes into view, set above piercing blue eyes and a face that's angular and attractive.
"I'm late." It's a statement, not a question, not an apology, no excuses.
"Yes, you are, my little Pinball Wizard. Any reason?"
"Eve wouldn't let me go, said I'd work to do, colours to co-ordinate, whatever that means."
"Setting up is always so tedious."
"Been a while since you had to do anything of the sort."
Stephen almost smiles at the action that accompanies these words. Crane juts his head forward and quirks an eyebrow. He's suggesting Stephen's past it before the night has even begun.
"Planning on opening a brand new club in the new year. The Bunny."
"The Warren. The Bunny. Cute that. Take you long?"
Stephen deflects the contempt with a question of his own. "The government is trying to abolish venues that advocate what they view as a seedy subculture. Why should your gambling hall be any better than Joe Dick's or Dick José's?"
Crane grins; shit-eating, cocksure. "'Cause it'd be mine, that's why."
"They'd still try and stop you," Stephen says, well-versed in dirty deals.
"You know, everyone who tries to stop me ends up begging me to stay."
"I'm still not convinced of your inherent… worth, Tiny Tony."
"Mr Warren, you flatter me with insults, but know that I'll do whatever it takes. I've said it before, I'll say it again, and I do mean whatever it takes. I need some financial backing. I need safety from the petty thugs with high ideals. I'll be your slut for years, if it means I get what I need."
Crane sets his shoulders and stares, brazen. So indelicate. Able to make vulnerability sound like a strength. Crane thinks he'll own Stephen once he's got his gob wrapped around his cock. He thinks Stephen is one of his petty thugs. It would be a good idea to disabuse him of the notion as soon as possible.
"Drop to your knees, lad, show me what you've got."
"Here?"
"No time like the present to give one."
Crane bites his lower lip and almost looks like he's going to refuse, but a second later there's a thump and buttons undone. Stephen settles back, ensuring his feet are firmly planted. Nothing like weak knees to sour a potentially important display of power.
He chose this alley so that if he made what was sure to be the right decision, no one would know they'd ever entered negotiations. He chose this alley because he liked the idea of Crane amongst the muck and grime that was in this blood.
Crane is inexperienced, not the kind of cocksucker who's been working the street, but there's something undeniably enjoyable about the excess of saliva and rigorous movement of his tongue. Stephen stares down and watches carefully as a steady, automatic expression washes over Crane's Dorian Gray visage. A mere boy of forty-something. Youth and vitality that come with hard knocks and scrabbling. Just as he said - he'll do this, if he has to. Crane works his lips around Stephen's cock, hollows his cheeks. It's warm and wet and feels like control.
This is it, Stephen thinks, this is the time. He laces his fingers through Crane's hair and holds his head, shallowly rocking on his heels. Crane makes a low sound, straining to move away, but Stephen thrusts harder. Crane's eyes widen and he stares up, fingernails scraping against Stephen's thighs.
The light - that flickering, feeble light - glints off Stephen's teeth as he grins down at Crane and abuses his poor, pretty face.
He'll write a cheque in the morning.