Title: Shattered.

Series: No

Author: Alyse (alyse@CI5Ops.co.uk )

Archive: CI5 Operational Control (http://www.CI5Ops.co.uk), Britslash
(http://www.britslash.co.uk)

Category: The New Professionals - Curtis/Keel.

Rating: NC17

Spoilers/Warnings: None.

Summary: The events of the day catch up with Sam, and he's feeling trapped.

Keywords: smut, PWP, first time, angst, bittersweet, hurt comfort

Feedback:  Yes please, to alyse@CI5Ops.co.uk.  Constructive criticism
welcome, flames will be used to melt chocolate, and we all know what I'll
do with that :)

Disclaimers: They belong to Brain Clements and David Wickes
Productions.  They don't belong to me - if they did we all know what they'd
be doing.  I don't make any money from this.  I have nothing but my own
warped imagination and therefore I'm not worth suing. :)

Notes:  Erm... yes...  It's hot.  I write strange things when I'm hot.  I
therefore wrote this.

Narrated by Sam and self beta'd.


Love and Thornton's chocolates

Al


 

 

Shattered

by Alyse


There are days when I don't want to have to deal with anything.  When I
don't want to have to deal with people, be polite, put a pleasant face on
things.

Today is one of those days.

There are days when I don't want 'nice', days when I want nothing more than
to retreat into the most basic of impulses, forget the polish and shine
that dresses up our day to day actions to make them palatable.

Today is one of those days.

There are days when I don't want to woo, don't want to spend time making
meaningless conversation with some nameless woman just to get into her bed
and into her, days when I want hard, I want rough, I want to forget
everything in an orgy of sex and lust and not love or its pale
imitation.  There are days when I want to be fucked rather than fuck, when
I want a man rather than a woman.

Today is one of those days.

But I can't.  I'm in a strange city, surrounded by strange and forbidding
people.  Although I've travelled the globe, been in most of the dangerous
locales that your average citizen could reel off for you, courtesy of CNN
and the BBC World Service, I've never been here before.  I don't know the
city, and I don't know where to go that's 'safe' for what I need.  I have
no time to go cruising, don't want to cautiously test the waters; I want to
fling myself into the abyss.

The laptop is sitting in my battered bag in the corner of this cheap motel
room, but the phone lines are erratic and my mobile's not working so I
can't even find a website that would point me in the right direction.  A
Rough Guide to rough sex.

I'm reduced to pacing the floor, like a caged and wild animal, which is how
I feel.  The tension in me is wracking up to unbearable heights, fuelled by
the futility of it all, the sheer hatred hanging in the air around me, like
a miasma I can barely breathe through.

They were already dead when we got there.

That's why I want to lose myself.  I'm not stupid enough to try and dress
it up, call it an affirmation of life because I know what it really
is.  Rage.  Fear.  Hopelessness.  Grief.

Need.

I've shut Chris out.  He doesn't need to see me like this, doesn't need to
deal with me like this.  He's only ever seen the cool Curtis, or the
stressed Curtis.  Once or twice even the angry, grieving, scared
Curtis.  But not this one.  Not the barely recognisable face I see when I
stalk past the cracked mirror.  Not this animalistic one, expression feral,
eyes wild.

Needy.

There's a tight band across my chest; stress, I know.  Normally I'd take a
deep breath, disassociate myself, distance myself from all of this, calm
down, regain control.  I'm big on control.

But not today.

Today I *need*.

Back to pacing, my mind racing, unable to settle on anything.  Images flash
through my head, varying between the horrific to the frankly
pornographic.  Sex and death.  Death and sex.  There's a reason the French
refer to coming as 'la petite mort', the little death.  They mean that
feeling of limpness, of satiation, when all energy seems to leave your body.

I mean escape.

There's a knock on the door and I snarl, my erratic temper rising
again.  Pity the poor sap who ventures into my lair at this junction.  I
can feel myself teetering on the brink, a howl building in my throat, a
desire to rip, rend, tear, kiss, kill, fuck, be fucked, all mixed up and
all consuming.

I hover in the middle of the room, my breath now coming in short, harsh
pants, unable, unwilling to open it.

The knock comes again, louder, more demanding, and goosebumps crawl up and
down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck, or perhaps hackles would
be a more appropriate term, rising.

Again, sharp, staccato, and then a voice, loud, equally sharp.

Chris.

I'm still torn between opening the door and ignoring him, the desire not to
let him see me like this battling with other, more primal desires.  Logic,
thinly held onto, wins out.  If I don't open it, knowing my partner and
what we've witnessed today, he'll simply kick it down to ensure that I'm
here and safe.  Safe.

He won't realise, of course, that he isn't.

When the door swings inwards, I back away, slowly.  He starts to ask me
what took me so long, but then he catches sight of my face and the words
die on his lips.  His look turns cautious, and part of me delights in that,
the predatory part that still wants to rend, tear, rip, even though the
rest of me cringes.

I didn't want him to see me like this.

He moves slowly into the room, his eyes never leaving my face as I back
away from him, matching him step for step.  When he's in, when he thinks
he's safe, or maybe merely to make sure I have nowhere to run to, he
reaches behind himself and shuts the door.  I hear the soft sneck as the
lock slides home, trapping him in with me.

Trapping me in with him.

I feel a brief surge of panic, fighting it down, knowing that this is
Chris, this is not a danger, that no matter how hellish today has been.

No matter that he can't give me what I need.

My back hits the wall and there's nowhere else to retreat to, so I stand my
ground, watching him with narrowed eyes as he gingerly makes his way
towards me.

"Sam...?"

What?

"You okay?"

No, I'm not fucking okay, can't you see that?  Can't you see that in the
way that my lips are curling back, baring my teeth to you as you come
closer?  Can't you see that in the way that I can't actually give voice to
an answer for you, can't come up with some meaningless fucking reassurance
to send you on your way.  Can't regain control.

"Sam...?"

He moves closer to me and my head bangs back against the wall as some basic
instinct has me still trying to get away.   He stops, mere inches away, his
face creasing with concern as he tries to read what's in my eyes.

Tries to read me.

It infuriates me, the events of the day, the rage in me setting my blood
boiling.   I need an outlet and I don't want it to be him.  Fight or fuck
is all I know right now, and I know that with him one of them isn't an option.

And I don't want to hurt him.

I make a snap decision, the only kind I'm capable of at the moment, and try
to move past him, out the door, out into the real world, to find what I
need and sod the consequences.

He has other ideas.

He's frowning at me as he slams me back into the wall, obviously about to
ask what the fuck has got into me but I feel the heat flaring in me, know
it's showing in my eyes, know that he sees it too and know that he now
understands.

His grip on my arms loosens slightly and I make another, half-hearted
attempt to get away only to be slammed back into the wall.  His eyes are
determined, and his breathing is now almost as rapid as mine, harsh,
panting gasps, the rhythm echoed in the heartbeat I can feel pounding away
in the chest pressed against mine.

When his mouth descends on mine it's both a revelation and inevitable.  I
resist, for a brief instant, sanity rearing its unwelcome head but then his
questing, demanding tongue slides past my lips and I'm lost.  I grab him,
my fingers digging painfully into his flesh, swallowing the soft grunt of
pain he gives as I grind my groin against him.

He tries to soften the kiss, make it something other than demanding hunger
and I don't let him.  I don't want anything but hunger.  Don't want
anything but noise to drown out the voices, images, thoughts in my head.  I
want him to obliterate them, consume me, white noise and static.  My
fingers are already ripping at his clothes as my tongue darts in and out of
his mouth, setting up a driving rhythm that he echoes.

I push him off me, meeting his glittering eyes with a wild expression of my
own, my teeth still bared.  A low growl escapes me and I see the effect
that has on him, hearing his gasping intake of breath, seeing the sudden
desire flare in his clear, blue eyes.

Maybe I'm not the only one who needs.

We clash, our bodies melding as we wrestle each other, his hands tearing at
my own shirt even as I pull him out of his.  He steps back just long enough
to give up on my buttons and pull the garment over my head.  The buttons
catch in my hair and I welcome the small pain it brings.  And then I'm on
him again, pushing him back towards the bed.

We land on it in a tangled heap of limbs, his tongue still darting in and
out of my mouth, hard and almost brutal.  I can taste the slight metallic
hint of blood, and I don't know if it's him or me whose lip has split.

I don't care.  I welcome that too.

His fingers are scrabbling at my belt now, and my own are tangled in his
hair, pulling him closer to me, devouring him.  Wanting him to devour me.

He does.  His mouth is moving on mine, demanding, all subtlety gone and
*this* is what I need, his fingers releasing me from the confines of my
clothing, gripping me tightly, almost painfully.  I gasp into his welcoming
mouth, sharing breath with him.  His mouth is fastened so firmly over mine
that I'm almost reliant upon him to let me live, to breath for me, and I'm
growing light-headed.

I like it.

It means I don't have to think.

His hand sets up a furious rhythm on my aching cock, while his other hand
rips at the rest of my clothing.  I struggle out of it, unwilling to
release his mouth, unable to ease the death grip I have on his body.  He
finally pulls away from me with an impatient noise, his fingers grabbing my
trousers and underwear and yanking them down over my hips.

I let him, watching him through narrowed eyes.  His face is set, his eyes
still glittering in an expression like granite, his mouth a thin line, so
different from his normal grin.

No dimples.

Good.

I toe my shoes off, barely registering them falling to the floor with a
dull clatter, and let him pull my clothing the rest of the way off.  And
then I'm on him, my own hands as ungentle with his clothing as he was with
mine.  I don't even let him take his own shoes off, pulling them off
without even untying the shoes laces in my haste and ignoring again the
soft, pained sound he makes as they catch.

He's hard, very hard, cut and red and leaking.  I don't take the time to
appreciate the view.  At any other time I might, but not now, when all I
can feel is the pounding in my head, the sheer *need* coursing through my
veins.

I slide rapidly back up his body, hovering over him for the briefest of
instants before my mouth, once again, covers his, grinding my aching
erection against the hardness I've revealed.  I want him in me, and waste
little time with pleasantries.

I don't even have to ask him.  I pull back and look down into his eyes and
he *knows*.  Knows and doesn't argue, doesn't waste any time either,
scrabbling in his pockets for his wallet.

A boy scout like him would always have condoms.  Never know who you're
going to fuck.  Bet he sure as hell never thought he'd be fucking me.

I roll onto my front, my hips in the air, my knees under my body, my thighs
splayed.  Wanton, needing, uncaring.

Want him.  Need him.  Now.

His fingers come around, sliding into my mouth.  No lubricant, of course,
not in this war pocked hellhole.

Good.  The rougher, the better.  All the more noise to drown things out.

I suckle on them, wetting them thoroughly with my tongue, turning my head
to catch sight of the effect that has on him.  He likes it.  His eyes
widen, and his pupils dilate, the lust clear in both his expression and the
tautness of his body.  And elsewhere.  I wonder if he's imagining what it
would feel like to replace his fingers with another part of his body, to
feel my tongue caress elsewhere.  Under other circumstances I might... but
not now.

I finally release him, and watch as he tears the square, foil packet with
his teeth.

Trojans.  American brand.  How fucking perfect.

I pillow my head on my arms, desperate now for this to be over with, for
this to begin so that I can forget.  Lose myself again, for as long as it
takes.  I hear the crinkling of the condom as it rolls over his length,
hear him spit into his palm.

And then his fingers, slick with my spit and his, are caressing the
entrance to my body, fingering my arse with a delicacy I don't want or
need.  I push back against his questing digits impatiently, ignoring the
sigh he tries to suppress.  One finger slides in, my body tightening around
it.  It's tight and a little uncomfortable.

*That's* what I need.

I push back further, and he takes the hint, pulling his finger out.  I hear
him spit again, and it's back with another, and this time I'm stretched to
the point of pain.

Perfect.

He moves his fingers in and out, scissoring them rapidly, now seeming as
urgent for this consummation as I am.  His other hand moves to my cock,
sliding up and down it, slicking both it and his hand with the precome now
leaking from my tip.

And then it's gone, and so are his fingers and I sigh, lying there
trembling, knowing what's coming now and eager for it.

It hurts, burning, as he slides into me, stretching me so wide I feel like
I'm being split into two.  I glory in it.  He's impatient too now, slamming
into me so hard that a cry of sheer glee, and not a little pain, is driven
from my throat.  I push back against him frantically, my teeth sinking into
my forearm to muffle any more cries.

His fingers are digging into my hips, painfully hard and all that does is
increase my arousal so that I'm almost writhing beneath him, frantically
bucking into his thrusts, gasps escaping me despite my efforts to keep
silent, the sweat rolling down my forehead into my eyes and the teethmarks
in my arm, stinging.

I close my eyes, blocking everything out except the feel of him fucking me,
no finesse, nothing but hunger and need.  Close my eyes and for the first
time today see nothing but blackness; no blood, no broken bodies, no
children lying lifeless, scattered like discarded rag dolls.  Just swirling
pinpricks of light as he pounds into my aching, empty flesh.

He's still holding onto one hip with his bruising grip, the other hand now
resting on the bed beside my head, bracing him as he bucks into me.  I turn
my head to the side and open my eyes the merest sliver, staring at his
skin, covered in a light sheen of sweat, the hairs on his arm dark against
his too pale skin.  His head is bowed now, somewhere near my own, and I can
feel his breath against my skin, feel the heat from his body searing into
my own, as he pants harshly, the odd grunt issuing forth as he drives into
me, drives me closer and closer to the abyss I crave.

A sudden, sharp pain in my neck is what pushes me over, as he lowers his
head further and sinks his teeth into my flesh, hard enough to draw
blood.  I come, spurting into his hand as I howl in release.

When I'm aware of my surroundings again, he's still in me, moving more
slowly now although I don't think he's come yet.  Part of me wishes he
would, so that I could retreat, throw him out, go back to pacing the
floor.  The need has ebbed, leaving me feeling empty and drained, and I
have nothing else to offer him.  Except the use of my body, which I
probably owe him.

His tongue is lapping lightly at my neck, the saliva stinging in the wound
although strangely enough it's easing the throbbing pain.

I don't want it to.

I slump on the bed, almost apathetic now, the hollowness inside eating away
at me.  He follows me down, still moving slowly within me, his urgency
seeming to have passed, or maybe it was my urgency, driving him
onwards.  Who knows?  Who cares?

He pulls out of me and in spite of my apathy I'm disappointed.  And a
little guilty.  I'm sure he hasn't come.   He rolls me over, and stares
down at me, the expression on his face serious.  Tender.

Oh God, I don't want this.  Please.

He leans down and kisses me, not hard, not demanding, not the way I
want.  I don't *want* emotion.  I don't want caring.  It's too much.  I
want hard, I want fast, I want empty, devoid of anything that can get through.

I don't want him to touch me like this.  I don't want his calloused fingers
to caress my skin.  I don't want him to lean down and kiss me again, or to
carefully raise my legs, sliding into me slowly.

Gently.

I close my eyes, feeling his hands stroking over my skin, so that I won't
have to look at him, see what's in his eyes.  I can't help but tense
though, and he feels it.  He leans over me, and I can feel his breath
ghosting over my skin again, this time even and calm, not ragged.

"Shhh."

The sound whispers in my ear, cutting into my heart, my soul, leaving me
bleeding again and I let out a ragged sigh, the tension easing slightly
from my body.  His lips move over my skin, tracing a path from my earlobe,
down towards my mouth and I turn my head automatically to meet him half
way, his lips brushing softly over mine.

Gently.

He's moving more slowly now, sliding into me rather than pounding into
me.  In spite of the slowness of his claiming of me, he's hitting all of
the right spots and I'm becoming aroused again.

But I don't want this!

I let out a whimper, moving with him now, unable to resist, my cock already
firming up again to press against his belly as he hovers over me, in
me.  His mouth is still moving over my skin, his tongue sliding into my
mouth, his mouth opening up over mine, encouraging me in.

I go.  What else can I do?

He's moving a little faster now, and releases my mouth, his breathing
speeding up again.  I risk opening my eyes and his are closed and I'm safe,
and I can watch him.  Safely.

And then his open, and I'm caught, trapped more firmly by his gaze than by
any number of locked doors.

Oh God, please, I don't want this.  I don't want the softness in his
eyes.  I don't want the gentleness in his voice as he whispers something
soothing in my ear again.  I don't want tenderness, caring, concern.  I
want meaningless fucking, hard, fast, furious.  Not this.  Please, not
this.  He's stripping away the last, few defences I have left, leaving me
raw, scoured clean, vulnerable.  Bleeding.

And he knows it too.  There's understanding in his eyes again and he leans
down and places another kiss on my lips before whispering in my ear again.

"Shhh."

I close my eyes against the sudden prickling in them.  His lips continue to
brush over the contours of my face, his breath sweet, and his hand moves on
my cock, even sweeter.  I go with that too, concentrating on the feel of
him in me, the way his thrusts push him against that hot spot inside,
trying to lose myself in a current of merely physical bliss, ignoring
everything else.

He won't let me.

"Shhh.  It's okay, Sam.  It'll be okay."

I bite my lip, arching my neck as he pushes into me, sending shivers
throughout my body as his cock presses against my prostate.  I begin to see
those pinpricks of light again, feeling the familiar tension building in
the pit of my stomach, stoked by his hand on my cock and his cock in my
body.  It's slower this time, not the headlong rush into a dark abyss, but
a slow slide into grace.

I'm whimpering again, dimly hearing my voice but unable to stop it, unable
to keep it in.  He's ripped that away from me too.  Over it all, I hear his
voice, murmuring platitudes in my ear, or what would be platitudes from
anyone else.

From him they're pain and pleasure all combined in one, neat,
soul-shattering package.  Tearing me apart and putting me back together
again in one breath, with one sound.

I don't want this.

The thought is weak and I'm moving with him now, striving for the bliss I
know is just around the corner.

I don't want...  I want...

I explode, crying out, my fingers gripping his flesh again as he continues
to soothe me in his soft voice, gentling me down from the heights of
ecstasy, up from the depths I've been in since the events of today.  I
shudder against him, the last shivers of my orgasm moving through my body
and his own body tenses, suddenly rigid against mine, and then jerks once,
twice, three times as he spills himself into my body.

He collapses against me, his breathing hot against my sweaty and sore neck,
and then rolls off me, but gives me no respite.  He pulls me with him so
that we're lying on our sides, facing each other.

I can no longer keep my eyes closed, and open them reluctantly to meet his
blue ones.

They're still soft.

He reaches out and traces down the side of my face with one finger, his
wise eyes searching mine, not commenting on the wetness I know must be
there in them, the weakness I know I'm showing.  His hand closes around my
neck, his fingers stroking the nape and he pulls our foreheads together for
a brief moment, before moving his mouth down to mine again for a similarly
brief, sweet kiss.  And then he releases my head, moving his hands down to
my back and pulling me towards him, into his arms.

I go.  What else can I do?

"Shhh," he says again, his voice so gentle it hurts.  "It'll be okay,
Sam.  I promise it will."

I believe him.

The End


 

 


 

[BritSlash Contents Page]  [BritSlash Fiction Archive]