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Title - Channelling Eleanor Rigby
Author - redvalerian
E-Mail address - redvalerian@gmail.com
Rating - NC17
Category – Hathaway/Lewis
Tags – Hathaway, Lewis, slash, erotica, fantasy, angst, happy ending eventually,

All the lonely people. Where do they all come from. And what do they do when they’re alone? (This is a re-working of a story I wrote over a decade ago for another fandom altogether. A few changes in gender pronoun were necessary.)

Hathaway dreams about a certain Detective Inspector that he thinks can never love him. He's wrong.

Written for Day Six of the Lewis Week of Love challenge.




Channelling Eleanor Rigby Part One

He felt so lonely. Achingly lonely. Not just lonely for companionship, but lonely for someone else's warmth. In the seminary he’d had companionship and solitude in pretty much equal doses. But he’d never had warmth. He’d never had love. He’d never thrilled to someone else's voice. Yearned for someone else’s touch. He did now. All the time.

He could almost imagine what Lewis’s large hands would feel like on his body. How his lips would taste. How he would smell.

What kind of lover would Lewis be? Hathaway could envisage it so clearly. Words would stutter off of his tongue in that glorious mixture of Geordie vowels and consonants, causing Hathaway to shudder in anticipation. They would fall on each other, and then somehow their clothes would be gone, and they would be revelling in the feel of flesh sliding over flesh. There would be no hurry. No sense of urgency. They would explore each other with fingertips and tongues, with kisses so tentative they were barely felt. And then finally, at just the right time, Lewis would enter him slowly, so slowly that he'd have no time to tense, no time to feel that fear of failure that had blighted the few sexual relationships he'd had so far.

Instead, as he felt the head of Lewis’s penis gently prodding him where he ached to be filled, he'd let himself open up, spread his legs as wide as he possibly could for him, in a gesture far more welcoming than outstretched arms. And then Lewis would gently backthrust and then slowly plunge forward. Backthrust and slowly plunge forward. Backthrust and slowly plunge forward - endlessly rocking his body; each time going deeper into Hathaway than the time before. The tangle of hair at the root of his cock would gently tease Hathaway’s sensitised flesh every time their bodies met. John Thomas meeting John Thomas. And finally Hathaway would feel that glorious cock angle upwards inside, reaching for that perfect spot that no-one had ever touched before; coming closer and closer with each long slow lunge. And Hathaway would help him all he could by bringing his knees up to his chest so that Lewis could go deeper still - until he felt that Lewis must be arching up into his soul.

Lewis would smile then, and deepen his long thrusts even more while not increasing his speed. It would feel like slow-motion love, surreal seduction. Hathaway would curb his desire to buck frantically; to rush headlong towards the orgasm he craved.

Instead he would slow his movements even more to match Lewis’s unhurried ones; clenching his muscles around Lewis’s girth as if he could squeeze his love into Lewis once and for all. And then Lewis would throw back his head and laugh for sheer joy. And looking down at Hathaway, he'd whisper that he was exquisite. Perfect.

His arms would be braced on either side of Hathaway’s shoulders, elbows locked, so that he could look down at his face. Look down at them joined. And as he stroked slowly in and out, he would reach for Hathaway’s waiting cock, and begin to stroke him in time to his thrusts.

When they both finally allowed the tempo to increase; when they both finally gave in to the frantic need to bury themselves in each other fiercely - almost painfully - then they'd finally climb that peak together, and together come screaming down to earth again. Hathaway could almost imagine these things. Almost feel them. Almost but not quite.

“You all right, lad?” A voice broke into his fantasy. Guiltily, Hathaway looked over at Lewis’s desk. He could feel his face burning, and was suddenly aware of how long he’d been sitting silently, with a case file in his hand.

“You look like you’ve got a fever, man. Time you went home.” Lewis’s voice was all kindness and concern.

Hathaway, nodded, without meeting his Detective Inspector’s eyes. He needed to get out of there, and fast. God how he loathed himself. He didn’t deserve Lewis. He didn’t deserve anyone. Most days, he didn’t think he deserved to live.


Title - Channelling Eleanor Rigby
Author - redvalerian
E-Mail address - redvalerian@gmail.com
Rating - NC17
Category – Hathaway/Lewis
Tags – Hathaway, Lewis, slash, erotica, fantasy, angst, happy ending eventually,

All the lonely people. Where do they all come from. And what do they do when they’re alone? (This is a re-working of a story I wrote over a decade ago for another fandom altogether. A few changes in gender pronoun were necessary.)


Channelling Eleanor Rigby Part Two

Hathaway lay stretched out on the Ikea recliner in his otherwise spartan flat. He looked like a specimen being readied for dissection. The flat was furnished with one of everything. One chair. One side table. One lamp. One shelf unit. That was about it. Everything was in pine or birch or black hessian - the whole set against antiseptically white walls. Antiseptically *bare* white walls. The room was about as appealing as a morgue in winter. Or a monk’s cell.

The Detective Sergeant himself was also a study in matte black and pristine white. His long legs extended to the very end of the recliner's footrest. They were encased in black jeans, but the feet were bare. A spotless white T-shirt was his only other item of clothing. It gleamed in the dim light of the room, stretched over his slender torso, leaving his arms exposed to the chilly atmosphere. The fit was so tight that his
ribcage was clearly visible - like an illustration in an anatomy textbook.

One arm was crooked up behind his head, the hand cradling his scalp. The 'deck-chair posture' and casual clothing seemed incongruous in this inhospitable environment. In Hathaway's other hand he held a television remote control unit which he was jabbing in the direction of the flat screen TV. The images on the screen flashed by in a blur, casting light and shadow onto his face.

He clicked from one station to another impatiently - not really registering what was on one channel before he moved onto the next one. A discordant symphony of noise filled the room as he clicked around the dial. CLICK. And the BBC news anchor warned of severe delays on the M1. CLICK. CLICK. And, Alfie was calling last orders in the Queen Vic….CLICK….CLICK….CLICK….and there was Davina applauding this week’s Biggest Loser…..CLICK....CLICK....CLICK...CLICK….Clickclickclickclickkkk.... The faces and voices flew by so quickly that they became a blur of colour, backed with white noise, until he came back to the Biggest Loser again. He smiled grimly. That was him all right. A loser, at every level.

Angrily, he clicked the television off and threw the remote down on the floor. He was a failure as a priest. A failure as a detective. A failure as a friend. The sudden silence was unnerving. It left a ringing in his ears and made the room seem 10 degrees colder. He involuntarily shivered as his exposed skin grew a sea of goosebumps.

There was a frown on Hathaway's face when finally and inevitably he turned and looked at the side table next to his chair. He'd been avoiding it for the last hour, but no longer. The spirit might be willing, said his grim expression, but the flesh is weak. Too fucking weak.

On the table was one empty glass and one unopened bottle of whisky. Next to them was a tube of lubricant still in its outer box. Also unopened. He stared at all three for a few minutes. Then he slowly reached out for the box containing the tube of lubricant. He opened it and took out the information leaflet he found inside. He began to read it carefully.

He knew that it was a delaying tactic, but that didn't stop him reading it word for word.

COMPARE THESE FEATURES WITH THOSE OF OTHER LUBRICANTS:
- Superior, long-lasting lubricating qualities.
- Does not dry out to leave a solid residue.
- Greaseless - Natural feeling.
- Safe for all sensitive areas of the body
- Non-systemic.
- Non-staining, clear, unscented
- A new concept in personal lubrication.
- Excellent lubricity
- Smooth, natural texture
- Ideal for all intimate activities.
- Eases insertion.

Hathaway finished reading. There was now another truly grim smile on his face as he picked out the key phrases from the leaflet. "Personal lubrication", "sensitive areas of the body", "intimate activities,” “eases insertion.”

Yes. All that was well and good. But was it ideal for jerking yourself off with? Would it make a clenched fist feel like someone’s welcoming body? Like a specific welcoming body? Like Lewis's? That was the question.

There was only one way to find out. He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, reaching in and exposing his burgeoning erection to the chill air. If anything it shrivelled slightly, as if it didn't like the cold room and wanted to run back into the warm. Hathaway ignored the shrinking flesh but once again that look that was more grimace than smile appeared on his face. He turned his eyes away and opened the tube of lubricant, squeezing a small amount of the colourless, odourless gel onto his right hand. It felt as devoid of warmth as did everything else in the room. The little pool of gel was as cold as his empty life was at the present. As meaningless as Will McEwan’s death had been in that frigid church. But the lack of any alternative meant that it would have to do.

In the few seconds he'd been brooding, the gel in his hands had already begun to warm up. Hathaway closed his eyes and let his imagination go to work. What would he like to do with Detective Inspector Robert Lewis, that was the question? How could he ever show the love he felt for the man who had saved his life. Who had run into a burning building and rescued him. Just thinking of Lewis made his erection grow and begin to throb. He disgusted himself. Almost against his will he slowly reached his hand down towards his now demanding erection.

The lubricant would make his palm a slick haven; a place where he could bury his unacceptable desire for a few minutes at least. He was nearly touching himself now. He pictured Lewis’s face, looking down at him as he lay recovering in that hospital bed. Looking at him with something more than friendship and concern. Looking at him with something very close to love. Suddenly he froze. His hand hovered over his straining flesh for a breathless instant, and then he clenched his fist and slammed it down on his rigid thigh instead. The feel of the warm lubricant on his fingers and palm was suddenly unpleasant. Distasteful somehow.

His eyes shot open and he looked down at his fading erection and his clenched fist as if both belonged to someone else. Some other Detective Sergeant of the Oxfordshire Constabulary who was obsessively in love with a superior officer who cared nothing for him. Not in that way. His face registered something approaching despair.

And then there was a knock on the door. And he knew. He just knew that it was Lewis, coming to see how he was.

Part Three