Friday Free-For-All
Feb. 20th, 2009 01:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
monica-catch22.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
comment_ficAll right, boys and girls... It's that time of week again. Time for... Free-For-Alls!
Drill is as follows: Any fandom, any pairing, any crossover, any prompt. Leave your kink at the dink... or something. Just make sure you post in the proper format, such as in the example below:
For a single fandom: Fandom, Pairing, Prompt
Example: RPS, Misha/Jensen, Yoga Lessons
For a crossover: Fandom/Fandom, Pairing, Prompt
Example: Leverage/Life, Elliot/Dani, Cops and Robbers
Can't think of anything to prompt? Answer a lonely prompt here and earn extra Karma Points!
Happy Prompting, everyone!
Drill is as follows: Any fandom, any pairing, any crossover, any prompt. Leave your kink at the dink... or something. Just make sure you post in the proper format, such as in the example below:
For a single fandom: Fandom, Pairing, Prompt
Example: RPS, Misha/Jensen, Yoga Lessons
For a crossover: Fandom/Fandom, Pairing, Prompt
Example: Leverage/Life, Elliot/Dani, Cops and Robbers
Can't think of anything to prompt? Answer a lonely prompt here and earn extra Karma Points!
Happy Prompting, everyone!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 06:21 am (UTC)Flexibility
Date: 2009-02-20 11:50 am (UTC)Misha takes it with good grace, just laugh and shrugs and says he knew what he was getting into when he signed up to play someone who could suck his own cock. And besides, he adds with a grin, he is very flexible.
The thing is, though, Jensen can't get it out of his mind. Can't get the image of Misha folded like a pretzel and with his dick so close to his mouth he can just stick his tongue out and taste.
They'd watched the episode, him and Jared. Watched it with pizza and beer and a hard-on that appeared so fast Jensen nearly whimpered. And Jay, the fucker, had just smirked, because he's well aware that Jensen's wanted to get into Misha's ass since Misha walked on set. Finds it even funnier that Jensen keeps trying to approach Misha, to find someway to broach the subject, but keeps chickening out.
In the end, it's Jared who snaps, grabbing Jensen by the arm and muttering that if it was left up to Jen they'd be there in ten years with Jensen still waxing lyrical about Misha's ass and eyes and lips, and still not approaching him about it.
Misha's hair is mussed when he opens the trailer door, in shirt and jeans and barefoot, because he'd only been on set for a few minutes before Jared had been knocking on his door.
And he doesn't even have time say hi before Jared's pushing Jensen towards him, Misha's hands coming up and holding Jensen's arms as he stumbles into him.
"He's here for a one-to-one lesson," is all Jared says before grinning and leaving.
"Really?" Misha asks, eyes bright and soft smile on his face.
"I-- er--" Before he finally settles on, "yes," and is being pulled into Misha's trailer, Misha's mouth against his, before the word even finishes leaving his lips.
And it turns out that Misha's not flexible to suck his own cock. But he's flexible enough to suck Jensen's, so that's okay.
Re: Flexibility
From:Re: Flexibility
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 06:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-15 02:42 am (UTC)A long arm caught him, his first impression was an innocent smile and cat eyes.
"Hey, careful," The gentle expression loomed forward, catching Sam by surprise. Every instinct was telling him to fight. His breath caught when soft lips pressed against his own.
"Welcome to Earth," The boy said, his lean body the epitome of health and vitality. "My name is Sam."
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:14 am (UTC)(crossovers welcome)
To Her He Turns
Date: 2009-02-21 03:20 am (UTC)Instead she watches him come towards her noticing the easy physical grace he usually moves with is marred by a sharpness. He’s walks with the gait of a man who knows he’s hurt, but isn’t sure how bad, and she’s careful not to acknowledge the soft hissed sigh as he takes a seat at the bar.
Her teeth are worrying at her lip but she knows better than to ask – yet. Instead she keeps one eye on the door and sends Jo to warn Ash that there may be trouble on the way though she’d be surprised if he’s let anyone follow him here.
Two fingers of whiskey poured into a glass and her hand’s steady when she slides the drink over to him.
His hair’s fallen forward, partly hiding his face, but she can see the flushed skin on his cheekbone, the swelling beginning around one eye, the pinkish smears where blood has been wiped hastily away. What she can’t see and needs to is what’s under the leather jacket he’s got pulled tight around him.
The hand he wraps around the glass has bloodied and bruised knuckles and he takes a deep swallow, followed by a cough and curse.
“That’s got to sting some.”
Her lips twitch into slight smile when he looks up scowling and she’s releasing the breath she’s been holding. She’s damn sure he’s not so stupid to take the drink if he’d been gut shot or stabbed or hurt any of the other thousands of ways that could be made worse by a shot of the good stuff.
She breathes a little easier watching the tension ease out of his shoulders.
By the times he gets two thirds of the way down the glass, there are only four customers left in the bar, there’s no sign of trouble and she can trust Jo to close up.
“Kitchen.”
She walks into the back, leaving him to follow at his own pace. There’s a time to help Eliot and a time to let him get somewhere under his own steam – and she’s been around him now long enough to know the difference.
When he comes through the door she’s got the water heated, the first aid kit she keeps stowed under the sink is laid out on the old pine table and the kitchen’s been turned, not for the first time and she doubts if it’ll be the last, into a field hospital.
“Sit your ass down, right now.”
The huff of laughter, cut off as he tries to breathe too deep, is as close to an apology she’ll get. Not that she expects one.
Her hands ease the jacket and then the shirt from his body and she’s frowning at the ragged bloodstained gash in the shirt. She doesn’t even try to peel him out of the t-shirt, just cuts it away from his body, pulling it wetly away from the long shallow cut stretching from six inches above his hip to curve around his ribs.
“How many were there?”
“Six.”
He takes another drink out of the glass he brought with him and she concentrates on cleaning and then bandaging, knowing full well the minute he leaves the bandages will come off. But if she can keep him here for a few days to rest up at least he might get a head start on the healing.
“You leave any of them standing?”
The snort of disdain is enough of an answer and she reaches for the basin of hot water and the towel.
Doesn’t take her long to clean his face, and he’s going to have one hell of a black eye and enough bruises to make him look like he’s gone a few rounds with Ali or Tyson.
She tidies up quick and efficient and there’s color coming back into his face when his fingers wrap around her wrist.
“I didn’t just come here for you to patch me up. Can do that for myself.”
“Don’t doubt it for minute. So what did you come here for?”
And that slow smile is what she’s been waiting for, that and the way he undresses her with his eyes.
“You going all coy on me?”
She winds her fingers through his and leans in, her lips meeting his in a kiss full of promise.
“When have I ever been coy around you?”
She pulls him to his feet, leads him into her room, and they may have to be careful but she’s got no doubt they’ll find a way for her to give him what he’s come for.
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From:Leverage, Eliot/Parker, hurt/comfort
From:Re: Leverage, Eliot/Parker, hurt/comfort
From:Re: Leverage, Eliot/Parker, hurt/comfort
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 09:06 pm (UTC)"I'm not screwing this up this time," Owen breathes heavily as her body is stretched against his long and beautiful. She eyes him suspiciously, but his calloused, rough hands wander down her skin and she can't be bothered to think about it anymore. They are finally here, somewhat sober and emotionally stable and most importantly unclothed.
While his fingers are as deft as any other surgeon's she has known, and she has known a good many, they were as rough as he is, without the overindulgent care that surgeons usually give to their hands. Christina had certainly taken such care of hers, but he did not seem to mind their softness, judging by the way he moaned when she crept them along his ribs, past his nipples and down to his abdomen.
He almost comes from the first contact she makes with his manhood, but he has steely self control when he needs it, and he's not going to lose it before her. So he brushes her nipples, the friction of his calloused hands sparking down her nerve ends and she misses a stroke, which gives him just enough time to push her hands up. Her eyebrows shoot up and he grins at her before bending his head to kiss her nipples.
Which could be a mistake, as he misses her grin as she starts to bring her thigh up, not ready to give up. And so all perfectionist sweetness and calm are gone and they scramble against each other, hot and bothered. All that matters is contact and this other being, Christina pushes down as soon as she can feel him and there is no time to stop and think about how perfect this. Owen lifts her against the headboard and grinds all thought of his mighty self-control lost, but it does not matter, because this is Christina and she can handle him like no other woman.
And she is kissing him while her eyes sparkle at him, he almost forgets to thrust with the wonder she summons from him, though it is alright, she shudders violently and brings him with her. They fall onto each other in pure contentment and for once she is the one that falls asleep, so he can lay there, watch her sleep and feel a peace settle in his chest.
(phh it isn't as good as it was supposed to be, but... Love your icon.)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:27 am (UTC)Torchwood, Tosh/Ianto, archives
Date: 2009-02-20 01:56 pm (UTC)His hand is between them, having slithered down the front of Tosh's skirt a while ago and slipped inside the tight constraints of her pantyhose. Her legs are spread as they stand against the wall enough for his fingers to have slid between them, stroking attentively over her sex and moving at exactly the right speed. In this, Ianto is a perfectionist - just as he is in all other aspects of his life.
"Ianto," she whispers, her breath trembling. His thumb presses pleasure against her clit while his fingers brush against her opening, only ever dipping one knuckle inside at most. She wants more; she wants to feel him inside her, but hidden in the archives they don't have enough time or privacy. She can't imagine the shame she'd feel if Jack or Gwen or - oh god - Owen found them like this. It doesn't bear thinking about.
But she can't help the whimpers that escape from her as his skilled digits manipulate her cunt beautifully, making her completely and utterly his. "Tosh," he murmurs, his full accent rounding by her ear. His lips skim against the shell of her ear and she feels the hint of teeth, enough to make her gasp. "Are you close?"
She nods hurriedly, even though it's difficult to focus. "So close," she answers. She feels him smile, before he pulls back from her enough for his attentive blue eyes to watch her face closely. His hand speeds up, thumb thundering over her clit as he drives her steadily toward climax with surgical skill.
She's hardly aware of the sounds that she's making, high-pitched and barely muffled, because the only thing that she can think about is that boiling heat that's gathering in her cunt, washing through her, breaking the world into scattered pieces when Ianto brings her climax to her, making her come on his hand with a cry that's only silenced by his gentle lips pressing against hers.
He kisses her slowly, carefully, and his hand only withdraws from her skirt when the movements become sensitive enough to make her flinch away. He clears his throat and steps away from her; she can see her juices glistening on his hand and if her face wasn't already flushed from exertion than that sight would be enough to make her blush bright red.
"I'm just… Jack sent me down here to get the – uh – alien… The artefact." Gosh, speaking shouldn't be this difficult, but her thoughts are too scattered. She looks down to rearrange her skirt and try to look more presentable, because looking at Ianto while his eyes are dark with lust and while he's got that knowing little smirk on his face is simply too difficult. "The one we collected a few months ago. It glows."
"I think I know which one you mean, Tosh. Give me a second – I'll fetch it for you."
She nods, allowing him to begin to walk away – knowing that he needs to wash his hands before he can collect anything for her from this endless storage place. "Oh!" she calls after him on a sudden spurt of courage. "Are you busy at lunch?"
"Not really," he answers, turning back around to look at her. "Why?"
"I could meet you," she suggests, "down here."
It is, after all, only fair to repay the favour. When he smiles brightly and agrees, she doesn't try to stop the corresponding smile that crops up on her face – because being with Ianto, she thinks, is the smartest thing she's done in years.
Re: Torchwood, Tosh/Ianto, archives
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:31 am (UTC)Claiming
Date: 2009-02-20 12:11 pm (UTC)But this...storm-blue eyes glaring up at him without an ounce of fear; hard, lean body bucking in his hold with strength he rarely finds in mortals...this is beyond temptation. His agents are closing in on their position--he hears them running down the hallway he himself had chased their target down just a few short minutes ago.
Another moment, and it'll be over.
The boy beneath him is all spitting curses and hard fists, striking at him with deadly accuracy even as he tightens his grip on the juncture of the throat. Pulse beat thrumming wildly beneath his hands, and the scent of adrenaline, sweat, and fury wafts up to him. But no fear. Still no fear.
Too much.
He leans down and just buries his nose against the hollow of the boy's throat, breathing deeply. His tongue darts out and he just wants to taste...just a taste and the body beneath him arches up in a parody of a lover's clench, fists raining down on his back and head and he ignores it all.
Sweet-salt taste explodes on his tongue and he can feel the beat ofblood against his mouth, knows, just knows it would be sweeter than anything he's ever tasted. He feels the ache in his mouth, and he doesn't care anymore. Just a taste. He wants a taste.
Fangs slide into the tender flesh before he even has a chance to think about it, and he nearly groans as the taste floods his mouth. Sweet and hot and glorious and the body underneath him stills. He loses himself in the taste, in the thrill of heady, heady temptation and when he feels the boy shift underneath him again, he ignores it.
It's a mistake.
Pain explodes on the side of his head, enough that he jerks back, startled, and then two booted heels connect with his chest and he's flying back, off of the young thief. The boy's rolling to his feet even as he hits the floor and for a moment, their eyes lock. There's something wild in those blue eyes, something hard and dangerous, and God help him, he wants.
Then the moment is broken, the thief scoops up the black rucksack containing a priceless Egyptian canopic jar and sprints away, racing down the hallway towards the emergency exit that no one's supposed to know about.
To his surprise, he lets the boy go.
His agents finally arrive on the scene, seconds too late, and he waves off their assistance as he gets to his feet. He stares down the hallway the boy had taken, fresh blood and heat singing through his veins.
He licks his lips, greedy for any last trace of the thief's blood, and a slow smile breaks out on his face. He's tasted the boy. Marked him.
He'll find him again.
Ummmmm...okay? *never written comment 'fic*
*runs and hides*
Re: Claiming
From:Re: Claiming
From:Re: Claiming
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From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:19 pm (UTC)He looked at himself in the mirror, the blue silk made him look austere and unattainable to a man like Malcolm Reynolds. Maybe he would like that, the idea of something technically unavailable to him being so very very available tonight, open and pliant, ready to fulfil his every desire with no questions asked. He heard the discreet ding of the bell which meant that Mr – sorry, Captain Reynolds had arrived. He stood by the bed, checking that the tea set was correctly placed, more out of convention that necessity. He knew there would be no tea ceremony today but he didn’t want the client to feel that he wasn’t worth the effort.
Simon felt a warmth spreading across his stomach as Malcom Reynolds entered. On the cortex he had looked handsome, but it was his physicality, his height, those broad shoulders and thighs. So refreshing after a week of slender mother’s boys who hadn’t done a day’s toil in their lives. He smiled warmly and approached his client, the blue silk shirt shushing gently as he moved.
“Captain Reynolds, welcome.”
The man nodded, clearly uncomfortable. There was the scent of Dutch courage on his breath and past his confidence his eyes gave him away as nervous. Simon took Malcolm’s hand and placed it on his hip, looking up at him with wide eyes. If he showed vulnerability, Reynolds would instinctively take charge. He’d had his type before.
Sure enough, the Captain pulled Simon to him, kissing him deeply and letting his calloused hands scrape across the silk he was wearing. He deftly unfastened every mother of pearl button before taking down Simon’s pants and pushing him towards the large bed. Simon allowed himself to be propelled along, every thought leaving his head until he caught Malcolm’s gaze and realised they were both naked, and panting, and that Mal was waiting for something.
Simon pulled the man closer, opening his legs and pressing a firm hand to Mal’s ass, spurring him on. Moments later he was being rocked gently, Mal stretching him, pressing further inside and kissing his collarbone as he fucked him.
“You’re so beautiful, thankyou, thankyou.” Mal was muttering into Simon’s ear as he slowed his pace, stroking him firmly and kissing, licking, sighing.
Simon smiled as he revelled in the worshipful lovemaking. This was why, unbeknownst to him, Malcolm Reynolds would get a 90% discount.
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Date: 2009-02-20 07:33 am (UTC)Leverage RPS, Timothy/Chris, new season
Date: 2009-06-28 12:58 am (UTC)Glancing around, Chris saw that Tim wasn't one of the revelers. He wasn't in the current scene they were shooting, but like Chis, he tended to hang out and watch the others working if the wait was short, cracking jokes between takes to keep things light on the set.
Chris raced over to Tim's trailer, hoping to find him there. He pounded on the door, realizing only belatedly how that must sound.
"Hey, Tim! You in there?"
Tim opened the trailer door, blinking at him in surprise.
"Chris? What's going on?"
Chris burst into the tiny trailer, the scant space barely able to contain his enthusiasm.
"We did it, man! We got a second season! The word just came down!"
Chris watched smiling as the realization dawned on Tim's face.
"That's... That's great!"
Who hugged who first wasn't clear, but all of a sudden they were clapping each other on the back, laughing with joy - a rare moment of uninhibited emotion.
When Chris finally pulled back he spotted something on Tim's face only to have Tim quickly shutter it away, pasting on a smile to cover it up.
Chris looked at him askance then pulled the door closed.
"It's just you and me here, Tim. If you're not happy about us getting a second season, if you're having second thoughts about the show, tell me now..."
"No, no," Tim professed, gesturing Chris to calm. "I'm thrilled, really."
"But?" Chris prompted. "You have 'But' face - don't ask, it's a Joss thing."
"No buts. There are just challenges to this role that, well, I'm going to find challenging. I'm up for it. Nothing to worry about."
"Dude," Chris looked him in the eye, "You won a freaking Oscar when you were twenty. There's not anything about this role you couldn't nail in your sleep."
Tim looked away. "It's not the role." He shuffled back to the living room area of his trailer and Chris followed. As he plopped down on the couch, Chris leaned against the wall, watching him carefully.
"It's someone who works here, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Tim admitted. "But it's fine. I'm a professional. I can work through it. I've done it dozens of times before." He let out a little huff as he looked up at Chris. "You've worked enough to know how it is. You get little crushes on a set, but then you move on, they move on. It's nothing."
He flopped back, letting his head fall back on the couch.
Chris took a deep breath.
"I just came to let you know the good news." He turned as if to leave then delivered his parting shot. "For what it's worth? What I feel? It's not nothing. You should know that."
He got halfway out the door before he heard Tim's voice.
"Chris? Don't go..."
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:33 am (UTC)On the Road (Chris/Steve)
Date: 2009-03-08 02:12 am (UTC)He’s standing outside the Green Room enjoying a conversation with a blonde who’s legs go all the way to her armpits and who has only one thing on her mind, if the way she keeps smiling at him and leaning in close so he can see all the way down her cleavage is anything to go by.
But Steve knows his chance to slide away somewhere quiet is about to disappear into thin air when the thunk comes again.
The door to the Green Room is yanked open and their guest liaison emerges. She looks a little bit wild eyed and a whole hell of a lot pissed off. Her easy smile is gone, lips pressed tightly together, short dark hair standing up in spikes where she’s obviously been running her fingers through it and she stomps over to him.
“I give up, you go deal with him,” she mutters as she walks past.
Steve sighs and regretfully peels Mandy..Sandy..Candy...the blonde’s fingers from his arm. It’s not that she’s forgettable, far from it, but he’s met so many people over the last 12 hours that faces and names are starting to blur.
“Sorry but duty calls.”
He brushes the barest of kisses across her cheek because there’s no point in tanking his chances for the entire weekend, before he slips into the Green Room.
There’s an over turned chair just inside the door, one of the stainless steel pitchers that had iced water in lies beside the chair, and the carpet squishes under his boots.
A steady stream of curses is falling from Chris’s lips “fuckin’ motherfucker” making a regular enough appearance in the litany that Steve knows they’re on the downward slope towards serious trouble. Chris’s pacing up a storm, long neck in one hand, and the only break in the curses is when he lifts the bottle to his lips.
Three years on the con circuit, and Chris still gets nervous when they’re asked to play. Just the two of them, no band to back them up and playing acoustic in an empty hall not designed for bands is always going to get him twitchy. The sound check had sucked this morning, the sound too high and tinny, no depth or resonance but they’d been working on it.
Eric has the head of the tech crew backed into the opposite corner and he’s talking low and fast. He shoots Steve a look – the one Steve mentally calls Eric’s Number 4 glare, which roughly translates as “I’ve got this in hand you talk him down” before he shepherds the guy out.
Steve locks the door, picks the chair up and wedges it under the handle, because he sure as hell doesn’t want anyone walking in on them. Been a while since Chris has worked himself up into a rage and he’s never sure which way it’ll end and it wouldn’t be the first time Chris’s thrown a punch before he’s thought it through.
“You just about finished there or you wanna be a prima-donna for a while longer?”
Chris turns and the curses stutter to a stop, pink flush staining his cheeks as his eyes go to the Eric-shaped space in the room.
“You’re looking a little tense there...”
Steve walks over, backs Chris up against the nearest wall.
“Oh come on you don’t...”
Steve doesn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence. He just winds his fingers into Chris’s hair, stops the tumble of words with his mouth and lets his hips rock into Chris’s body and waits until he’s pretty sure his lungs are gonna burst before he comes up for air.
“You need to shut up and chill the fuck out...”
Steve drops to his knees, fingers popping the buttons on Chris’s jeans and when he glances up it’s to see pupils blown wide and the flush staining Chris’s skin has nothing to do with anger.
There’s some advantages to being on the road and Steve thinks this might just be one of them.
Re: On the Road (Chris/Steve)
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From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:34 am (UTC)Until What I Love Misses Me And Calls Me In [SPN, Sam/Dean, hurts so good]
Date: 2009-02-22 10:26 pm (UTC)The storm rolls out from over the mountains, lightening marks the sky as the wind and rain rush at every side of the Impala. Dean pulls over to the side of the road after sliding left of center a second time. A look. Moments later, they shove off jackets and jeans, then boxers, skin to skin, sticky as the vents pump in humid air.
Nipping down Sam's clavicle to his chest and lower still, Dean holds his brother's cock back and licks a stripe down the vein before swirling at the head, sucking off the pre-come before taking in as much as he can without choking and pumping his fist at the base to make up the difference. Sam groans, a Latin prayer, maybe, but Dean tunes him out; he's gonna bring Sam to the edge of the precipice – Dean pulls his mouth off of Sam's cock only to grip his ass, cupping and tilting until he has access to the puckered hole.
"Stop, we can't do this," Sam moans, only giving Dean the opportunity to slide two fingers into his brother's mouth. Sam laps at them, sloppy and wet until Dean jerks them out with a pop.
"You're the one who left the lube at the motel, Sammy," Dean grunts while arranging Sam's shivering legs over his shoulders.
Sam clenches the ring of muscle involuntarily as Dean closes in, and he waits for the breach. He grapples at the passenger door behind him, desperate for something to prop him up as Dean slides a finger and his tongue into Sam. Boneless and writhing now, Sam lets Dean lick him open with soft strokes of his tongue, working one and then two fingers in and out, careful to swipe across the smooth heat until Sam bucks up, his irises blown open to black.
Dean fists at Sam's cock, swiping as much pre-come as he can before spitting into his hand and coating his own cock; he aligns with Sam and waits.
"Fuck, Dean, yes, do it already," Sam's falling apart and if Dean doesn't fuck him soon he's gonna break his brother's jaw.
"Just making sure, you know, that you want it," Dean smirks. He presses into Sam, past the resistant muscle until the resistance is a vice around his cock.
Sam pants beneath him, fingers digging bruises into Dean's triceps, and sweat clings to both of them.
"You good?"
Sam runs a tongue over his dry lips before nodding. It aches, burns as Dean pulls out slowly. "Hurts, but good, don't. Stop."
But Dean pauses, his hands gripping at the indentations below Sam's hips, angling him up before thrusting again. Sam arches his neck, sobbing or moaning, Dean can't tell, as he thrusts again.
The leather crackles under them as Dean works for more leverage, but Sam's close. He snakes his hand around Sam's cock, twisting and stroking until a strangled harsh sound shudders out of Sam's mouth and he comes. Dean shoves his semen-covered hand to his own cock as he slides out of Sam as far as he can and slicks his cock again before fucking back into him, gliding through the resistance and comes, falling into Sam's chest, both heartbeats beating double time.
Re: Until What I Love Misses Me And Calls Me In [SPN, Sam/Dean, hurts so good]
From:Re: Until What I Love Misses Me And Calls Me In [SPN, Sam/Dean, hurts so good]
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-21 01:59 pm (UTC)There's something incredibly sexy about seducing his boss, even when he's not that attracted to him. Richard isn't the best looking guy in the galaxy, not by a long shot, but the power, the authority; it attracts John. It's a kink he can't seem to get rid of, no matter who his boss is.
The first time Richard invited John to his quarters, John knew he was in trouble. He restricted himself to one drink, refused the offered cigar and left as quickly as he could. Since then, the adrenaline rush from the anticipation has become addictive. He knows Richard hasn't got a clue what's running through John's mind as he watches him smoke, and they chat about the more mundane things in life. Richard's trying to make friends, trying to fit in, and John...John can't stop thinking about screwing him.
He steps close to Richard, extracts the cigar from his fingers and takes a long drag, keeping eye contact as the smoke swirls around and between them. It's years since John smoked anything, and the almost forgotten taste is intoxicating. He keeps the cigar in his own hand and offers it to Richard, teasing his lips with it, keeping it just out of reach, and when his replaces the cigar with his own lips, the taste of brandy lingering on Richard's tongue makes him groan as his cock hardens.
He backs Richard up against the wall and quickly divests him of his pants, dropping to his knees and sucking Richard's cock into his mouth. A stunned cry falls from Richard's lips and he comes in mere minutes, panting John's name, grasping at his hair.
John stands, fastens Richard's pants and smooths down his shirt. Richard is staring at him, wide eyed, gasping for air and John thinks it's enough this time. He takes a swig of brandy before he leaves, knowing the entwined taste of the alcohol and Richard will still be in his mouth when he jerks off later in his own bed.
AN: OMG I cannot believe I just wrote Woolsey porn! *headdesk*
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From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:Torchwood/Angel, Tosh/Fred, chocolate
From:Re: Torchwood/Angel, Tosh/Fred, chocolate
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 02:58 pm (UTC)Because they both know that once they're through fighting they'll move on to fucking. And from the way she fights, Eliot knows that it'll be fantastic.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 10:35 am (UTC)Tomorrow... Er. Later today. Thingy... Assuming I actually, y'know, go to bed ::facepalm::
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:03 am (UTC)Re: Breathplay, Being Human, George/Mitchell
Date: 2009-02-20 04:45 pm (UTC)“Hey, calm down, would you?” Mitchell says, letting George go immediately, and George breaks away, not turning until he can put his back against the opposite wall. He’s very firmly not thinking about the rush that went through him for those couple of seconds when he couldn’t drag a breath in.
“What…what was that?!” George asks, and, yes, he’s aware that his voice went up a couple of octaves there, thank you. In his defence, he thinks he’s entitled to have a bit of incredulity in his tone.
“Just playing around,” Mitchell shrugs, and leans back against his wall.
“That,” George says, and he rubs at his throat, “that was not just ‘playing around’.”
Mitchell’s eyes flick down to a certain area of George’s trousers, and George can feel himself flushing when Mitchell looks back up, one eyebrow rising.
“Perfectly normal,” George tries to explain, his words tumbling over each other as they try to get out, “adrenaline rush and natural reactions and…”
He’d carry on, but Mitchell’s suddenly right in front of him again, barely enough room for a piece of paper between them, and oh god, they’re still in the hospital.
“Not here,” George hisses, and sidles out from the space between the wall and Mitchell, heading for the nearest exit and hearing Mitchell’s quiet footfalls behind him.
He’s still not sure how he found himself flat on his back on his bed with Mitchell crouched over him. It was kind of a blur, and he thinks it’s entirely probable that they just walked out of work without saying anything to anyone because he knows it was nowhere near the end of their shifts. He can’t really concentrate, though, because Mitchell’s naked – very much so – and his hand’s resting, flat, over George’s neck. He’s not even exerting any pressure yet, and already George is finding it difficult to breathe.
He gasps in a breath, and Mitchell’s eyes narrow, washing over with black as he presses down just enough for George to feel the breath stutter as he releases it. This is…well, he’s not entirely sure what this is, but he’s fairly certain he shouldn’t be as achingly hard as he is.
Mitchell comes closer, leaning down so that they’re almost nose to nose, and the pressure increases when he wraps his other hand around George’s entirely too-excited cock which jumps slightly at the touch.
“Breathe,” Mitchell reminds him, a hint of a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth, but George can’t, and Mitchell slides his hand up and down, and George arches up against him, only held in place by the hand around his cock and the one pressing him into the mattress. He panics, flailing, but Mitchell rides it out and doesn’t stop moving his hand. Those black eyes are watching him, noticing every single change in his expression, probably, and George can’t look away, can’t breathe, and Mitchell tightens both hands just a little more and George is coming, starved for air and shaking under Mitchell’s hold as darkness tinges the edges of his vision.
When he comes back to himself, Mitchell’s lying propped up on one elbow and leaning over him.
“You alright?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, and George nods because he can’t not and reaches for him, dragging Mitchell into his arms. When he swallows he can feel the ache as if a hand’s still squeezing his throat, but he feels more alive than ever and yet so, so sleepy.
He’ll figure it out later, George thinks, and then he’s falling asleep as Mitchell’s arm creeps tentatively around his body to hold him just as tightly as he’s holding Mitchell.
Re: Breathplay, Being Human, George/Mitchell
From:Re: Breathplay, Being Human, George/Mitchell
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-12 06:58 am (UTC)Then, once they get him to the hospital, things just begin moving so quickly that there's no time to recover, no time to come to terms with all that's going on, and all it means to them.
Once it's all over, they sit in the kitchen together, quietly discussing their victory, and what it might mean for them. Annie is optimistic, vocally wondering about what might be next for her, now that she's allowed death's door to pass her by. The other's seem so proud of her for doing something no one's done before, and she accepts that, basking in their praise.
Later, they go to work -- and she's alone in the empty house.
The house she may always be bound to.
George comes home to find Annie sitting on the floor against the wall, sniffling and swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. She glances up at him, and her pretty dark eyes are glistening with tears.
There's been bad blood between them in the past.
George didn't always want her here.
Now, he's so grateful that she stayed -- and feels guilty for that gratitude.
"I-it... it still feels like a loss," she confesses helplessly as he slowly approaches her. "I think I'm... grieving my own death!"
George says nothing as he goes to her, kneeling beside her and wrapping his arms around her. They're silent for a long time, her crying soundlessly, and him just holding her. Finally, she regains control enough to whisper hoarsely.
"At least... at least now I can feel your arms around me."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 11:22 am (UTC)Guh, damn. I wasn't meant to get distracted from working today. Um. Soon?Turned out a little different. Um. :D?--
Merlin wakes up slowly, lazily. He stretches, and enjoys the feeling in his arms, legs, fingers and toes. He lets his eyes drift open, light from the windows soft and grey, it's still early yet.
He turns over, feet tangling with the covers, and almost jumps out of his skin in shock. He is not alone in his room.
Arthur sits on the edge of the bed just watching, silent and thoughtful. He puts out a hand onto Merlin chest as Merlin swears and struggles to get up.
"No," he says, "don't move."
"Were you watching me sleep? Do you know how frightening that is?" Merlin says, shock still lining his words.
"Did I say you could speak? Keep quiet." Arthur leans into him, lips just inches from Merlin's ear. "Do you trust me, Merlin?"
"I- of course." Arthur's hand is spreading warmth across his chest through the thin layer of night-shirt. Merlin searches his eyes and tries to find a reason for this strange behaviour, but Arthur gives nothing away.
"Good." He smiles, pleased with Merlin's answer. Then shoves him, hard. Merlin's back hits the bed and his breath rushes out of him until he's staring up at the ceiling, dazed and wondering whether he was still dreaming. Arthur follows him down, climbing on top and settling his weight on Merlin's thighs, effectively pinning him onto the bed. This part (Arthur heavy and solid against him, breath warming Merlin's lips), at least, was familiar.
"Arthur, Gaius-" Merlin starts, but Arthur just clamps one hand over his mouth and growls out.
"Don't talk. If you don't want Gaius to hear, then don't make any noise, understand?"
Merlin swallows past the nervousness in his throat and nods. He knows Arthur won't hurt him, but there's just that little something in his eyes that makes Merlin not as sure as he should be.
"Give me your hands." Arthur murmurs, and Merlin - being Merlin and thus really bad at following orders - just looks at him, not entirely willing to see where this is going. Instead of huffing irritatedly as he usually does, Arthur narrows his eyes and leans in closer. "Merlin," he says, "I'm going to tell you once more, and you will obey." Arthur's voice is low and edged with enough danger to make Merlin shiver and he's surprised at the line of heat that shoots straight down his body, fast and overwhelming. He's still reeling from it when Arthur gives the order again, and unthinkingly, Merlin brings his hands up. Arthur guides them above Merlin's head to the headboard. "Keep them there. Move them and I'll stop."
Now it's anticipation gathering low in his belly, heat and lust in a rapidly gaining swirl as Merlin curls his fingers around the top of the wood, enjoying the smooth grains, watching Arthur undress them both with heavy eyelids. He's already half hard as Arthur shifts forward and down and Merlin strains up to meet him and the friction is amazing. Arthur's breathing heavy in his ear, hands stroking his sides and pleasure shoots through his veins at the speed of light. Merlin has to clench his fingers, dig his nails into the headboard to stop them from dropping.
Arthur thrusts in time with his breathing, and they slide wetly against each other, it's good, but it's not enough. Merlin wants to feel him, wants to reach down and touch the hardness he can see between them.
"Arthur. Arthur please," he almost doesn't recognise his own voice when it leaves his mouth.
"I told you not to talk," Arthur says, "Next time, I'll gag you." Merlin reaction to the words almost throws Arthur off. His blood is rushing in his ears, and beyond that he hears his moans, too loud. Arthur has to kiss him to shut him up, tongue licking forcefully into Merlin's mouth. It's hot and messy and wet and all Merlin can do is curl his own tongue around Arthur's and hold on for dear life.
His fingers hurt, and his arms burn from the awkward position and it's just too much feeling all at once. When Arthur's lips leave his mouth, finds his nipple and bites down, Merlin doesn't just tip over the edge; he's hurled, exploding from his own body. He's not even aware of Arthur following him, seconds later.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:04 am (UTC)When I Get Back, Leverage/Dollhouse, Alec/Echo reprogram
Date: 2009-05-03 07:05 pm (UTC)Hit started the reprogramming and he had the momentary Frankenstein moment as he watched the chair move up, the woman in front of him no longer a doll, but a nails tough lady with people to see, places to blow. He didn’t want to know why they wanted someone who liked to blow things up, but it wasn’t his job to know, just to provide.
“Well hello there gorgeous.” He said to Echo/Mariana as she sat up.
Her smile was sultry and smooth, just like her voice, New Orleans accent making her doe eyes and slinky movements all the more alluring. Damn. He was good.
“Hello there yourself stranger.”
“Ma’am, we have your car ready.” Her handler said as he waited by the door.
She reached a hand up, her nails catching as she caressed Alec’s cheek. Her nose crinkled slightly with her smile. “When I get back cher… when I get back.”
Re: When I Get Back, Leverage/Dollhouse, Alec/Echo reprogram
From:Re: When I Get Back, Leverage/Dollhouse, Alec/Echo reprogram
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:15 am (UTC)Heroes, Mohinder/Eden, door
Date: 2009-02-20 05:39 pm (UTC)He presses her up against the closed door of his apartment as his lips find her own in a kiss that is all fiery desire and pent up sexual frustration. Eden’s hands, desperate and wanting, reach up and grip him by his biceps as her hips angle upwards to grind her pelvis against his own.
“Eden, oh Eden,” he mummers as his lips trail downwards to nibble on her neck, down to her collarbone. She moves her hands upwards and twists them into soft curls and pulls him closer, needing to feel every inch of him.
She groans loud and shamelessly as his hands drift downwards to wrap one of her still jean clad legs up and around his waist. Her breasts still encased in black lace push up against the rock solidness of his broad chest as they move against eachother.
“Mohinder, oh please…” The words sound far away to her, the soft pleading of her words sounds alien, not like her own voice, usually so self-assured, so full of confidence.
Yet now - now she is pent up and full of want. She wants him. She wants him now, wants to feel his hands everywhere, wants him inside her, wants him to fuck her and never stop.
She closes her eyes and throws her head back against the door, and loses herself in his kisses, loses herself in the feel of him hard and insistent between her thighs, everything made so much better by the fact that he wants her every bit as much as she wants him.
The voice she uses to command those around her lies dormant, all that is left is the soft panting and desperate moaning of a woman breaking apart under the man she loves strong and capable hands.
Everything in that moment, soft and blissful, and real.
Re: Heroes, Mohinder/Eden, door
From:Re: Heroes, Mohinder/Eden, door
From:no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:17 am (UTC)