June 21, 2012
I write…a lot. I have for a long, long time. I wrote my first fan fiction when I was fourteen, my first original, Mary Sue style fic when I was fifteen. Some of it I like to save for no one but me, other stuff I’d like to share, and so here I am, sharing.
There should probably be a blanket statement here that that stuff I write is usually adult in nature, sometimes explicit, and sometimes involves my favorite fictional characters. I have a particular fondness in writing for messy emotions, sex of any sort (including m/m, m/f, m/m/f – it’s ALL good in my world, and if that sort of thing makes you want to run the other way, this probably isn’t the place for you), and flawed characters.
If you decide to read on, enjoy. And if you maybe decide you want to read some more of my fanfic, let me know, I’ll hook you up with a link or three. There’s a lot of it, in a lot of different fandoms (Supernatural, Avengers, Star Wars, Star Trek, Inception…)
June 21, 2012
He eyes you from across makeshift floor, makes his way over, sly smile reaching right up to his eyes as he offers his hand to you. ‘May I?’ he asks as your hand comes out to greet his, as he sweeps you effortlessly from your seat and leads you towards the the makeshift dance floor. His fingers entwine with yours while his other hand fits into the small of your back, warm against the silk of your dress, hot where his fingers graze the bare skin of your back.
You fall into an easy rhythm, hips swaying against his in a dance that feels familiar, intimate. He smiles easily at you and under the soft, twinkling lights you notice the grey of his sandy blonde hair, the crinkle of skin around his blue eyes, the lived in feel of his body against yours. Your heart skips a beat when his hand glides from your back to your hip, when he pulls away from you and sets you into a spin; twirls you away from him only to reel you quickly back in, flush against his hard body once more.
He whispers in your ear then, ‘beautiful’, a simple word that lights you aflame, settles soft against your skin. His fingers entangle yours as he leads you gracefully away from the dance floor, no longer willing to share you with the music, until you’re pressed up against bark, shrouded by low lying, weeping branches and leaves, his hands on either side of your face as he leans in and ghosts his lips over yours, drawing back only to flash you that smile once more before he leans in again, his lips moving this time down your neck and his hands up your legs, rough over silk and skin.
You feel his smile against your skin as he eases two fingers into your wet heat, feel his chuckle at your shudder. ‘You’re ready for me’ he says in that commanding voice and before you can answer he’s moving thick fingers inside of you, rubbing his thumb over your clit. You wrap your leg around him, pulling him closer still, gasping with each thrust of his fingers, with each push of his thumb. His hand withdraws and you whimper, mourning the loss until he wraps your legs around him, pushes longer, harder heat up into you.
You feel your back scratch against the rough bark with each thrust, hear the rip of precious silk against the tough grain. Smooth, gentle strokes become rough, erratic thrusts, his bit back groan against your ear the only warning before he stills. Your heart is in your throat, the blood pumping thick in your ears, drowning out the faint music as he moves to his knees between your trembling legs.
He looks up at you with heat in his eyes, this sated man, before he leans in to taste you, to devour you like some sort of sweet treat, his tongue pushing you over that edge and into oblivion not once but twice, in quick succession, his strong arms holding you in place, keeping you from falling. He moves gracefully back up your body, unhesitating in moving his lips over yours, sharing your combined tastes with you even as he smooths down your dress, rights himself. He whispers again in your ear, ‘thank you for the dance’, and kisses your hand before he parts, not a glance back in your direction.
June 21, 2012
She doesn’t blink when he asks for two shots, doesn’t flinch when he nudges one back at her with a tight nod of his head and a twenty on the bar. She downs the cheap whisky, his drink of choice, with him, avoiding his gaze as she brings the glass back to the counter for a quick refill, trying not to notice the new scars, choosing not to notice the deeper lines in his once handsome face. She looks around the near empty bar before slamming back the second shot, wondering if anyone sees, if they care, before risking a glance at the man before her, before moving his twenty silently back across the bar at him.
He smiles at her then, a rueful thing that tugs on what little heartstrings she has left and before long she’s off shift, or close enough to it, perched half on the stool next to him, a quiet sort of companion just waiting for her sign, for that slight brush of his hand against her knee or her arm, for that question in those dark, tired eyes.
He never asks out loud, never says those things that the other men in her bar say, doesn’t use meaningless words or false pretenses to lure her; doesn’t ask much of her, not until his surprisingly soft lips brush up against hers, tasting of mint and stale booze and a sweetness she’s never been able to put her finger on, whispering her name so soft sometimes she sometimes wonders if she imagines it.
He takes her hand in his, leading her to the creaky bed in the small apartment over the bar, her bed with it’s white, frilly sheets and girlie flower duvet, a place where he sometimes lays his head, if only for a night. He settles back on the too soft mattress, wincing as it or maybe he creaks, as she crawls onto his lap, straddling him, wrapping her arms around him while she can, giving him the thing he never asks for, the thing she thinks he needs.
His calloused hands roam freely over her body, tugging off clothes in search of bare skin, the cool of a gold band sending chills over her otherwise overheated skin. She doesn’t ask about the ring, never has, the sadness in his eyes tells her all she needs to know. Her answer is in the way he noses up into her, the way he tastes her, messy and wholly and desperate, always attending to her needs before his own, the name he cries out in the dark as his body trembles telling her more than he ever could otherwise.
He holds her after, always holds her, stroking her hair, her skin, making her feel safe and warm until she starts to drift off. She fights it the whole time, begs him silently to stay, though he never does. And she wakes in the morning, goes about her day, tending to that bar, waits for him to walk back through her door.
June 21, 2012
Notes: John Winchester started life as the dad in Supernatural, and this fic is loosely based on him, mostly in looks and spirit, though I turned him into my own character and started following my own canon. Written not for profit at all.
She matched him shot after shot, lined up full from her side on the bar and slammed back down empty from his, a hazy reminder of how much they’d had to drink. He started to count them by twos until she stopped him, reminding him it wasn’t gonna change how drunk he was and it wasn’t gonna get her the money she didn’t charge him for drinking them. ‘You can charge me,’ he told her, ‘but I ain’t got no money to give you, pretty lady’ and sweet mercy that might have been the nicest thing anyone’d called her in a long time.
“You stop calling me cute little names now, Winchester,” she warned him, “‘fore I go all sweet on you.”
He followed up with a thick, overdrawn ‘You mean you’re not already?’ while she ushered the last of the hunters out of the bar, couple of them grumbling about she never kicked them out so early before and one catching on too quick that she wasn’t kicking Winchester to the curb with them. She threatened to pull out the gun hidden in her boot, talking about how John was family and anyway, it weren’t none of their damn business, was it? That shut them up as well as Winchester stepping behind the bar to lay out his namesake across bar.
“Well isn’t that a sight?” Ellen questioned out loud to no one but herself as she made her way over to John. “A Winchester stroking his Winchester”
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Unless, of course,” he said before grabbing the bottle of Jack off the bar with the hand not fondling the rifle, “you’d rather stroke the Winchester.”
“Again with the sweet talk?” Ellen made herself comfortable on one of the creaky, cracked and torn leather covered stools. “You’re gonna make me blush like some virgin,” she told him, creeping her fingers down the smooth base of the old beauty.
“A virgin. Well, haven’t had one of those since…,” her fingers brushed against his, over the cool steel of the barrel. “…it’s been a long time.”
Ellen moved her hand on top of his, rough against rough, hands of a hunter. She laced their fingers together, moved his hand slow down over the smooth steel and quick back up again. She looked him in the eye, gauging his reaction, “You holding that bottle for safe keeping or you gonna give us a drink?”
John lifted the bottle of Jack, brought it to her lips when she tipped her head back and poured a finger’s worth into her mouth, watched her swallow most of it down like no virgin he’d ever known. He took a swig himself, their fingers still intertwined as he brought the bottle back up to her lips and poured again, two fingers worth this time. She tried to take it all, swallow it all down like a good girl and he told her so even as some spilled from her mouth and ran down her neck and he chased it with his tongue and a murmur against her skin, a question of whether she was so salty sweet all over.
He traced the line of smoky sweet liquid up her neck, over her chin, across her lips and against her tongue, smooth like velvet. The near empty bottle hit the floor and his free hand came up against the side of her face, up into her hair and back down again and this time he chased the taste right out of her mouth. He felt dizzy, as if all the blood in his body had gone south of his belt, leaving nothing but sweet whiskey burning his veins in its wake.
“How long’s a long time?” Ellen asked when he leaned his forehead against hers to stop for a breath.
“So long,” he whispered, voice like sandpaper against silk in her ear, “too long.”
She pulled away and turned her back towards him, hoisted herself up onto the bar to swing her legs around. “Too long,” he repeated as he grabbed her by the back of the knees and pulled her in towards him, moved his hands up over faded denim.
June 21, 2012
Notes: Phil is injured, having been stabbed in the chest with a spear. He can’t join them, Clint and Natasha, but he can lead them as he does on the field, on a mission, in battle. And he can watch. Established threesome relationship, M/M/F. Disclaimer -based on Marvel characters, not written for profit of any sort.
They’re beautiful like this, wrapped around each other in a graceful tangle of limbs. Clint with an intensity he usually reserves for hours on a rooftop, Natasha with a softness she’d otherwise hide. Phil wants to climb onto the bed with them like he’s done so many times before, like they convinced him to years ago.
They’re quiet tonight, and Phil has a moment, when Natasha climbs onto Clint’s lap and presses him to her breasts, gently kisses his forehead. He aches from the intimacy, feels like maybe he shouldn’t be there, aches with a pain around his heart that has nothing to do with his injuries.
Natasha whispers against Clint, unusually tender words in Russian, and Clint opens his eyes, stares across the room at Phil as she says them again. It’s Phil’s words for she and Clint, a thing she’d teased him about, words that Phil had groaned into their skin, into their sheets. Phil repeated her words then, and if either of them noticed the catch in his voice, they didn’t say.
‘Phil,’ Clint starts and Natasha stops him with a finger to his lips before she slides off of his lap and steps off the bed, walks towards Phil. Clint is quiet, watching as Natasha puts her hands out to Phil, pulls him gently up out of his seat and leads him slowly back until he’s sitting in a chair next to and facing the bed. She smiles at him, a deadly thing that Phil’s never been able to resist, not since they started this thing, and Clint finds more words then, tells them to kiss and they do, sweet and soft and with a sigh from Natasha as she pulls away.
‘Again,’ Clint says as Natasha turns her back to Phil and asks him to help her out of her underthings. Phil runs hands up her back, unhooking, works his way back down her body, fingers sliding under black lace as she leans forward, crawls up on the bed as Phil slips the skimpy fabric down off of her. ‘Not yet,’ Phil answers as he watches Natasha make her way towards Clint, ‘not until she tastes like you,’ and then the tone is set, the mood changed.
Natasha swings her head around, eyebrow raised at Phil and he tries to laugh, nothing more than a little huff of breath as he settles into his seat, explains with a minimum of words that he’s never seen them like this, never watched, and god he wants, he wants to watch, and see, and tell, and teach. ‘So teach,’ Natasha tells him from on all fours, ‘And tell,’ Clint says from underneath Natasha.
He tells, because he could never said no to Natasha straddling Clint’s hips, sliding wet over him in a slow tease because Phil asked her to, because Phil told her to. He teaches, because he knows how to pull a broken, needy sound out of Clint and he wants, because the ache in his heart is spreading and he can’t be with them now, but he can give them this.
‘Flip her, Clint,’ he says, watching as they move with grace, ‘but let her control it,’ and Natasha hooks her legs around Clint and pulls him forward to sink into her in one smooth thrust. Clint groans, Natasha moans and Phil is lost to their symphony, in Clint’s words, ‘God, Nat – Phil, she’s sowet.’
Phil is emboldened by Clint, by Natasha’s unusually breathy response to him, and he can see when Clint slides in and out of her but he wants more and so he pushes a little, asks her for more. ‘Is that right, Natasha? Are you wet for Clint?’ and Clint swears, ‘Jesus, fuck – Phil,’ and Natasha keens, answers him with a ‘Yes, yes, dripping for him – for you’, and it’s the dirtiest, sexiest thing Phil’s ever heard Natasha say, and he’s heard her say.
‘I want you to come first, Natasha, can you do that for me? This way?’, and Phil can hardly believe the steadiness of the words coming out of his own mouth. She shakes her head no, and Phil understands what she wants, tells Clint to pull out of her, flip her on her stomach, get her back up on all fours, and give her what she needs.
‘Use your mouth, Clint. Make her come,’ he says, and Clint is moaning, muffled against her, on his knees with his face pressed up into her, his tongue making quick work of Phil’s demand. Natasha bucks back against Clint, presses down against him and grinds herself into his face, takes exactly what she needs from Clint and Phil thinks that there may be nothing more beautiful on this or any other planet than two highly skilled assassins working each other towards this heated point.
Natasha is flushed and breathless when she comes and Phil wants to tell Clint push back into her, knows that Natasha could come again easily at this point and just from thrusting inside of her. He’s brought her to that point himself and he’ll do it again soon enough, when he’s healed, but right now all he can see is is Clint’s mouth, slick with spit and Natasha and he needs to taste, just a little. Clint is looking at him, his hands still on Natasha, stroking her hips and whispering to one or both of them, ‘That good, baby?’. Natasha huffs out a yes and any other time she’d tell Clint to quit it with the sweet name calling but she knows, they all do, that this isn’t any other time.
‘So good,’ Phil answers Clint, tells him to come here, tells him he wants to taste and Clint leans into him with another broken noise as Phil runs his tongue over moist lips. Clint tells Phil he wants him, wishes he could feel him, kisses him when other words threaten to spill. Natasha is behind Clint then, whispering hot into his ear, coaxing him away from Phil’s mouth and back towards her.
Her hand is slick and warm when it closes around him and Clint closes his eyes, overwhelmed. Phil tells him to open his eyes, to look at him, to see what Clint is doing to him. Clint opens his eyes, sees the want on Phil’s face, hears when Phil tells him, ‘Natasha’s going to make you feel so good, Clint. I’m going to watch her bring you off the way I like to bring you off.’
Natasha is pressed against Clint’s back, both of them on their knees, on show for Phil. He wants to reach out and touch, lock hands with Natasha and run them over Clint’s heated skin, lean in and lick at her neck while she whispers her Russian words to Clint. He tells them what he wants, that he wants to see Natasha’s pretty mouth wrapped around Clint and then there she is, placing Phil’s hand on the back of her head and leaning forward to take all of Clint. Phil guiding her down, eyes locked with Clint’s when Clint starts to shake.
‘Nat,’ Clint groans, and Phil eases up his hand on her head but she doesn’t want that and she pulls it back down, grabs for Clint’s hand and puts it on top of Phil’s. Clint doesn’t take his eyes off of Phil, even as he swears and grunts and comes down Natasha’s throat and this is a moment that Phil will remember forever.
June 21, 2012
His hands are on her hips, mouth on her ear whispering ‘so gorgeous,’ ‘just like that,’ and the question that breaks her more than the heat in his pants pressing against her, ‘you wanna ride me?’ She whimpers, voice a shock to both their ears, moans when fingers dig deeper into her skin, bruising in a way they never had before, stutters when he doesn’t ask again but demands, rough and urgent. He laughs against her then, thrills at her unspoken reply of thrusting hips. She’s wet for him, soaked through flimsy lace and and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to lose himself deep in that tight, moist heat.
He tells her, filthy words that aren’t usually his spilling forth as he works his zipper open, pushes fabric out of the way and slides into her. It’s exquisite, he thinks, he says, she’s exquisite, working those hips like that, wrapping those impossibly long legs around him in that chair like that, grinding down on him like some sort of wanton whore and she shakes with the intensity of it, of the friction and the heat and his words dripping with every sin he’s ever wanted to commit. He’s gonna come, he tells her, gonna come in that hot cunt of hers and with one more thrust he does, loud and hard and long.
He’s pushing her off of him, pushing her to the floor and spreading her legs and sucking on her clit with no abandon, pulling away to work his tongue inside of her, taste himself there, tell her he wants to make her come, wants to hear her scream his name. He slides his mouth back up, tongue flicking steady against that hard bundle of nerves, fingers slick with his own release moving inside her until he feels her clench around him, hears his muffled name around the thighs pressed to his ears.
He’s lapping gently at her, barely perceptible strokes of his tongue as her legs fall to the sides, working her back up to a slow, sweet pleasure before she’s come down from the first. He can feel it when she tenses, hears her surprised, strangled gasp as her second climax spreads warmth throughout her body. She’s gorgeous like this, he tells her before he starts working on a third, soft and pliant under his hands, his mouth, hushing her cries of ‘I can’t’ when he nuzzles against her, telling her she can, telling her ‘you can, you can do it for me,’ and ‘do you want to come for me again, do you want to come all over my mouth?’
It’s not a question and they both know, she loves nothing more than to make a mess of him, she wants to obey that primal command, wants to see his mouth and chin shiny with spit and slick with their exertion. He hovers over her, darts his tongue out to taste her again, moans when she bucks up against him, when she sets her own rhythm of hips against his face, nothing more than a minute’s worth of messy work to bring her a third release of the night.