POST OF DOOM - Comment Ficlets
So. Recently, in my personal journal, I did a challenge wherein people comment on the post with an icon, and I write a ficlet based on said icon. These are the results of that challenge. They run the entire gamut of fandoms (Rome to BSG to Torchwood to random pirates AU) and genres (slash, femslash, het), ratings (anywhere from PG to NC-17) and tones (crack, drama, angst).
Without further ado, here they are:
fandom: rome, cheap, cicero/antony, nc-17
for
artyartie
As soon as Cicero realizes what, exactly, Antony is doing, he looks away. He forces himself to look away, and he flinches, a spasmodic flicker of disgust. The horrid, crass confidence of the man - of all the -
Antony tucks himself back into his tunic, and Cicero tries to ignore the acrid stench of urine, rising from the fronds of the plant. It will have to be destroyed, he thinks, possibly burned. He imagines the green turning shriveled in black, dancing in flickers of gold and red. Imagines ashes, all that’s left.
In the end, he just tells Tiro to toss it out.
And yet - Antony’s confidence, the smirk, the liquid movement of muscles underneath his skin - Cicero remembers.
Images, flashes, haunt him. The sight of Antony’s cock, quiescent - what would it look like, if - or a fleeting slickness, a heat, shoulder blades rippling under Cicero’s palm. Legs open like a cheap whore, a rasped voice snapping orders, but the freedom to follow them as he will.
Cicero clutches his hand harder around his erection, and he rides the rush of ecstasy, watching the spill of semen onto his hand. He bites his tongue against the shame (shouldn’t want this).
When he writes his address to the Senate, he makes sure it hurts.
- - - -
fandom: rome, lost, brutus/cassius, pg-13
for
babel
Lost; everything is lost. Brutus can’t see the battle, not through the stinging dust and the tears he blinks to wash it away, but he can feel it in his bones - they are battered, beaten. The army is fleeing. Octavian and Antony have won.
Cassius is too heavy in Brutus’ arms. The blood stains crimson, dark and warm and sickly sweet. Cassius’ fingers brush his neck, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.
This is as good a place as any, thinks Brutus. “I love you,” he says, so soft, so broken, and he watches as the light fades from Cassius’ eyes.
- - - -
crossover: battlestar galactica and rome, god, starbuck/octavia, r
for
jhd91
The bandits are quick - they set on the group just at sunset, after they’re tired from the day’s heat and before they stop, set up the camp and secure it against possible attack.
The men get out, to fight, all around Octavia, and one of them shoves her into the back of a wagon. “Hide!” he calls, before his sword clashes against one of the attackers. Her heart pounds, and she gathers her skirts beneath her, huddling against the corner of the cramped space. Bandits are a problem along the highways; Octavia has heard rumors of possessions stolen, women kidnapped and -
The back of the wagon is torn open, violently. One of the brigands, with short-cropped blond hair, hops inside.
Octavia opens her mouth to scream, but the man’s hand is already over her mouth. He drags her out of the wagon, into the growing darkness of the trees, barely stopping to lash her hands together with a leather cord and tie a gag around her mouth. He keeps a solid grip around her hands, and pulls her behind him, as she stumbles through the dark.
Eventually, they emerge into a clearing, set with tents. No fire - still pitch black, with barely the light of the stars and the moon overhead.
“In here,” says the bandit, and pushes Octavia through a set of tent flaps.
The voice - Octavia turns in surprise, and in the half-light of the candles, she sees the form of the bandit’s face. Not a man, as Octavia had believed, but a woman.
The woman unties the gag, and the bonds, and pushes Octavia back on a cot, handing her a skin of water.
“I thought you were a man,” says Octavia.
The woman smirks. “Wrong,” and she slides a hand up Octavia’s leg.
“What are you -” Octavia protests, trying to bat the hand away, but the other hand catches her wrist.
Octavia freezes, breathing too hard, and somehow it doesn’t surprise her at all when the woman’s lips are on hers, the tongue sliding inside. It doesn’t surprise her - but what does surprise her is that she’s kissing back, that her eyes are closed and that she’s not pulling against the hand that holds her anymore, but clasping her fingers around it, holding on tight.
The hand on her thigh slides upward again, under her skirts, and Octavia gasps. “Who are you?” she asks, breathless.
“My name’s Starbuck,” smirks the woman, “but you can call me god.”
Starbuck’s hands move - wicked, wicked hands - and Octavia’s mouth falls open. Starbuck’s tongue is inside her lips again, and Octavia accepts it, letting Starbuck push her legs open.
“Oh god,” Octavia breathes as Starbuck pulls away.
“Exactly,” says Starbuck, and lowers her back to the bed.
- - - -
fandom: battlestar galactica au, escape, baltar/gaeta, nc-17
for
demonqueen666
Felix tenses, waiting for the shot that will tear through his head and scatter his blood to the deck.
Instead, the world shakes with a distant ‘boom’, one that Felix hears inside his own chest. He snaps his head up and the executioner is distracted, looking away - to a ship, sailing the skull and crossbones.
Felix dodges out of the way, before they can turn their attention back to him, and the next few minutes are full - of wood splinters and cannon and red-orange flame.
Felix huddles against the wall of the cabin. He’s bound, chained; there’s nothing he can do to fight back, and when the pirates board, he presents himself as little of a threat as possible.
“Take that one,” he hears, a precise, British voice, and an arm slides around Felix’s waist, physically lifts him off the deck. He doesn’t fight, and in minutes, he’s tossed inside a darkened cabin. Safe, maybe, for now.
He doesn’t know, it may have been a long time before the cabin door opens - when it does, it’s dark outside, and Felix barely catches a glimpse of stars before the door shuts again.
“And what’s your name, then?” comes the voice, the one Felix heard before. In the dull candlelight, Felix sees the outline of a face.
“Felix Gaeta,” Felix responds, drawing his knees up underneath him.
“Felix Gaeta.” The face moves closer, coming clearer. “I’m Gaius Baltar.”
Felix’s blood runs cold. Gaius Baltar - the famous pirate, known for his ruthlessness -
“Don’t be scared,” smiles the pirate. “I saved your life, didn’t I? It belongs to me now.” His hand strokes around Felix’s jaw. “Pray tell, why did the Spanish want to execute one so pretty as you?”
Felix flinches. “What were you doing there?” he asks. “Shopping for prisoners?”
Baltar shoots him a charismatic grin. “Pirates don’t go shopping,” he corrects. “Unless by ‘shopping’, you mean ‘killing’.”
Felix almost smiles at that.
“You have a choice,” says Baltar. “You can stay in here, with me, and be in my bed tonight, or you can work outside with the rest of the slaves.”
Felix cocks his head to the side. “I’ll stay in here,” a challenge.
Baltar flicks an eyebrow. “Very well, then,” and he kisses Felix, shoving him against the wall of the cabin. Felix moves with it, tangling their tongues. The pirate doesn’t want an easy conquest, Felix guesses, so he bites, nips - and he’s right, it only makes Baltar more excited.
Baltar hauls him to the bed, barely stopping to undo the chains, and distracts him with brushing touches, everywhere. Felix has never been so intimately examined in his life, and even though he doesn’t intend it, he finds his cock stirring to life.
“Ah, that’s it,” murmurs the pirate, and he spreads Felix’s legs open.
“No,” Felix protests, struggling for real now, but the sun-and-sea-roughened muscles keep him down, and Baltar prepares him, still with a strange gentleness. When he pushes inside, harder than stone, it doesn’t hurt, not as much as Felix is expecting. Just stretches him so far, such a sweet violation, that Felix can’t but abandon himself to it.
Felix sighs into sleep with Baltar’s arm around his waist; after all, he thinks, one form of escape is much like another.
- - - -
fandom: battlestar galactica, untitled leather!kink ficlet, roslix, nc-17
for
rap541
Felix bites his lip so hard it might be bleeding; his eyes are squeezed shut - he can’t, he can’t - and the muscles of his arms arch, tense endlessly against the cuffs fixing him to the bed. He cries out, a little, with a swirl of fingers between his leg.- the reward, a soft kiss just inside from his hip.
Too much - comforting and tough and hot - the blood pounds in Felix veins, in his cock, stretched so far that he might break. Oh, gods, he needs.
“Felix.”
The slide of leather against his thigh, and his eyes spasm open. She’s above him, so close - and Felix squirms but he can’t move, she’s tied him down. And her eyes, fixed on his.
“Please,” he begs, though he’s not sure what he’s begging for. “Please,” helpless, hers, he’s hers, he belongs to her.
“Ssh,” she reassures, and then sinks down -
Felix whimpers, the heat so strong he’s out of his mind.
After, a sweat-sheen on his skin, she releases him from the cuffs and holds him close, letting him bury his face in her neck.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Laura Roslin strokes his cheek. “I love you,” she tells him.
- - - -
crossover: battlestar galactica and torchwood, snared, felix gaeta/jack harkness, nc-17
for
_usakeh_
“We’ll get you back to your dimension in no time,” smiles the man, something bold and cocky but not arrogant, a tilt of his head and glint to his eyes that make Felix’s knees go weak.
Felix blinks in disorientation, helplessness. They talk amongst one another with great familiarity, and Felix can barely understand every other word.
“You’re the worst doctor on Earth,” one of them snaps at another, after the chair is digging into Felix back from sitting so long.
Felix’s head snaps up. “Earth?” he asks, and he explains - they were trying to find Earth -
Jack - the man in the long coat - shakes his head, and flashes that smile again. “Sorry,” he says, “but it’s definitely another dimension. Earth, when you find it in your universe, is going to be very different.”
When night falls, the crew of Torchwood leave, with apologies and promises that they’ll finish the adjustments the next day. Felix sparks with anxiety - he wants to get back to his home, his own universe, the Battlestar Galactica.
With a wink, Jack invites him down to his own room, inside the Hub, for coffee. Felix half-suspects that coffee isn’t all that they’ll have, but he follows, anyhow.
Once they’re down the ladder, Jack pushes Felix against the wall and kisses him open, until Felix’s lips are slick and he’s making hitched half-groaning noises into Jack’s mouth. No one has ever been this direct with Felix before - maybe cultural standards are different here? - but Jack hardly gives Felix the chance to protest, just licks at him, even and long, until Felix sighs into his touch and lets Jack pull away his uniform jacket, tank tops.
Finally, Felix’s thighs are slick with preparation, and he tenses against the mattress.
“Easy,” Jack winks, and he slides a hand along Felix’s leg, opening him a little more and slipping inside, almost before Felix notices. His hands are experienced, not just in pleasuring himself but pleasuring a partner, and Felix’s orgasm is unbearable and intense and long, long enough for him to whimper it out, clutch at Jack’s arm and snug further, further into Jack’s chest.
“Wow,” says Jack, into the empty air. “That was hot. Are you sure you want to get back?”
Felix thinks. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says, and he rests his head on Jack’s shoulder, feeling Jack’s hand tangle in his hair.
- - - -
fandom: heroes, goodbye, peter/f?, pg
for
shimmeree
Her lips are soft against his, moist and a little slick with that tingles Peter’s nose - sweet and light. Peter’s stomach clenches, and his hand slides to the delicate curve of her waist, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin.
She breaks the kiss, not him, and for a moment he can’t tear his eyes away from the delicate outline of her eyelashes. The power - his power - thrums in his veins, and he swallows it, pushes it away. Now isn’t the time.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she says, and he bites his lip.
“Goodbye.” His voice rasps, and he watches her walk, step after step, further and further away from him.
She only turns back once, the light illuminating her golden, a smile flickering around her mouth. I’ll come back, says that smile.
Peter’s mouth loosens, and he lets the affection flood through him. She will be back, he knows, and it’s enough.
- - - -
fandom: angel, an agony of touch, wesley/illyria, r
for
archerstar
The memories are like ghosts. Sometimes she sees them as clearly as the sun, as clearly as the multitudes of her followers were in days long gone; sometimes they are no more substantial as fog, and as elusive as a scrap of happiness in this twisted world.
He tortures himself; the frame of his body bent and knotted in an agony of mind. She can sympathize with the feeling, but not where it comes from.
All she can see, though, is the flat of a delicate hand over his muscles, the sparkle of a bead of sweat, traveling down his forehead. And sometimes she can almost feel him inside her, hear the choke of breath and the release of pleasure within him.
Fred’s mind is inside every blood vessel. It floods the marrow of her bones; it saturates the beat of her heart, and yet, she doesn’t know it. And she wants to. Just once.
The door creaks open under her palm, the light from behind her casting on the bed, the prone figure under the covers.
“Wesley?” Illyria asks, in Fred’s voice.
“Fred?” His mind is fuzzy from sleep. It’s just the way Illyria wants it. She slides over him, brings their lips together.
The rush of incredulous happiness is so extreme Illyria can feel it, under her fingertips. He kisses back with an abandoned passion, a sweet, simple worship.
“Fred,” he says, “how,” but she’s already pulling his shirt off, easing his boxers low on his hips.
“Ssh,” she says, smiling, even though he may not be able to see it in the dark, with the limits of his mortal eyes.
The first push inside her burns, it hurts more than she’s expecting. But Wesley’s hands are clever, and gentle, and she rides the wave higher and higher until the inevitable collapse. And it feels better - maybe even better than looking out, over thousands who pay homage with their blind devotion. Better, because he sighs in release underneath her, and the delicacy of his form is beautiful to her.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispers in his ear. After his breath evens, she slides back to her feet and pads to the door. She has what she came for; and now, she’s gone.
- - - -
fandom: farscape, christmas eve, john/scorpius, pg-13
for
weirdofromafar
It starts out innocently enough. He’s having dinner with his family, on Christmas Eve, complete with the jumbo mashed potatoes and the crazy blended cranberry salad that Mama Crichton always made. John is eating with relish, gobbling it down - don’t know when I’ll get this again, don’t get much good food on Moya.
He gets up, at one point, needing to go to the bathroom, but when he looks for it he can’t find it. Instead he walks through the gym from his old high school, and it’s decorated for Christmas, hung with garlands and red ribbons.
“You know, this doesn’t match our school colors,” he tells his old gym teacher. The purple and yellow really clashed. His mama would have something to say about that.
The teacher shrugs. “It’s Christmas,” he explains. “It doesn’t have to match.”
That makes sense enough, so John continues on his way. The locker room bathroom is right out the door and around the corner - he can probably go in there, and still make it back to his house in time for desert.
“John,” smiles Laurie, “look, you’re right under the mistletoe.”
John steps aside. “Sorry, Laurie, some other time.”
The mistletoe follows him, though, drifting above his head. Laurie eventually goes and starts making out with - is that Kristen? John turns to look, and hey, that’s hot.
“So, John,” comes a voice from beside him, and John isn’t surprised at all to see Scorpius here. “It’s mistletoe time.”
The mistletoe has been over his head for a while. It’s only fair. “Fine,” John sighs, and Scorpius leans over, presses their lips together. His mouth is dry, but hot, very hot, and John is almost surprised at the teeth. They don’t hurt at all.
“John?”
John sits up suddenly, cracking his head on the console above him. “Aaagghh,” he groans, and blinks.
Aeryn, Chiana and D’argo are all staring at him.
“Having a good dream?” Chiana asks.
“Because you might consider, oh, fixing the panel,” suggests Aeryn, “lest we all get blown out to space.”
“I’m fixing,” says John, hands upraised in protest, “I’m fixing.” He picks up a tool, still blinking, and waits until the three of them leave. “Goddamn that was weird,” he mutters to himself, and gets to work, the dream still lingering in his mind.
Without further ado, here they are:
fandom: rome, cheap, cicero/antony, nc-17
for
artyartie
As soon as Cicero realizes what, exactly, Antony is doing, he looks away. He forces himself to look away, and he flinches, a spasmodic flicker of disgust. The horrid, crass confidence of the man - of all the -
Antony tucks himself back into his tunic, and Cicero tries to ignore the acrid stench of urine, rising from the fronds of the plant. It will have to be destroyed, he thinks, possibly burned. He imagines the green turning shriveled in black, dancing in flickers of gold and red. Imagines ashes, all that’s left.
In the end, he just tells Tiro to toss it out.
And yet - Antony’s confidence, the smirk, the liquid movement of muscles underneath his skin - Cicero remembers.
Images, flashes, haunt him. The sight of Antony’s cock, quiescent - what would it look like, if - or a fleeting slickness, a heat, shoulder blades rippling under Cicero’s palm. Legs open like a cheap whore, a rasped voice snapping orders, but the freedom to follow them as he will.
Cicero clutches his hand harder around his erection, and he rides the rush of ecstasy, watching the spill of semen onto his hand. He bites his tongue against the shame (shouldn’t want this).
When he writes his address to the Senate, he makes sure it hurts.
- - - -
fandom: rome, lost, brutus/cassius, pg-13
for
babel
Lost; everything is lost. Brutus can’t see the battle, not through the stinging dust and the tears he blinks to wash it away, but he can feel it in his bones - they are battered, beaten. The army is fleeing. Octavian and Antony have won.
Cassius is too heavy in Brutus’ arms. The blood stains crimson, dark and warm and sickly sweet. Cassius’ fingers brush his neck, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.
This is as good a place as any, thinks Brutus. “I love you,” he says, so soft, so broken, and he watches as the light fades from Cassius’ eyes.
- - - -
crossover: battlestar galactica and rome, god, starbuck/octavia, r
for
jhd91
The bandits are quick - they set on the group just at sunset, after they’re tired from the day’s heat and before they stop, set up the camp and secure it against possible attack.
The men get out, to fight, all around Octavia, and one of them shoves her into the back of a wagon. “Hide!” he calls, before his sword clashes against one of the attackers. Her heart pounds, and she gathers her skirts beneath her, huddling against the corner of the cramped space. Bandits are a problem along the highways; Octavia has heard rumors of possessions stolen, women kidnapped and -
The back of the wagon is torn open, violently. One of the brigands, with short-cropped blond hair, hops inside.
Octavia opens her mouth to scream, but the man’s hand is already over her mouth. He drags her out of the wagon, into the growing darkness of the trees, barely stopping to lash her hands together with a leather cord and tie a gag around her mouth. He keeps a solid grip around her hands, and pulls her behind him, as she stumbles through the dark.
Eventually, they emerge into a clearing, set with tents. No fire - still pitch black, with barely the light of the stars and the moon overhead.
“In here,” says the bandit, and pushes Octavia through a set of tent flaps.
The voice - Octavia turns in surprise, and in the half-light of the candles, she sees the form of the bandit’s face. Not a man, as Octavia had believed, but a woman.
The woman unties the gag, and the bonds, and pushes Octavia back on a cot, handing her a skin of water.
“I thought you were a man,” says Octavia.
The woman smirks. “Wrong,” and she slides a hand up Octavia’s leg.
“What are you -” Octavia protests, trying to bat the hand away, but the other hand catches her wrist.
Octavia freezes, breathing too hard, and somehow it doesn’t surprise her at all when the woman’s lips are on hers, the tongue sliding inside. It doesn’t surprise her - but what does surprise her is that she’s kissing back, that her eyes are closed and that she’s not pulling against the hand that holds her anymore, but clasping her fingers around it, holding on tight.
The hand on her thigh slides upward again, under her skirts, and Octavia gasps. “Who are you?” she asks, breathless.
“My name’s Starbuck,” smirks the woman, “but you can call me god.”
Starbuck’s hands move - wicked, wicked hands - and Octavia’s mouth falls open. Starbuck’s tongue is inside her lips again, and Octavia accepts it, letting Starbuck push her legs open.
“Oh god,” Octavia breathes as Starbuck pulls away.
“Exactly,” says Starbuck, and lowers her back to the bed.
- - - -
fandom: battlestar galactica au, escape, baltar/gaeta, nc-17
for
demonqueen666
Felix tenses, waiting for the shot that will tear through his head and scatter his blood to the deck.
Instead, the world shakes with a distant ‘boom’, one that Felix hears inside his own chest. He snaps his head up and the executioner is distracted, looking away - to a ship, sailing the skull and crossbones.
Felix dodges out of the way, before they can turn their attention back to him, and the next few minutes are full - of wood splinters and cannon and red-orange flame.
Felix huddles against the wall of the cabin. He’s bound, chained; there’s nothing he can do to fight back, and when the pirates board, he presents himself as little of a threat as possible.
“Take that one,” he hears, a precise, British voice, and an arm slides around Felix’s waist, physically lifts him off the deck. He doesn’t fight, and in minutes, he’s tossed inside a darkened cabin. Safe, maybe, for now.
He doesn’t know, it may have been a long time before the cabin door opens - when it does, it’s dark outside, and Felix barely catches a glimpse of stars before the door shuts again.
“And what’s your name, then?” comes the voice, the one Felix heard before. In the dull candlelight, Felix sees the outline of a face.
“Felix Gaeta,” Felix responds, drawing his knees up underneath him.
“Felix Gaeta.” The face moves closer, coming clearer. “I’m Gaius Baltar.”
Felix’s blood runs cold. Gaius Baltar - the famous pirate, known for his ruthlessness -
“Don’t be scared,” smiles the pirate. “I saved your life, didn’t I? It belongs to me now.” His hand strokes around Felix’s jaw. “Pray tell, why did the Spanish want to execute one so pretty as you?”
Felix flinches. “What were you doing there?” he asks. “Shopping for prisoners?”
Baltar shoots him a charismatic grin. “Pirates don’t go shopping,” he corrects. “Unless by ‘shopping’, you mean ‘killing’.”
Felix almost smiles at that.
“You have a choice,” says Baltar. “You can stay in here, with me, and be in my bed tonight, or you can work outside with the rest of the slaves.”
Felix cocks his head to the side. “I’ll stay in here,” a challenge.
Baltar flicks an eyebrow. “Very well, then,” and he kisses Felix, shoving him against the wall of the cabin. Felix moves with it, tangling their tongues. The pirate doesn’t want an easy conquest, Felix guesses, so he bites, nips - and he’s right, it only makes Baltar more excited.
Baltar hauls him to the bed, barely stopping to undo the chains, and distracts him with brushing touches, everywhere. Felix has never been so intimately examined in his life, and even though he doesn’t intend it, he finds his cock stirring to life.
“Ah, that’s it,” murmurs the pirate, and he spreads Felix’s legs open.
“No,” Felix protests, struggling for real now, but the sun-and-sea-roughened muscles keep him down, and Baltar prepares him, still with a strange gentleness. When he pushes inside, harder than stone, it doesn’t hurt, not as much as Felix is expecting. Just stretches him so far, such a sweet violation, that Felix can’t but abandon himself to it.
Felix sighs into sleep with Baltar’s arm around his waist; after all, he thinks, one form of escape is much like another.
- - - -
fandom: battlestar galactica, untitled leather!kink ficlet, roslix, nc-17
for
rap541
Felix bites his lip so hard it might be bleeding; his eyes are squeezed shut - he can’t, he can’t - and the muscles of his arms arch, tense endlessly against the cuffs fixing him to the bed. He cries out, a little, with a swirl of fingers between his leg.- the reward, a soft kiss just inside from his hip.
Too much - comforting and tough and hot - the blood pounds in Felix veins, in his cock, stretched so far that he might break. Oh, gods, he needs.
“Felix.”
The slide of leather against his thigh, and his eyes spasm open. She’s above him, so close - and Felix squirms but he can’t move, she’s tied him down. And her eyes, fixed on his.
“Please,” he begs, though he’s not sure what he’s begging for. “Please,” helpless, hers, he’s hers, he belongs to her.
“Ssh,” she reassures, and then sinks down -
Felix whimpers, the heat so strong he’s out of his mind.
After, a sweat-sheen on his skin, she releases him from the cuffs and holds him close, letting him bury his face in her neck.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Laura Roslin strokes his cheek. “I love you,” she tells him.
- - - -
crossover: battlestar galactica and torchwood, snared, felix gaeta/jack harkness, nc-17
for
_usakeh_
“We’ll get you back to your dimension in no time,” smiles the man, something bold and cocky but not arrogant, a tilt of his head and glint to his eyes that make Felix’s knees go weak.
Felix blinks in disorientation, helplessness. They talk amongst one another with great familiarity, and Felix can barely understand every other word.
“You’re the worst doctor on Earth,” one of them snaps at another, after the chair is digging into Felix back from sitting so long.
Felix’s head snaps up. “Earth?” he asks, and he explains - they were trying to find Earth -
Jack - the man in the long coat - shakes his head, and flashes that smile again. “Sorry,” he says, “but it’s definitely another dimension. Earth, when you find it in your universe, is going to be very different.”
When night falls, the crew of Torchwood leave, with apologies and promises that they’ll finish the adjustments the next day. Felix sparks with anxiety - he wants to get back to his home, his own universe, the Battlestar Galactica.
With a wink, Jack invites him down to his own room, inside the Hub, for coffee. Felix half-suspects that coffee isn’t all that they’ll have, but he follows, anyhow.
Once they’re down the ladder, Jack pushes Felix against the wall and kisses him open, until Felix’s lips are slick and he’s making hitched half-groaning noises into Jack’s mouth. No one has ever been this direct with Felix before - maybe cultural standards are different here? - but Jack hardly gives Felix the chance to protest, just licks at him, even and long, until Felix sighs into his touch and lets Jack pull away his uniform jacket, tank tops.
Finally, Felix’s thighs are slick with preparation, and he tenses against the mattress.
“Easy,” Jack winks, and he slides a hand along Felix’s leg, opening him a little more and slipping inside, almost before Felix notices. His hands are experienced, not just in pleasuring himself but pleasuring a partner, and Felix’s orgasm is unbearable and intense and long, long enough for him to whimper it out, clutch at Jack’s arm and snug further, further into Jack’s chest.
“Wow,” says Jack, into the empty air. “That was hot. Are you sure you want to get back?”
Felix thinks. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says, and he rests his head on Jack’s shoulder, feeling Jack’s hand tangle in his hair.
- - - -
fandom: heroes, goodbye, peter/f?, pg
for
shimmeree
Her lips are soft against his, moist and a little slick with that tingles Peter’s nose - sweet and light. Peter’s stomach clenches, and his hand slides to the delicate curve of her waist, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin.
She breaks the kiss, not him, and for a moment he can’t tear his eyes away from the delicate outline of her eyelashes. The power - his power - thrums in his veins, and he swallows it, pushes it away. Now isn’t the time.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she says, and he bites his lip.
“Goodbye.” His voice rasps, and he watches her walk, step after step, further and further away from him.
She only turns back once, the light illuminating her golden, a smile flickering around her mouth. I’ll come back, says that smile.
Peter’s mouth loosens, and he lets the affection flood through him. She will be back, he knows, and it’s enough.
- - - -
fandom: angel, an agony of touch, wesley/illyria, r
for
archerstar
The memories are like ghosts. Sometimes she sees them as clearly as the sun, as clearly as the multitudes of her followers were in days long gone; sometimes they are no more substantial as fog, and as elusive as a scrap of happiness in this twisted world.
He tortures himself; the frame of his body bent and knotted in an agony of mind. She can sympathize with the feeling, but not where it comes from.
All she can see, though, is the flat of a delicate hand over his muscles, the sparkle of a bead of sweat, traveling down his forehead. And sometimes she can almost feel him inside her, hear the choke of breath and the release of pleasure within him.
Fred’s mind is inside every blood vessel. It floods the marrow of her bones; it saturates the beat of her heart, and yet, she doesn’t know it. And she wants to. Just once.
The door creaks open under her palm, the light from behind her casting on the bed, the prone figure under the covers.
“Wesley?” Illyria asks, in Fred’s voice.
“Fred?” His mind is fuzzy from sleep. It’s just the way Illyria wants it. She slides over him, brings their lips together.
The rush of incredulous happiness is so extreme Illyria can feel it, under her fingertips. He kisses back with an abandoned passion, a sweet, simple worship.
“Fred,” he says, “how,” but she’s already pulling his shirt off, easing his boxers low on his hips.
“Ssh,” she says, smiling, even though he may not be able to see it in the dark, with the limits of his mortal eyes.
The first push inside her burns, it hurts more than she’s expecting. But Wesley’s hands are clever, and gentle, and she rides the wave higher and higher until the inevitable collapse. And it feels better - maybe even better than looking out, over thousands who pay homage with their blind devotion. Better, because he sighs in release underneath her, and the delicacy of his form is beautiful to her.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispers in his ear. After his breath evens, she slides back to her feet and pads to the door. She has what she came for; and now, she’s gone.
- - - -
fandom: farscape, christmas eve, john/scorpius, pg-13
for
weirdofromafar
It starts out innocently enough. He’s having dinner with his family, on Christmas Eve, complete with the jumbo mashed potatoes and the crazy blended cranberry salad that Mama Crichton always made. John is eating with relish, gobbling it down - don’t know when I’ll get this again, don’t get much good food on Moya.
He gets up, at one point, needing to go to the bathroom, but when he looks for it he can’t find it. Instead he walks through the gym from his old high school, and it’s decorated for Christmas, hung with garlands and red ribbons.
“You know, this doesn’t match our school colors,” he tells his old gym teacher. The purple and yellow really clashed. His mama would have something to say about that.
The teacher shrugs. “It’s Christmas,” he explains. “It doesn’t have to match.”
That makes sense enough, so John continues on his way. The locker room bathroom is right out the door and around the corner - he can probably go in there, and still make it back to his house in time for desert.
“John,” smiles Laurie, “look, you’re right under the mistletoe.”
John steps aside. “Sorry, Laurie, some other time.”
The mistletoe follows him, though, drifting above his head. Laurie eventually goes and starts making out with - is that Kristen? John turns to look, and hey, that’s hot.
“So, John,” comes a voice from beside him, and John isn’t surprised at all to see Scorpius here. “It’s mistletoe time.”
The mistletoe has been over his head for a while. It’s only fair. “Fine,” John sighs, and Scorpius leans over, presses their lips together. His mouth is dry, but hot, very hot, and John is almost surprised at the teeth. They don’t hurt at all.
“John?”
John sits up suddenly, cracking his head on the console above him. “Aaagghh,” he groans, and blinks.
Aeryn, Chiana and D’argo are all staring at him.
“Having a good dream?” Chiana asks.
“Because you might consider, oh, fixing the panel,” suggests Aeryn, “lest we all get blown out to space.”
“I’m fixing,” says John, hands upraised in protest, “I’m fixing.” He picks up a tool, still blinking, and waits until the three of them leave. “Goddamn that was weird,” he mutters to himself, and gets to work, the dream still lingering in his mind.