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Entry tags:
fic: PORN BATTTLLEEE
I always miss this and then am sad because I missed it BUT NOT THIS TIME. Lucky sevens, baby. the Seven Deadly Sins version is going on and expect to be spammed by vaguely pornish drabbles as I go along.
Hey, don't look at me like that. There was a one comment limit. THAT KIND OF LIMITS THE SEX AND I LOVES ME SOME PLOT--
Title: Summer Wine
Series: XXXholic
Character/Pairing: Clow/Yuuko
Word count: 496
Rating: PG-13 or light R.
A/N: Themes used: children, magic, sunset. No spoilers.
The world is colors, all a bright painting. The silver lining in the clouds is magic, an ancient kind of magic that she and only one other ever knew. She knows she is dreaming. It is a lucid fragment of her consciousness, one where a smirking ghost regards her, and raises his glass. She tilts her own glass (strawberry wine, a beloved rarity) and drinks down the dream-wine.
“You must have missed me,” he says.
She is tempted to throw the glass of wine in his face, but that would be a waste of good alcohol, something akin to a sin in her book. So she settles for glaring. It only makes the dream ghost laugh.
She blinks and he is sitting beside her on the side of the painted clouds. Logically they would be wet, not soft, but logic often does not affect dreams or magic. He takes her hand and kisses the back, kisses the palm.
“You have taken care of the children?” it is half statement and half question and almost laughable that his foreplay includes asking about their many children, blood and created, gathered and adopted. Their surrogates, their fate children.They really are the old married couple that so many others had called them in jokes and afterthoughts.
“I have,” she says. I have done everything within my power to ensure their safety. I have guided them.
He smiles, less a incorrigible smirk, something she’d want to slap off and more something sincere.
“Good,” he says. He kisses the tip of each finger, licks her pulse and kisses the side of her cheek. He is maddening and meticulous, and she knows this is a game. A game where he will push her to the edge until she reviles and demands him all at once. But this time, she does not command him to go faster. She lets each kiss fall where it pleases, and feels a slow, steady brush of lips on her shoulder, neck, back. He eases her out of her black, slinky dress and kisses her breasts.
“I missed you both,” he murmurs against them.
She leans back on the illogically soft cloud, caught between laughing and the desire to slap him. Wasn’t that always them? A bit of flirtatiousness and laughter caught between lips, a place between a frown and a smile.
He had once told her that dreams were imbued with magic, but she knows there are traces of memory and reality within them, as well as prophecy – a prophecy in reverse. He weaves his way deep into her, so deep the memories won’t fade even with the dulling of time and wine. She dreams, she remembers, she sighs.
Soon she will wake with only the bitter taste of sleep and wine on her lips, the buzz of a hangover drowned out by remembering.
Title: Feathers and Flame
Series: Inkheart (series)
Character/Pairing: Dustfinger/Roxane
Word count: 280
Rating: PG-13 or light R.
A/N: Themes used: magical. Also in conjunction with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
alphabet_love ‘17. Quetzalcoatl’ because I’ve been meaning to do this pairing for that theme. I OTPed these guys so hard after Inkspell.
There was magic in all things. Magic in a dance, in a step, magic in fire. He had watched her dance from across the hall where the motley folk had played and she took the center as their uncrowned queen. She wore a patch quilt of once fine things, wore feather and bits of gold that twirled and arced as she spun. It was a dance of glances, a waltz, neither leading or following. He called up feathered snakes of flames to his command. He courted fire like a lover, and it responded in turn, shifting and flowing. He courted her with the same restrained desire, the same smouldering touch.
That was the start of her obsession and the last days of her freedom. At once she had taken lovers and cast them aside at will but that glance, that fire captivated and captured her. She would not be satisfied until she had Dustfinger in her bed, tethered to herself in the waves of passion. She wouldn’t rest until she was bucking underneath him and he laid those flame-hot coarse hands over her breasts and deep within her.
She was a thing of fire, after all. She was passion and heat and just as he tamed the fire she was invariably tamed the same hands that made the sparks dance, made her dance as well.
Title: the same broad strokes
Series: Naruto
Character/Pairing: Zabuza/Haku
Word count: 517
Rating: R
A/N: Themes used: dressing. The only one that actually qualifies as porn, woo! Also this totally happened in canon, it was just offscreen.
It was less conspicuous to be a traveler and his young wife, and Haku donned this mask as any other. He tied up his hair slipped into a dress with appropriate padding tied on. He could easily pass as any woman, and in truth he could play the part so well other women would envy his snow-pure skin, the night-flecked hair. As this role of wife Haku was just as imperceptible. He was the ideal wife, obedient and demure, listening to every command.
From inn to inn, Haku reapplied this mask. It was an simple role to play, for it was not far off. A ninja’s tool, a wife, in broad strokes they looked the same.
They were closer to Konoha now, at a place in-between with those kinds of border establishments which offered shelter and never asked too many questions. Zabuza was reclined in bed when Haku entered. Zabuza had ordered one bed, for any other would be suspicious. Even going as relatives, as father and son Zabuza always ordered one. To save gold, of course.
As the day waned Haku slipped off the dress and undid his hair. It fell about him, dark as the shadows that fell across the room. His skin was moonlight slipping in, bright as snow.
“What are you doing?” Zabuza said.
“I am your wife, am I not?” he said. He lifted his chin in a way that was defiant in its sheer complicity to the role. “Wouldn’t they grow suspicious if I sleep upon the floor?”
“You’re a tool,” Zabuza said as he always did when Haku must be reminded. His voice lacked the sort of conviction to truly back up such a phrase.
“Then use me,” Haku replied.
Haku climbed into the bed and kissed the neck of Zabuza, felt over the rough, scarred body he had healed countless times. He pressed lip to lip and waited and was rewarded with a fierce, violent sort of unleashing. It was unsprung passion, desire held and then unfettered and that much more powerful for the wait. Zabuza held at the back of Haku’s head, ran his fingers through that coal dark hair and belied more love than he knew.
Haku felt over that broad, battered chest as he had so many times under the guise of healing. Let his fingers train lightly, pattering down over abdomen until he gripped the base of Zabuza’s hard, pulsing cock. It was in this total obedience, the eternal tool that he bent down and licked the tip, swallowed the head until Zabuza groaned. Zabuza’s hands were tangled in Haku’s hair, patting him on the head.
It was over in a flurry, Zabuza could not last long against such an assault. When he was done and sated Zabuza brushed away the come from the side of Haku’s lips. It was the closest facsimile to love that Haku could claim.
Title: Rainbow
Series: Rent
Character/Pairing: Collins/Angel
Word count: 551
Rating: PG-13, probs
A/N: Themes used: nailpolish. This was supposed to be porn, but it turned into tragedy because uh, I’ve been reading memoirs which focus a lot on AIDS. Uh, sort of (obvious) spoiler?
Collins painted Angel’s nails in the days before the hospital. His little lady would be in her pink robe and would lift her feet all queenly to be adorned. And Collins would bend down and treat her just like the queen he thought she was. The colors reflected how she felt that day: red for passion, blue for calm days. A mix on most every day. Angel loved the kinds of colors that blended, that other people would call garish. Angel wore them well. Angel would clasp those rainbow-hands over Collins’ neck and play the game a bit further. She’d kiss his lips and give teasing bites before she drew him into her bed like some great seductress.
She always liked role-play, the dressing up appealed to her. From torrid affair of a knight and a queen, to drag hooker and a john, Angel liked them all. She’d even put on ruby slippers and creatively interpreted gingham and belted out Somewhere over the rainbow for him. Then she’d put a hand on hip and saucily asked Now are you a heartless tin-man, a naughty wizard or a scarecrow who needs to be ‘guided’? She’d made their bedroom into a theater for two, and Collins wouldn’t have it any other way. Angel would grin up at him mischievously and suck him off, or take her queenhood to the next stage and demand to be regaled in a way most carnal.
And for a while it was a sweet touch of bliss, and only the pills and the T-cell count kept them anchored. When the Kaposi's sarcoma came and purplish red lesions came, Collins still found way to make light of them. (You’ve got polka-dots, baby. The pattern rubbed off on your skin, he’d say. And Angel would give him a tired, raspy sort of smile.) Even when the crowns were put away and the queen had to sleep, he still painted her toes. Some habits remained even while death lingered at the doors and tapped at the window panes.
But that in-between didn’t last long. Soon death dealt a harder blow to his queen. In the hospital Collins snuck in the brightest colors of nail polish, all neon yellows and red and painted his lover’s toes again. All bright colors for hope they didn’t have.
“Thanks, baby,” Angel rasped.
Collins wetted his lips and tried to speak. He couldn’t find the words, so just took that rainbow-tinged hand in his. It was too frail, and slipping away from his with every day. The room was too sterile, the blandness almost oppressive. Within the next days Mimi and he had dragged in in the most garish, loud afghans he could possibly find and almost got kicked out of the ward for trying to install techno-groovy curtains.
He slept there in the hospital, in that colorful wrapped thing and waited for the clock to count down and the dreaming to stop and the final end with him covering Angel for the last time.
Annnd more to come later. I'm too tired to drabble away right now.
Hey, don't look at me like that. There was a one comment limit. THAT KIND OF LIMITS THE SEX AND I LOVES ME SOME PLOT--
Title: Summer Wine
Series: XXXholic
Character/Pairing: Clow/Yuuko
Word count: 496
Rating: PG-13 or light R.
A/N: Themes used: children, magic, sunset. No spoilers.
The world is colors, all a bright painting. The silver lining in the clouds is magic, an ancient kind of magic that she and only one other ever knew. She knows she is dreaming. It is a lucid fragment of her consciousness, one where a smirking ghost regards her, and raises his glass. She tilts her own glass (strawberry wine, a beloved rarity) and drinks down the dream-wine.
“You must have missed me,” he says.
She is tempted to throw the glass of wine in his face, but that would be a waste of good alcohol, something akin to a sin in her book. So she settles for glaring. It only makes the dream ghost laugh.
She blinks and he is sitting beside her on the side of the painted clouds. Logically they would be wet, not soft, but logic often does not affect dreams or magic. He takes her hand and kisses the back, kisses the palm.
“You have taken care of the children?” it is half statement and half question and almost laughable that his foreplay includes asking about their many children, blood and created, gathered and adopted. Their surrogates, their fate children.They really are the old married couple that so many others had called them in jokes and afterthoughts.
“I have,” she says. I have done everything within my power to ensure their safety. I have guided them.
He smiles, less a incorrigible smirk, something she’d want to slap off and more something sincere.
“Good,” he says. He kisses the tip of each finger, licks her pulse and kisses the side of her cheek. He is maddening and meticulous, and she knows this is a game. A game where he will push her to the edge until she reviles and demands him all at once. But this time, she does not command him to go faster. She lets each kiss fall where it pleases, and feels a slow, steady brush of lips on her shoulder, neck, back. He eases her out of her black, slinky dress and kisses her breasts.
“I missed you both,” he murmurs against them.
She leans back on the illogically soft cloud, caught between laughing and the desire to slap him. Wasn’t that always them? A bit of flirtatiousness and laughter caught between lips, a place between a frown and a smile.
He had once told her that dreams were imbued with magic, but she knows there are traces of memory and reality within them, as well as prophecy – a prophecy in reverse. He weaves his way deep into her, so deep the memories won’t fade even with the dulling of time and wine. She dreams, she remembers, she sighs.
Soon she will wake with only the bitter taste of sleep and wine on her lips, the buzz of a hangover drowned out by remembering.
Title: Feathers and Flame
Series: Inkheart (series)
Character/Pairing: Dustfinger/Roxane
Word count: 280
Rating: PG-13 or light R.
A/N: Themes used: magical. Also in conjunction with
alphabet_love ‘17. Quetzalcoatl’ because I’ve been meaning to do this pairing for that theme. I OTPed these guys so hard after Inkspell.There was magic in all things. Magic in a dance, in a step, magic in fire. He had watched her dance from across the hall where the motley folk had played and she took the center as their uncrowned queen. She wore a patch quilt of once fine things, wore feather and bits of gold that twirled and arced as she spun. It was a dance of glances, a waltz, neither leading or following. He called up feathered snakes of flames to his command. He courted fire like a lover, and it responded in turn, shifting and flowing. He courted her with the same restrained desire, the same smouldering touch.
That was the start of her obsession and the last days of her freedom. At once she had taken lovers and cast them aside at will but that glance, that fire captivated and captured her. She would not be satisfied until she had Dustfinger in her bed, tethered to herself in the waves of passion. She wouldn’t rest until she was bucking underneath him and he laid those flame-hot coarse hands over her breasts and deep within her.
She was a thing of fire, after all. She was passion and heat and just as he tamed the fire she was invariably tamed the same hands that made the sparks dance, made her dance as well.
Title: the same broad strokes
Series: Naruto
Character/Pairing: Zabuza/Haku
Word count: 517
Rating: R
A/N: Themes used: dressing. The only one that actually qualifies as porn, woo! Also this totally happened in canon, it was just offscreen.
It was less conspicuous to be a traveler and his young wife, and Haku donned this mask as any other. He tied up his hair slipped into a dress with appropriate padding tied on. He could easily pass as any woman, and in truth he could play the part so well other women would envy his snow-pure skin, the night-flecked hair. As this role of wife Haku was just as imperceptible. He was the ideal wife, obedient and demure, listening to every command.
From inn to inn, Haku reapplied this mask. It was an simple role to play, for it was not far off. A ninja’s tool, a wife, in broad strokes they looked the same.
They were closer to Konoha now, at a place in-between with those kinds of border establishments which offered shelter and never asked too many questions. Zabuza was reclined in bed when Haku entered. Zabuza had ordered one bed, for any other would be suspicious. Even going as relatives, as father and son Zabuza always ordered one. To save gold, of course.
As the day waned Haku slipped off the dress and undid his hair. It fell about him, dark as the shadows that fell across the room. His skin was moonlight slipping in, bright as snow.
“What are you doing?” Zabuza said.
“I am your wife, am I not?” he said. He lifted his chin in a way that was defiant in its sheer complicity to the role. “Wouldn’t they grow suspicious if I sleep upon the floor?”
“You’re a tool,” Zabuza said as he always did when Haku must be reminded. His voice lacked the sort of conviction to truly back up such a phrase.
“Then use me,” Haku replied.
Haku climbed into the bed and kissed the neck of Zabuza, felt over the rough, scarred body he had healed countless times. He pressed lip to lip and waited and was rewarded with a fierce, violent sort of unleashing. It was unsprung passion, desire held and then unfettered and that much more powerful for the wait. Zabuza held at the back of Haku’s head, ran his fingers through that coal dark hair and belied more love than he knew.
Haku felt over that broad, battered chest as he had so many times under the guise of healing. Let his fingers train lightly, pattering down over abdomen until he gripped the base of Zabuza’s hard, pulsing cock. It was in this total obedience, the eternal tool that he bent down and licked the tip, swallowed the head until Zabuza groaned. Zabuza’s hands were tangled in Haku’s hair, patting him on the head.
It was over in a flurry, Zabuza could not last long against such an assault. When he was done and sated Zabuza brushed away the come from the side of Haku’s lips. It was the closest facsimile to love that Haku could claim.
Title: Rainbow
Series: Rent
Character/Pairing: Collins/Angel
Word count: 551
Rating: PG-13, probs
A/N: Themes used: nailpolish. This was supposed to be porn, but it turned into tragedy because uh, I’ve been reading memoirs which focus a lot on AIDS. Uh, sort of (obvious) spoiler?
Collins painted Angel’s nails in the days before the hospital. His little lady would be in her pink robe and would lift her feet all queenly to be adorned. And Collins would bend down and treat her just like the queen he thought she was. The colors reflected how she felt that day: red for passion, blue for calm days. A mix on most every day. Angel loved the kinds of colors that blended, that other people would call garish. Angel wore them well. Angel would clasp those rainbow-hands over Collins’ neck and play the game a bit further. She’d kiss his lips and give teasing bites before she drew him into her bed like some great seductress.
She always liked role-play, the dressing up appealed to her. From torrid affair of a knight and a queen, to drag hooker and a john, Angel liked them all. She’d even put on ruby slippers and creatively interpreted gingham and belted out Somewhere over the rainbow for him. Then she’d put a hand on hip and saucily asked Now are you a heartless tin-man, a naughty wizard or a scarecrow who needs to be ‘guided’? She’d made their bedroom into a theater for two, and Collins wouldn’t have it any other way. Angel would grin up at him mischievously and suck him off, or take her queenhood to the next stage and demand to be regaled in a way most carnal.
And for a while it was a sweet touch of bliss, and only the pills and the T-cell count kept them anchored. When the Kaposi's sarcoma came and purplish red lesions came, Collins still found way to make light of them. (You’ve got polka-dots, baby. The pattern rubbed off on your skin, he’d say. And Angel would give him a tired, raspy sort of smile.) Even when the crowns were put away and the queen had to sleep, he still painted her toes. Some habits remained even while death lingered at the doors and tapped at the window panes.
But that in-between didn’t last long. Soon death dealt a harder blow to his queen. In the hospital Collins snuck in the brightest colors of nail polish, all neon yellows and red and painted his lover’s toes again. All bright colors for hope they didn’t have.
“Thanks, baby,” Angel rasped.
Collins wetted his lips and tried to speak. He couldn’t find the words, so just took that rainbow-tinged hand in his. It was too frail, and slipping away from his with every day. The room was too sterile, the blandness almost oppressive. Within the next days Mimi and he had dragged in in the most garish, loud afghans he could possibly find and almost got kicked out of the ward for trying to install techno-groovy curtains.
He slept there in the hospital, in that colorful wrapped thing and waited for the clock to count down and the dreaming to stop and the final end with him covering Angel for the last time.
Annnd more to come later. I'm too tired to drabble away right now.