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itsallovernowThere are flowers on my desk, birthday wishes in my mailbox, and so far 29 doesn't feel all that different from 28.
My mom woke me up bright and early, as she has done every birthday that I can remember, which means that she must have located her cell phone. My aunt said she misplaced it, but I think they hid it from her. She sounded good, and very ready to go home. She was hording her banana for later, and I asked if she thought she was a POW. "Well, they finally let me take a shower by myself, so conditions are improving. But we're still in negotiations." I love my mom.
Since![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
searose was missing porn, and I was posting WIP snippets, here's some almost porn from the Lily, Rosemary fic. I know where it's slotted to fit in, but there are miles to go before that point.
The conceit behind this story is that Rygel and Chiana are being coerced into helping one mobster ruin another one. D'Argo is pretending to be an expert card shark, with an entourage including Aeryn as one of his bodyguards, and John is just a drifter. This was inspired by one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, and is not as out there as it sounds. Basically John is not supposed to know anyone on the planet, but he and Aeryn have met to discuss what's going on and to snoop around a little, so they're somewhere they're not supposed to be. They've been arguing when they hear guards, and duck into a closet to hide. (Yes, it's a cliche. No, I'm not embarrassed to use it. This is early Season 3. They need to be forced together or no hanky panky will ensue!!)
He’s pressed up against her, forcing her into the wall, trying to compact the space they take up into nothingness. His body is solid and warm and every instinct is screaming at her to push him away. She doesn’t.
They’ve been in this position before, locked together, her fingers against his lips to silence him, his arms wrapped tightly around her, fear, and anticipation and lust vibrating between them. The chip is gone, though. If any sort of deity or fate exists, she will never again have to watch him descend into a forced madness. It would be almost worth never getting to touch him if she could guarantee a permanent reprieve from Scorpius or his bastard offspring in John’s head.
He is sweating. She can smell him, musky and human, and her mouth waters. There are guards outside this door who would shoot them on sight, but she feels removed from that fear. All she can think about is smell, sensation, the pounding in her blood.
It’s so easy to just tilt her hips a little, to soften her touch, and he moans against her fingers. The noise is low, vibrating into her. “Shh,” she whispers. His eyes are alive, dancing with annoyance and desire. The door to the closet is closed, the tiny room dark, only a shaft of light from the top illuminating them. She can hear their breathing, heavy and tandem and it sounds as loud to her as the footsteps outside the door.
“Don’t tell me to shh,” he whispers fiercely, “You were the one yelling at me just a second ago.” He grasps her more tightly, one hand sliding down to grab her ass and pull her hips even more forcefully against him.
“That’s because you were being an idiot,” she hisses back, angling one leather clad thigh to the side to allow him greater leverage. He rocks against her sharply, curling his other hand around the outside of her knee and pulling her leg up to rest on his hip.
“I was not being an idiot, you were just being stub…” the sentence cuts off as her mouth locks onto his. His reaction is instantaneous, and Aeryn briefly thinks that if they generate this much heat while angry, they are going to set fire to the ship if they ever got the chance to frell just for the hezmana of it.
That is the last rational thought she has as John takes hold of her other hip and hoists her further up against the wall, both legs wrapped around his waist. Mouths are hot and wet and everywhere. Hips buck, accompanied by whimpers of frustration as they struggle against the barriers of buckles and zippers and fabric.
Then her vest is open and John’s mouth fastens onto her breast and she moans so loudly that she is certain they’ll be arrested. She can feel his tongue, circling around the nipple and his lips forming the hushing sound and she fights back the insanse urge to giggle, and then has to swallow another moan as the vacuum of suction caused by his mouth hits her with another wave of pleasure.
She digs her fingers into his scalp, forcing his head back. He locks his eyes on hers, grins and thrusts his hips deliberately into her. He is hard and ready, and they are grinding together like adolescent cadets. His grip on her is so tight she can feel the impressions his fingers are making through the leather. He moves his head to her neck, and she releases his hair, feeling the wet, slick movement of his tongue along her collarbone, his teeth nipping, pulling on the delicate flesh under her ear. She closes her eyes against him, feeling the tension throbbing in her center, and sucks in her breath at the touch of his fingers on her stomach.
They are intertwined so tightly that he doesn’t need to hold her up with both hands and she can feel him fumbling with the clasp to her pants, hear the pop of the button releasing. He moves back a little to allow for further access, and her abdomen contracts at the welcome invasion of his fingers, his palm pressed into her belly as he stretches just that essential fraction more, not wanting to let go, let her move away and she wills her pelvis more forward, whimpering for him. He bites into her neck, she sucks in her breath and the next thing she knows, the comms, the frelling comms are chirping out, ”Crichton, frell it, John where are you?”
My mom woke me up bright and early, as she has done every birthday that I can remember, which means that she must have located her cell phone. My aunt said she misplaced it, but I think they hid it from her. She sounded good, and very ready to go home. She was hording her banana for later, and I asked if she thought she was a POW. "Well, they finally let me take a shower by myself, so conditions are improving. But we're still in negotiations." I love my mom.
Since
searose was missing porn, and I was posting WIP snippets, here's some almost porn from the Lily, Rosemary fic. I know where it's slotted to fit in, but there are miles to go before that point.The conceit behind this story is that Rygel and Chiana are being coerced into helping one mobster ruin another one. D'Argo is pretending to be an expert card shark, with an entourage including Aeryn as one of his bodyguards, and John is just a drifter. This was inspired by one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, and is not as out there as it sounds. Basically John is not supposed to know anyone on the planet, but he and Aeryn have met to discuss what's going on and to snoop around a little, so they're somewhere they're not supposed to be. They've been arguing when they hear guards, and duck into a closet to hide. (Yes, it's a cliche. No, I'm not embarrassed to use it. This is early Season 3. They need to be forced together or no hanky panky will ensue!!)
He’s pressed up against her, forcing her into the wall, trying to compact the space they take up into nothingness. His body is solid and warm and every instinct is screaming at her to push him away. She doesn’t.
They’ve been in this position before, locked together, her fingers against his lips to silence him, his arms wrapped tightly around her, fear, and anticipation and lust vibrating between them. The chip is gone, though. If any sort of deity or fate exists, she will never again have to watch him descend into a forced madness. It would be almost worth never getting to touch him if she could guarantee a permanent reprieve from Scorpius or his bastard offspring in John’s head.
He is sweating. She can smell him, musky and human, and her mouth waters. There are guards outside this door who would shoot them on sight, but she feels removed from that fear. All she can think about is smell, sensation, the pounding in her blood.
It’s so easy to just tilt her hips a little, to soften her touch, and he moans against her fingers. The noise is low, vibrating into her. “Shh,” she whispers. His eyes are alive, dancing with annoyance and desire. The door to the closet is closed, the tiny room dark, only a shaft of light from the top illuminating them. She can hear their breathing, heavy and tandem and it sounds as loud to her as the footsteps outside the door.
“Don’t tell me to shh,” he whispers fiercely, “You were the one yelling at me just a second ago.” He grasps her more tightly, one hand sliding down to grab her ass and pull her hips even more forcefully against him.
“That’s because you were being an idiot,” she hisses back, angling one leather clad thigh to the side to allow him greater leverage. He rocks against her sharply, curling his other hand around the outside of her knee and pulling her leg up to rest on his hip.
“I was not being an idiot, you were just being stub…” the sentence cuts off as her mouth locks onto his. His reaction is instantaneous, and Aeryn briefly thinks that if they generate this much heat while angry, they are going to set fire to the ship if they ever got the chance to frell just for the hezmana of it.
That is the last rational thought she has as John takes hold of her other hip and hoists her further up against the wall, both legs wrapped around his waist. Mouths are hot and wet and everywhere. Hips buck, accompanied by whimpers of frustration as they struggle against the barriers of buckles and zippers and fabric.
Then her vest is open and John’s mouth fastens onto her breast and she moans so loudly that she is certain they’ll be arrested. She can feel his tongue, circling around the nipple and his lips forming the hushing sound and she fights back the insanse urge to giggle, and then has to swallow another moan as the vacuum of suction caused by his mouth hits her with another wave of pleasure.
She digs her fingers into his scalp, forcing his head back. He locks his eyes on hers, grins and thrusts his hips deliberately into her. He is hard and ready, and they are grinding together like adolescent cadets. His grip on her is so tight she can feel the impressions his fingers are making through the leather. He moves his head to her neck, and she releases his hair, feeling the wet, slick movement of his tongue along her collarbone, his teeth nipping, pulling on the delicate flesh under her ear. She closes her eyes against him, feeling the tension throbbing in her center, and sucks in her breath at the touch of his fingers on her stomach.
They are intertwined so tightly that he doesn’t need to hold her up with both hands and she can feel him fumbling with the clasp to her pants, hear the pop of the button releasing. He moves back a little to allow for further access, and her abdomen contracts at the welcome invasion of his fingers, his palm pressed into her belly as he stretches just that essential fraction more, not wanting to let go, let her move away and she wills her pelvis more forward, whimpering for him. He bites into her neck, she sucks in her breath and the next thing she knows, the comms, the frelling comms are chirping out, ”Crichton, frell it, John where are you?”
