Fics: Acumen/Dear Ianto (NC-17, written for the latest porn battle)
Title: Acumen
Characters: Hee.
Rating: NC-17 (telepathy, the plass)
Wordcount: 1,280
Author's Notes: for the porn battle over in 51stcenturyfox's lj, also co-hosted by cruentum
So it was cold. Freezing, in fact, and the coat didn't do much, not when you were barefoot and naked under it. But the lining was silken against his skin, and it wasn't freezing, really, or his dick would be all soft and impossible to get hard. As it was, he watched a woman in a light jacket trot past on her way to get something. Her eyes cut to him and then looked away, like he wasn't saluting her with his cock.
She had a nice arse; he watched openly while he toyed with himself, the wool sleeve of his coat rubbing against his belly when he squeezed the base of it and waved it at her, 'Hi there, wanna fuck?'
Nice arse. I'd like to fuck that arse.
He played with his foreskin and thought about what that felt like more then he actually felt it, and that was kind of hot too, if he thought about it. Thinking about what things felt like was almost sexier than feeling them sometimes, like watching porn instead of having sex.
A couple walked by him and stopped right in front of him, looked around or through him to the fountain. The man produced a camera and gestured, and the woman hopped up on the paving stone next to his and posed. He closed the flaps of the coat and glanced away. He really didn't want to see what photo when the film came back from the developers. Thank god it wasn't a digital camera.
It was enough to almost make him soft, but when the woman jumped off the stone and into her man's arms, he grabbed her face for a kiss and right there in plain sight she put her hand down his trousers. Huh.
You covered up that gorgeous cock. Let's see it. Jesus, it was like a sunburst in his brain, but covered in warm puppies or something. Puppies and lightning, but not in the bad crispy critter way. He opened the coat again and smirked at the camera off to the right and up.
Oh, lovely. I want you to grab it in your palm, you have lovely fingers. Touch yourself like you like to be touched. Like you're showing me. Teach me how to touch you.
He fisted himself, raised his other hand and stroked the exposed head as he pulled the foreskin down, rolled the pad of his thumb on the wetness barely present at the tip and smoothed it over until it had dried away. When his thumb stuttered he thought about it for a split second, then licked his thumb and slid it back over, teasing the hole in his prick with the blunt edge of his fingernail. That made him rock up onto his toes for a second.
Very interesting. Hey, look at those three.
He opened his eyes, odd only because he hadn't known that they were shut, and watched three teenage girls stroll across the Plass in their skin-tight jeans, cunts outlined in the denim, probably slick and wet, the material probably smelled inside, the elastic beribboned straps to their thongs riding up on their hips. Those shirts barely covered anything they ought to, the lace of their bras pressed against the thin material, and under all that, still, the teasing outline of nipples hard with the coldness of the wind off the bay.
I wonder what that would be like, to have one of them peg you, the voice said in his head, smooth scotch and velvet and a little bit of sexy tartness, like sucking on a key to your lover's hotel room. The one on the left with the dye job, she's the pegger, and the one on the middle would suck you. The voice laughed. I'd keep the redhead to myself. For the first round. I notice that you're not touching yourself.
He resumed the stroking, almost shivered until he realised that he wasn't cool, really, except that the soles of his feet felt the dampness of the paving stone beneath him. He bit his lip and thought about her, that red head. The other two would fuck and suck him, and he could watch the red head on the Hub couch, maybe while she was being ridden, and the way her breasts would bounce, that cock slamming in and out of her like an old movie reel of car pistons, a metaphor for sex.
[A train entering a tunnel, a banana being peeled], maybe.
He was back to watching porn, and not having it. He pumped his cock a few times more, squeezing harder before stopping to pulse a rhythm, and then start again, jerking too hard, and that was a sharp pain, but that was good too, all right, [like being licked by a cat].
Oh, you like the rough stuff, the voice said. I hadn't been sure about that. I'd thought about maybe using my teeth a little next time. Ooh, make that face again. He tried to repeat what he was doing, but he didn't remember. Oh , you're about to come, aren't you? Don't let me stop you.
He came out onto the Plass, come spitting from his dick onto the paving stone and the cement beyond a little bit, a few drops, a movie reel of a train engine blasting steam from the release valve, [one of those fake jizz balls they used on the porno webcams]. His feet were cold and he could feel the hair on his legs, and when he let go of his cock the air rushed in and if he hadn't been starting to go soft it would have done a good job by itself.
A man walked by, in a hurry, in a hurry, stepped right in his spunk, tracked it a few feet away.
He was thinking of wiping his hands on the outside of the coat when the lift started to move and he had to steady himself at the unexpected descent. I have you, the voice said. [A cup of coffee.] And wipes
He took off the coat as the lift clanked into place in the moorings, and before he could even jump off, the man was waiting for him. "Masterful."
This telepathy thing better wear off soon, he told Ianto, who took the coat from him and draped it over his arm, even as his eyes streaked across Owen's bare chest and cock. "Not that I don't" find it bloody "useful," he added.
Ianto nodded, one corner turning up as he picked at a bit of lint on Jack's spare coat, the one he'd left when he'd buggered off. Owen wondered what else they could get up to in it. He'd like to fuck Gwen while wearing it, and she might let him. [Tosh fucking Gwen in it.] That would be something to see.
I don't think "they'd be up to it," Ianto said as he turned and picked up the cup of coffee from the ledge before swiveling and offering it to Owen. Though I have always "wondered if one could sit on the lift with one's legs" off it and still go unnoticed, "but," [image of eating out Gwen's gorgeous unshaven cunt right there, legs in the air] if we ever could convince her or [Tosh attached to his cock at the mouth].
Owen blinked. "I hate telepathy," he told Ianto, who closed the distance and grabbed his soft prick before twisting it a little. [[Last night] written in red neon above the bed when Ianto'd nailed him to the mattress, midnight double feature.]
"No, you don't."
You're right, I don't.
END
Title: Dear Ianto
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17 (toys)
Wordcount: 960
Author's Notes: for the porn battle over in 51stcenturyfox's lj, also co-hosted by cruentum
I'm thinking that I'll just run one finger of lube over it, shine it up for you. It's already pretty and glittery and a party favour of everything delightful, so I'll just make it more accessible, really, more accommodating, for your sweet little hole.
However, the plastic hair is a problem, but I'll trim it with scissors beforehand, leave a quarter-inch of the bristles so you can feel them going in, moving in you like a pipe-cleaner, rough inside, harder than my cock or any other of the things I've rammed up there. You'll rotate your hips off the bed as it goes in, green and shining, smiling face of it winking at me as if to say, "It's a pleasure to service you," when what it really should be saying is, '"I belong in a girl's dollhouse."
You say to me all the time that you want different, you want avant-garde. Those baby blues didn't widen when I brought you the saddle, or the harness; when I got out the e-stim clamps you rolled your eyes and said, "Oh, I saw that on youporn months ago."
I'm going to scrape the paint from the eyes and paint them in blue, blue like yours. I'll give her some saucy red cocksucking lips. Maybe I'll paint your mouth with gloss before I fuck it, or I'll paint my own and kiss you, give you clown mouth, so that you can wonder what that means, you can lie awake after and think about the symbolism of me fucking your arse with a children's toy while your makeup smears the pillows that our heads will lie on later.
I'm thinking that I like when the day wears on, and in the few hours before everyone leaves, you start to sneak glances up at my office, because the jittering starts, little finger twitches and pelvic thrusts. I should just hang this little bitch up in the window for you to look at all day and just wonder.
However, the tail is perfect, and I'm keeping that, just in case I manage to shove it all the way in, we have means to extract it, because I am responsible and practical. I should braid it and find a little bell for the end. It's candyfloss pink, and that suits your arse, puckered flesh darker but probably just as good. Later I should dust it with confectioner's sugar before I eat it, make you a carnival treat.
You say to me all the time that you love everything I do to you, you love the hairbrush spanking and the paints made of coloured honey. Your eyes had narrowed to anticipatory slits when I'd shown you the chastity device, red and hard. You had jumped out of your shorts to let me put it on.
I'm going to name her something horribly sweet, just for you: Princess Darling, My Little Arseplug, Lady Buttermane McFucksaLot, and then I'll make you say it when I do you with it, turning her with just her little head poking out, her plastic mouth right on the ring of muscle. I'll tell you to clench so she can kiss your arse, make you make the "mwah" kissy noises when you do it, because--
I'm thinking this is the last thing that we haven't done, It's the last thing you want because you don't like being reminded that once we hated each other bitterly, for three weeks when I shot that bitch (laser cyber bitch in a tin can), and sometimes when I do this I can feel that way again, and you can feel that way again, and later, later, you'll fuck me with that hairbrush handle or your cock, raw and unlubed (or bacon grease--meat seems to be something we can't escape).
However, Princess Buttercup Mcpornyhooves is a symbol of the fact that we are the same person in some ways. Different, sure, and I'll never let you take over my office or carry the big gun, but you and I stand on the same ground and we're almost eye to eye, and that's something, all right. You'll make my coffee and glance at my office and then later you'll take off your chastity device and come all over my face because I want you to, because I asked you to, because I have a box of confectioner's sugar, and you know that it's never to be used as a conventional sweetener.
You say to me all the time that it doesn't really matter what's true and what's not, really, and sometimes when you're sharpening the little boot knives you like to use, I believe you, because you could be the master interrogator and you never choose to do it. And I like when you lick blood from my chest, because I wish I was a vampire and could infect you with immortality, so that we could play this out for a much longer amount of time than you actually have. You've never tried to pump confessions out of me when you're riding my arse so hard your come should be able to shoot from my mouth and form little hearts in the air.
I'm going to finish this cup of coffee, and then I'm going to cut this bitch's hair, and then I'll slip it in my pocket all day, let her ride there, warmed by my leg, a happy passenger. Then I'm going to smile at Gwen and pat Owen on the back, and massage Tosh's shoulders and save the world. Then I might have some pizza. Then I'm going to tell everyone to pack it in and go home. Then I'm going to strip you and bend you over and pack it in myself.
Love,
Me
END
Characters: Hee.
Rating: NC-17 (telepathy, the plass)
Wordcount: 1,280
Author's Notes: for the porn battle over in 51stcenturyfox's lj, also co-hosted by cruentum
So it was cold. Freezing, in fact, and the coat didn't do much, not when you were barefoot and naked under it. But the lining was silken against his skin, and it wasn't freezing, really, or his dick would be all soft and impossible to get hard. As it was, he watched a woman in a light jacket trot past on her way to get something. Her eyes cut to him and then looked away, like he wasn't saluting her with his cock.
She had a nice arse; he watched openly while he toyed with himself, the wool sleeve of his coat rubbing against his belly when he squeezed the base of it and waved it at her, 'Hi there, wanna fuck?'
Nice arse. I'd like to fuck that arse.
He played with his foreskin and thought about what that felt like more then he actually felt it, and that was kind of hot too, if he thought about it. Thinking about what things felt like was almost sexier than feeling them sometimes, like watching porn instead of having sex.
A couple walked by him and stopped right in front of him, looked around or through him to the fountain. The man produced a camera and gestured, and the woman hopped up on the paving stone next to his and posed. He closed the flaps of the coat and glanced away. He really didn't want to see what photo when the film came back from the developers. Thank god it wasn't a digital camera.
It was enough to almost make him soft, but when the woman jumped off the stone and into her man's arms, he grabbed her face for a kiss and right there in plain sight she put her hand down his trousers. Huh.
You covered up that gorgeous cock. Let's see it. Jesus, it was like a sunburst in his brain, but covered in warm puppies or something. Puppies and lightning, but not in the bad crispy critter way. He opened the coat again and smirked at the camera off to the right and up.
Oh, lovely. I want you to grab it in your palm, you have lovely fingers. Touch yourself like you like to be touched. Like you're showing me. Teach me how to touch you.
He fisted himself, raised his other hand and stroked the exposed head as he pulled the foreskin down, rolled the pad of his thumb on the wetness barely present at the tip and smoothed it over until it had dried away. When his thumb stuttered he thought about it for a split second, then licked his thumb and slid it back over, teasing the hole in his prick with the blunt edge of his fingernail. That made him rock up onto his toes for a second.
Very interesting. Hey, look at those three.
He opened his eyes, odd only because he hadn't known that they were shut, and watched three teenage girls stroll across the Plass in their skin-tight jeans, cunts outlined in the denim, probably slick and wet, the material probably smelled inside, the elastic beribboned straps to their thongs riding up on their hips. Those shirts barely covered anything they ought to, the lace of their bras pressed against the thin material, and under all that, still, the teasing outline of nipples hard with the coldness of the wind off the bay.
I wonder what that would be like, to have one of them peg you, the voice said in his head, smooth scotch and velvet and a little bit of sexy tartness, like sucking on a key to your lover's hotel room. The one on the left with the dye job, she's the pegger, and the one on the middle would suck you. The voice laughed. I'd keep the redhead to myself. For the first round. I notice that you're not touching yourself.
He resumed the stroking, almost shivered until he realised that he wasn't cool, really, except that the soles of his feet felt the dampness of the paving stone beneath him. He bit his lip and thought about her, that red head. The other two would fuck and suck him, and he could watch the red head on the Hub couch, maybe while she was being ridden, and the way her breasts would bounce, that cock slamming in and out of her like an old movie reel of car pistons, a metaphor for sex.
[A train entering a tunnel, a banana being peeled], maybe.
He was back to watching porn, and not having it. He pumped his cock a few times more, squeezing harder before stopping to pulse a rhythm, and then start again, jerking too hard, and that was a sharp pain, but that was good too, all right, [like being licked by a cat].
Oh, you like the rough stuff, the voice said. I hadn't been sure about that. I'd thought about maybe using my teeth a little next time. Ooh, make that face again. He tried to repeat what he was doing, but he didn't remember. Oh , you're about to come, aren't you? Don't let me stop you.
He came out onto the Plass, come spitting from his dick onto the paving stone and the cement beyond a little bit, a few drops, a movie reel of a train engine blasting steam from the release valve, [one of those fake jizz balls they used on the porno webcams]. His feet were cold and he could feel the hair on his legs, and when he let go of his cock the air rushed in and if he hadn't been starting to go soft it would have done a good job by itself.
A man walked by, in a hurry, in a hurry, stepped right in his spunk, tracked it a few feet away.
He was thinking of wiping his hands on the outside of the coat when the lift started to move and he had to steady himself at the unexpected descent. I have you, the voice said. [A cup of coffee.] And wipes
He took off the coat as the lift clanked into place in the moorings, and before he could even jump off, the man was waiting for him. "Masterful."
This telepathy thing better wear off soon, he told Ianto, who took the coat from him and draped it over his arm, even as his eyes streaked across Owen's bare chest and cock. "Not that I don't" find it bloody "useful," he added.
Ianto nodded, one corner turning up as he picked at a bit of lint on Jack's spare coat, the one he'd left when he'd buggered off. Owen wondered what else they could get up to in it. He'd like to fuck Gwen while wearing it, and she might let him. [Tosh fucking Gwen in it.] That would be something to see.
I don't think "they'd be up to it," Ianto said as he turned and picked up the cup of coffee from the ledge before swiveling and offering it to Owen. Though I have always "wondered if one could sit on the lift with one's legs" off it and still go unnoticed, "but," [image of eating out Gwen's gorgeous unshaven cunt right there, legs in the air] if we ever could convince her or [Tosh attached to his cock at the mouth].
Owen blinked. "I hate telepathy," he told Ianto, who closed the distance and grabbed his soft prick before twisting it a little. [[Last night] written in red neon above the bed when Ianto'd nailed him to the mattress, midnight double feature.]
"No, you don't."
You're right, I don't.
END
Title: Dear Ianto
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17 (toys)
Wordcount: 960
Author's Notes: for the porn battle over in 51stcenturyfox's lj, also co-hosted by cruentum
I'm thinking that I'll just run one finger of lube over it, shine it up for you. It's already pretty and glittery and a party favour of everything delightful, so I'll just make it more accessible, really, more accommodating, for your sweet little hole.
However, the plastic hair is a problem, but I'll trim it with scissors beforehand, leave a quarter-inch of the bristles so you can feel them going in, moving in you like a pipe-cleaner, rough inside, harder than my cock or any other of the things I've rammed up there. You'll rotate your hips off the bed as it goes in, green and shining, smiling face of it winking at me as if to say, "It's a pleasure to service you," when what it really should be saying is, '"I belong in a girl's dollhouse."
You say to me all the time that you want different, you want avant-garde. Those baby blues didn't widen when I brought you the saddle, or the harness; when I got out the e-stim clamps you rolled your eyes and said, "Oh, I saw that on youporn months ago."
I'm going to scrape the paint from the eyes and paint them in blue, blue like yours. I'll give her some saucy red cocksucking lips. Maybe I'll paint your mouth with gloss before I fuck it, or I'll paint my own and kiss you, give you clown mouth, so that you can wonder what that means, you can lie awake after and think about the symbolism of me fucking your arse with a children's toy while your makeup smears the pillows that our heads will lie on later.
I'm thinking that I like when the day wears on, and in the few hours before everyone leaves, you start to sneak glances up at my office, because the jittering starts, little finger twitches and pelvic thrusts. I should just hang this little bitch up in the window for you to look at all day and just wonder.
However, the tail is perfect, and I'm keeping that, just in case I manage to shove it all the way in, we have means to extract it, because I am responsible and practical. I should braid it and find a little bell for the end. It's candyfloss pink, and that suits your arse, puckered flesh darker but probably just as good. Later I should dust it with confectioner's sugar before I eat it, make you a carnival treat.
You say to me all the time that you love everything I do to you, you love the hairbrush spanking and the paints made of coloured honey. Your eyes had narrowed to anticipatory slits when I'd shown you the chastity device, red and hard. You had jumped out of your shorts to let me put it on.
I'm going to name her something horribly sweet, just for you: Princess Darling, My Little Arseplug, Lady Buttermane McFucksaLot, and then I'll make you say it when I do you with it, turning her with just her little head poking out, her plastic mouth right on the ring of muscle. I'll tell you to clench so she can kiss your arse, make you make the "mwah" kissy noises when you do it, because--
I'm thinking this is the last thing that we haven't done, It's the last thing you want because you don't like being reminded that once we hated each other bitterly, for three weeks when I shot that bitch (laser cyber bitch in a tin can), and sometimes when I do this I can feel that way again, and you can feel that way again, and later, later, you'll fuck me with that hairbrush handle or your cock, raw and unlubed (or bacon grease--meat seems to be something we can't escape).
However, Princess Buttercup Mcpornyhooves is a symbol of the fact that we are the same person in some ways. Different, sure, and I'll never let you take over my office or carry the big gun, but you and I stand on the same ground and we're almost eye to eye, and that's something, all right. You'll make my coffee and glance at my office and then later you'll take off your chastity device and come all over my face because I want you to, because I asked you to, because I have a box of confectioner's sugar, and you know that it's never to be used as a conventional sweetener.
You say to me all the time that it doesn't really matter what's true and what's not, really, and sometimes when you're sharpening the little boot knives you like to use, I believe you, because you could be the master interrogator and you never choose to do it. And I like when you lick blood from my chest, because I wish I was a vampire and could infect you with immortality, so that we could play this out for a much longer amount of time than you actually have. You've never tried to pump confessions out of me when you're riding my arse so hard your come should be able to shoot from my mouth and form little hearts in the air.
I'm going to finish this cup of coffee, and then I'm going to cut this bitch's hair, and then I'll slip it in my pocket all day, let her ride there, warmed by my leg, a happy passenger. Then I'm going to smile at Gwen and pat Owen on the back, and massage Tosh's shoulders and save the world. Then I might have some pizza. Then I'm going to tell everyone to pack it in and go home. Then I'm going to strip you and bend you over and pack it in myself.
Love,
Me
END