Comment!fic: PG-NC17; multiple fandoms; het & slash
Rating: PG-NC-17
Fandoms: Aliens, Battlestar Galactica, Black Hawk Down, The Boondock Saints, CSI, Leverage, The Lord of the Rings, The Mummy Returns, Supernatural, Underworld
Pairings: Hicks/Ripley, Adama/Roslin, Hoot/Eversmann/Blackburn, Connor/Murphy, Nick/Greg, Eliot/Alec, Eliot/Parker, Eomer/Legolas, Eomer/Aragorn, Aragorn/Legolas, Jonathan/Ardeth, Dean/Ellen, Viktor/Lucian
Disclaimer: 100% fiction, folks. None of this is real; none of this ever happened. I make no claims as to the real life of any person portrayed herein. Recognizable characters are property of their respective owners. I'm just playing with them for a while.
Notes: All written as part of comment_fic.
Aliens
for azewewish
Cpl. Dwayne Hicks/Ellen Ripley, safe
(AU, with the idea that the third & fourth films never happened)
It's been years since LV-246, but Ripley still wakes in the night screaming. A light touch on her arm, and the whispered words, "shh, it's alright," are enough to bring her back to herself.
Newt is seventeen now and has a boyfriend, and Ripley still finds herself standing beside Newt's bed at four in the morning. She's merely reassuring herself that everything is alright.
Hicks is there with her every night, and Ripley still stares at the ceiling for hours, telling herself that the things that go bump in the night can't touch her. They're light years away, and they. Can't. Find. Her.
No matter how many times she repeats it, she still wakes and stares and checks on Newt. It's only when Dwayne finds her and guides her back to their bed, wrapping her in strong arms beneath the blankets that she believes. Tomorrow night, it will all happen again, but for now, Hicks is there, Newt is healthy and happy, the monsters are gone, and Ellen doesn't have to be the strong one.
Battlestar Galactica
for paian
Laura Roslin/Bill Adama, quoting poetry
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off," he murmured, lying there in the dark, and wrapped strong arms around her.
"What is that?" she whispered, twisting to rest in his strength, feeling the beat of his heart, steady against hers.
"A poem I heard once, years ago," he whispered back, lips touching her jaw, her cheek, curving into a smile.
"And you still remember it?" she asked, in awe at his memory, soul trembling from the strength of emotion the words had imparted.
"I never forgot it," he replied, and blunt fingers trace the lines of her face, slip down her throat to map the curve of her shoulder.
"So why say it now?" And she trembled under his hands, body tight with need, with longing, with love and the things people don't speak of in the light of day.
"Because it reminds me of you. Of us. Of this." Those gentle hands slid lower, pushing the sheet from her body, relearning each swell and curve until she arched beneath him, her voice a soft cry in the night. He merely smiled against her lips, and said,
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."
Poem excerpt is from "XVII (I do not love you...)" by Pablo Neruda
Black Hawk Down
for azewewish
'Hoot' Gibson/Matt Eversmann/Todd Blackburn, initiation
"Heard you got a baby Ranger on board," Hoot said, looking down at the top of Matt's head.
"Yep." Matt didn't even bother to look up as his fingers worked on putting his rifle back together.
Yep? That was it? "And?"
"Over there," Matt said, and jerked his head.
"Where...oh. He's a pretty one, isn't he?" Pretty didn't begin to describe him, but it would do for now. Until Hoot figured out a better word.
"Yep."
Again with the yep. It was enough to make Hoot grind his teeth in frustration. "So?"
Matt's head came up, eyes narrowed in irritation. "What?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Hoot said, with an obviously fake smile, "am I interrupting you?"
"Fuck off," Matt muttered, and went back to his rifle.
"You hit that yet?"
"Nope."
Hoot blinked. "Why the fuck not?"
"There's a process, man," Matt said, with exaggerated patience. "You know that."
"There is, huh?"
"Yep. And you weren't around when he got here," Matt added, finally lifting his head to flash Hoot a wicked grin before turning to look at Blackburn.
"I am now," Hoot pointed out, smile dark and feral.
"Exactly," was all Matt said, pushing to his feet and starting across the floor.
for azewewish
'Hoot' Gibson/Matt Eversmann/Todd Blackburn, again
Three days after the original 'initiation', Hoot and Eversmann cornered him in the corner of the barracks. He'd spent two days dodging them, knowing exactly what they wanted, determined to make them work for it. He'd even talked Twombly into keeping a lookout from time to time.
Twombs, however, had been open to bribes from the opposite side. Fucking bastard.
A quick look around showed no one else in sight. So Blackburn just stood there, back to the corner, and grinned at them. They grinned back.
"Been avoiding us?" Hoot asked.
"Nah," Blackburn said, mind racing in an effort to figure out a way past them. Just to keep the game alive. "Grimes said you were looking for me."
"Did he?" Eversmann glanced at Hoot, and something passed between them before two sets of dark eyes turned back to Blackburn. "So you were avoiding us."
"Nope. Just haven't seen you since."
Taking a chance, Blackburn dodged. His effort was wasted when Hoot's chest got in the way. It took them approximately fifteen seconds to wrestle him to the ground and sit on him.
"And here," Hoot said, looking at Eversmann and shaking his head, "I thought we were all getting to be real good friends."
"I know." Eversmann actually managed to pull off a sad face. Blackburn was impressed. "Sad, ain't it?"
"Reckon we oughta remind him?"
"Remind me?" Blackburn blinked as they hauled him to his feet and started marching him towards the humvees. Ah, hell. "Guys. Guys?"
"Talks an awful lot, don't he?"
Blackburn rolled his eyes, but made no effort to get loose from the hands around his arms. "My mom always said my mouth would get me in trouble."
"Think it can get you out of trouble, too?" Hoot asked, glancing at Blackburn as they pulled him around a corner and pinned him against the nearest vehicle.
"Hell, yes."
Eversmann smirked. "Think you might need to prove that."
Blackburn just lifted his chin and gave them both a level look. "Just make sure you got enough lube this time."
"Oh," Hoot said, reaching for his belt buckle as Eversmann opened the back of the humvee, "we brought plenty."
The Boondock Saints
for azewewish
Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus, girls
There's a girl down at the pub that won't give the MacManus boys the time of day. They know; they've tried.
Each time, she just smiles at whichever one is trying to suss her out. Smiles and tells them no in the nicest, sweetest way possible. But it's still a no. And this girl is one who could make angels weep.
Legs that go on for miles. A firm ass that would fill their hands nicely. Tiny waist and flat stomach. Breasts big enough to make a man say a few prayers, and that have never known a surgeon's knife. Long black hair that tumbles over her shoulders and down her back, begging to be pulled and tangled as she's taken from behind. And her mouth.
Fuck, but Murphy thinks he could write odes to her lips. Full and soft and pink, they were made to have a cock slid between them. Connor claims he could die a happy man if he could just fuck her once. Murphy agrees.
But she always says no. It's become a ritual. They ask, she smiles, and they ask again, she says no. Round and round, no end in sight.
Until the night she walks into the pub, sees them, and crooks a finger. That's all. Then she walks back outside.
The boys need no other encouragement. They're off their stools and out the door before it finishes closing. By the time they hit the sidewalk, she's just vanishing around the corner. They share a glance, then take off, each determined to be the first to have her.
They round the corner and skid to a halt. There's someone else there. Another girl. And all the boys can see is the flash of pink tongues as the girls kiss, hands roaming freely over each other. Then they pull away from each other and flash near identical smiles at the brothers.
"Fuck me," Connor breathes, staring.
Murphy nods. "Blessed Mary, she's a twin."
CSI
for csichick_2
Nick Stokes/Greg Sanders, at a club
"Y'know," Greg shouted, then hiccupped, swaying against the bar as Nick looked over. "He'll be back. Gris-Grissom can't stan' it, loves th'lab too much."
"You're drunk," Nick laughed, reaching out to catch Nick as he swayed again.
"No' drunk," Greg insisted, then flashed Nick an owlish smile. "Jus' feelin' good."
"Drunk," Nick repeated. He wrapped a steadying arm around Greg's waist, pulled him from the bar. Greg didn't even attempt to resist as Nick led him through the crowd around the dance floor; he just leaned against Nick, keeping up a steady stream of drunken babble that had Nick grinning.
Then they were outside, and the cold, desert night air slapped them in the face. Greg still leaned, still babbled, but there was a little more coherency to it. A few more steps took them around the corner, and Nick had no time to react as Greg twisted in his grip and slammed him against the wall.
Brick dug into his back, cool through his shirt, and Nick opened his mouth to protest. But Greg was there, lips warm and firm on Nick's, tongue sneaking in to slide over Nick's in a wet glide. The way Greg rubbed against him left no doubt that he was enjoying the kiss.
As Nick's hands came up to fist Greg's hair, he was a little surprised to realize he was enjoying it just as much.
Leverage
for meredevachon
Eliot Spencer/Alec Hardison, food
From the very beginning, Eliot knew Alec was weird. But he didn't realize just how weird until Alec brought up the peanut butter. After all, it just hadn't sounded, well, appetizing.
And when Alec mentioned strawberry jam, Eliot shuddered. The joke was on him. Okay, there, he was man enough to admit it. But then Alec had given him a look.
The next thing Eliot knew, he was flat on his back on the desk, naked as the day he was born, with peanut butter and jelly swirled all over his body. And if Alec ever told anyone, Eliot was going to kill him.
for pez_gurl
Eliot Spencer/Parker, pegging
"Why am I letting you do this again?"
"Stop whining," Parker muttered. "It won't hurt. Much." The last was delivered under her breath and had Eliot twisting to look over his shoulder.
"Much? What the hell, Parker?" He watched her struggle into the harness, eyes narrowing as she reached for the bottle of lube.
"Relax and it won't hurt at all," she said, crawling on the bed behind him.
He still couldn't remember why he was letting this happen. Couldn’t remember how the conversation had ended up here, with him on his hands and knees in the middle of Parker's bed and her about to fuck him with a strap-on. Then slick fingers were pressing inside him, twisting and turning, curling up until they hit a spot that had his back arching like a cat's.
"Fuuuuuuuck," he breathed, every muscle quivering as she continued rubbing over that spot.
"I'm going to," she said, pulling her fingers away, and he almost whimpered. But then he had to relax as he felt a different press. The slick glide of the dildo stretched him, filled him, and Eliot had to fight the urge to rock back into it. Then it was fully inside him, and her small hands rested on his hips. "Ready?"
He nodded, the movement short and jerky. He only thought he was ready, though, because she did something and the dildo started to vibrate, sending shockwaves over his prostate as she pulled out and slid back in. She started to move in earnest then, thrusting into him, hands gripping his hips tight for balance. And fuck if it didn't feel amazing.
Parker never hesitated. Each thrust sent him closer to the edge, and he groaned her name as he came. She didn't stop, but just laughed softly. Eliot couldn't think, couldn't breath, and then her hand tangled in his hair. She pulled his head up, and he could feel her warm breath on his ear.
"Who's the crazy bitch, now, Eliot, hmm?"
The Lord of the Rings
for azewewish
Eomer/Legolas, eternity
"What is it like?"
His head cocked, turned a little, and Legolas looked at Eomer from the corner of his eye. "What is what like?"
"Being immortal."
"We are not immortal," Legolas murmured, eyes shifting to find the darkness beyond the walls again. "Not truly. We are merely long lived."
"You do not die of old age," Eomer pointed out, moving to stand beside the graceful Elf.
"No," Legolas said. "Nor do we often die of disease. Yet we can, and do, die by means other than battle."
"I wonder, at times, what it would be like," Eomer said, hands resting on the wall in front of him, "to spend forever at your side. That time is not, however, given to me, not matter how I wish it."
"What you have is time enough," Legolas said. A faint smile curved his lips, and long fingers brushed a delicate touch across the back of Eomer's hand. "My people are masters of turning a moment into a lifetime."
"Truly?"
"Come," Legolas breathed, moving backwards into shadows, one hand beckoning Eomer. "Let me show you."
for savageseraph
Eomer/Aragorn, falling
When Aragorn had plunged over the cliff, snared tight in the Warg's harness, he'd thought it was the end. Arwen had not once crossed his mind. Instead, he had remembered strong hands and dark eyes.
When he'd dragged himself from the river and onto Brego, he had tried to tell himself that he was doing it for her. Deep down, he knew he was doing it for a husky voice that had whispered in his ear in the darkness of the night.
When he'd finally made it to Helm's Deep, he looked upon Legolas and was relieved that his friends had survived the attack. Yet his spirits fell as he looked long and hard, unable to find long blond hair that had tangled up his hands.
When the sky began to lighten outside the keep, he had challenged Theoden to ride out, meet the enemy. It would be a tale to survive the ages, but they would not be around to hear it told. Then the sun had crested the mountain.
When Aragorn looked up, saw the host plunging down the side of the mountain to meet the Orcs, his eyes were drawn to the one in the lead. The one with the horsetail crest streaming from his helmet, eyes alight with the savage joy of battle, sword swinging with every shift of a muscled arm.
When Aragorn forced his way through the screaming hoard, Eomer's head turned, and Aragorn knew he was lost as the battle raged around them.
for galor5
Aragorn/Legolas, sunrise
Legolas had taken the last watch, and he still stood there, bow in hand, when Aragorn awoke. It was not yet dawn, but there was a paleness creeping into the sky from the east. Near silent as an elf, Aragorn settled his weapons about his body, and stood, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.
"We should move soon," Legolas said, not looking over his shoulder.
Aragorn nodded. "At first light," he murmured, casting a glance to the still sleeping dwarf. "We'll eat on the run."
Legolas nodded. Aragorn did not need to see his face to know those uncanny eyes were relentlessly scanning everything in sight. Digging out a chunk of waybread, he stepped close. "You need your rest as well, old friend. Do not think I failed to see you did not sleep during my watch."
"I could not," Legolas said, accepting the food with a nod of thanks. "Someone must watch over you. If you fall, we are all doomed."
"I can guard myself for a few hours," Aragorn said, a faint smile crossing his face as Legolas finally looked at him. "Your cousins taught me well."
"Of that I have no doubt," Legolas replied in Elvish as Gimli's form started to stir. "Yet my heart can not trust in their training. If you fall, I am lost."
He turned back, eyes fixed on the horizon as it turned from indigo to violet and the first faint tinges of peach and pink colored the sky. Aragorn rested a hand on a slender shoulder and moved close enough to feel the heat from Legolas' body. "Then, meleth nin," he said, and watched the dawn at Legolas' side, "I shall have to make sure I do not fall."
The Mummy Returns
for azewewish
Jonathan Carnahan/Ardeth Bay, tattoos
It wasn't the first time they had shared close quarters, but it was the first time that Jonathan really looked at Ardeth. Naturally, he'd noticed the overpowering masculinity and barely controlled violence of the other man the first time they'd met, but it was different now.
And Jonathan couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, it was. It would come to him, though. It always did.
When it did, it came with a vengeance.
He'd meant to knock, but he'd been thinking about that diamond. The really big one he'd snatched from the top of the temple. So he'd simply barged in without any forewarning what so ever.
And stopped dead on in the doorway.
Ardeth stood with his back to Jonathan, clad in nothing more than a pair of loose, flowing trousers. When he turned, one eyebrow raised in cool amusement, Jonathan swallowed hard. He was used to the markings on Ardeth's face and hands, but this...
Tanned skin was marked with symbols, lines, and whorls that wrapped along strong biceps, flowed down over a nicely muscled chest. Each bit of blue ink drew the eye, and Jonathan's followed their path, down to where they disappeared into the waistband of Ardeth's trousers. Great Heavens. The man was gorgeous.
A soft chuckle snapped him out of his reverie, and Jonathan's eyes flew up to meet Ardeth's. A blindingly white smile split a dark beard. "You should close the door," he said, his voice a low purr that caused Jonathan's blood to throb. "Unless you wish to leave?"
Leave? Oh, not bloody likely!
Supernatural
for meredevachon
Dean Winchester/Ellen Harvelle, wait
"Now?"
"Not yet." Dean smiled, eyes tracking the course of the ice cube over taut nipples. He watched as Ellen writhed on the bed, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets, evidence her patience was wearing thin.
The ice cube tracked lower, slid wetly over her stomach, and she whimpered. Dean just kept smiling. Her thighs relaxed, fell open, and the ice cube dipped even lower, slipping between her legs, rubbing along slick folds. Her heels dug into the bed, pushed up, and Dean laughed softly as he pressed the sliver of ice against her, into her, holding it between two fingers so he could feel her close around him, draw him deeper.
She gasped his name, arched up. He felt her body tighten as she came, and that was what it. Before she could relax, breathe, he moved over her and slid home in one smooth thrust.
"Now," he whispered, starting to move as she came again, crying out his name, nails digging into his shoulders. Some things were absolutely worth waiting for.
Underworld
for caras_galadhon
Viktor/Lucian, chains
He carries the key in a pocket in his trousers. At any time, he could unlock the collar and leave, free himself, but he hasn't. Not yet. Instead, he remains there, night after night, and waits.
And each night, Viktor doesn't disappoint him. Lucian thinks he could predict, to the second, when Viktor will walk into the tiny room Lucian's been given. The timing is that regular. The events always play out the same, with little variation.
Tonight is no different. When it's over, Lucian sits in the corner of the room and stares into the darkness. The back of his neck aches, courtesy of Viktor's tight grip that held him pinned to the floor. His body twinges as he moves, sore muscles reminding him of the ungentle nature of Viktor. Again, he wonders why he stays, why he allows himself to be used, degraded, treated as little more than the animal he knows they think him.
One night, soon, he will leave. So he tells himself, and lifts his hands in front of his face, staring at naked wrists that feel the weight of invisible iron.
for caras_galadhon
Viktor/Lucian, burning effigy (The Wicker Man)
Lucian doesn't know why he kept the collar or the key. They are symbols of what once was, what he hates more than anything, and all they do is remind him of pain and humiliation.
And Viktor.
He stares at them, sitting there on the table, and remembers the feel of the metal around his neck, pressing into his skin, keeping him from being who he truly was. Remembers how Viktor kept him chained, how Lucian allowed it. Remembers the feel of powerful hands on him in the dark, sharp fangs at his throat, fingers pressing, bruising, and a growls builds in Lucian's chest.
Never again.
Not even if another thousand years should pass.
He will see Viktor dead first. He will finish the job that he started centuries ago.
With a vicious snarl, Lucian scoops up the collar and key, slings them into the fire that crackles in the fireplace, and walks away.
Fandoms: Aliens, Battlestar Galactica, Black Hawk Down, The Boondock Saints, CSI, Leverage, The Lord of the Rings, The Mummy Returns, Supernatural, Underworld
Pairings: Hicks/Ripley, Adama/Roslin, Hoot/Eversmann/Blackburn, Connor/Murphy, Nick/Greg, Eliot/Alec, Eliot/Parker, Eomer/Legolas, Eomer/Aragorn, Aragorn/Legolas, Jonathan/Ardeth, Dean/Ellen, Viktor/Lucian
Disclaimer: 100% fiction, folks. None of this is real; none of this ever happened. I make no claims as to the real life of any person portrayed herein. Recognizable characters are property of their respective owners. I'm just playing with them for a while.
Notes: All written as part of comment_fic.
Aliens
for azewewish
Cpl. Dwayne Hicks/Ellen Ripley, safe
(AU, with the idea that the third & fourth films never happened)
It's been years since LV-246, but Ripley still wakes in the night screaming. A light touch on her arm, and the whispered words, "shh, it's alright," are enough to bring her back to herself.
Newt is seventeen now and has a boyfriend, and Ripley still finds herself standing beside Newt's bed at four in the morning. She's merely reassuring herself that everything is alright.
Hicks is there with her every night, and Ripley still stares at the ceiling for hours, telling herself that the things that go bump in the night can't touch her. They're light years away, and they. Can't. Find. Her.
No matter how many times she repeats it, she still wakes and stares and checks on Newt. It's only when Dwayne finds her and guides her back to their bed, wrapping her in strong arms beneath the blankets that she believes. Tomorrow night, it will all happen again, but for now, Hicks is there, Newt is healthy and happy, the monsters are gone, and Ellen doesn't have to be the strong one.
Battlestar Galactica
for paian
Laura Roslin/Bill Adama, quoting poetry
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off," he murmured, lying there in the dark, and wrapped strong arms around her.
"What is that?" she whispered, twisting to rest in his strength, feeling the beat of his heart, steady against hers.
"A poem I heard once, years ago," he whispered back, lips touching her jaw, her cheek, curving into a smile.
"And you still remember it?" she asked, in awe at his memory, soul trembling from the strength of emotion the words had imparted.
"I never forgot it," he replied, and blunt fingers trace the lines of her face, slip down her throat to map the curve of her shoulder.
"So why say it now?" And she trembled under his hands, body tight with need, with longing, with love and the things people don't speak of in the light of day.
"Because it reminds me of you. Of us. Of this." Those gentle hands slid lower, pushing the sheet from her body, relearning each swell and curve until she arched beneath him, her voice a soft cry in the night. He merely smiled against her lips, and said,
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."
Poem excerpt is from "XVII (I do not love you...)" by Pablo Neruda
Black Hawk Down
for azewewish
'Hoot' Gibson/Matt Eversmann/Todd Blackburn, initiation
"Heard you got a baby Ranger on board," Hoot said, looking down at the top of Matt's head.
"Yep." Matt didn't even bother to look up as his fingers worked on putting his rifle back together.
Yep? That was it? "And?"
"Over there," Matt said, and jerked his head.
"Where...oh. He's a pretty one, isn't he?" Pretty didn't begin to describe him, but it would do for now. Until Hoot figured out a better word.
"Yep."
Again with the yep. It was enough to make Hoot grind his teeth in frustration. "So?"
Matt's head came up, eyes narrowed in irritation. "What?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Hoot said, with an obviously fake smile, "am I interrupting you?"
"Fuck off," Matt muttered, and went back to his rifle.
"You hit that yet?"
"Nope."
Hoot blinked. "Why the fuck not?"
"There's a process, man," Matt said, with exaggerated patience. "You know that."
"There is, huh?"
"Yep. And you weren't around when he got here," Matt added, finally lifting his head to flash Hoot a wicked grin before turning to look at Blackburn.
"I am now," Hoot pointed out, smile dark and feral.
"Exactly," was all Matt said, pushing to his feet and starting across the floor.
for azewewish
'Hoot' Gibson/Matt Eversmann/Todd Blackburn, again
Three days after the original 'initiation', Hoot and Eversmann cornered him in the corner of the barracks. He'd spent two days dodging them, knowing exactly what they wanted, determined to make them work for it. He'd even talked Twombly into keeping a lookout from time to time.
Twombs, however, had been open to bribes from the opposite side. Fucking bastard.
A quick look around showed no one else in sight. So Blackburn just stood there, back to the corner, and grinned at them. They grinned back.
"Been avoiding us?" Hoot asked.
"Nah," Blackburn said, mind racing in an effort to figure out a way past them. Just to keep the game alive. "Grimes said you were looking for me."
"Did he?" Eversmann glanced at Hoot, and something passed between them before two sets of dark eyes turned back to Blackburn. "So you were avoiding us."
"Nope. Just haven't seen you since."
Taking a chance, Blackburn dodged. His effort was wasted when Hoot's chest got in the way. It took them approximately fifteen seconds to wrestle him to the ground and sit on him.
"And here," Hoot said, looking at Eversmann and shaking his head, "I thought we were all getting to be real good friends."
"I know." Eversmann actually managed to pull off a sad face. Blackburn was impressed. "Sad, ain't it?"
"Reckon we oughta remind him?"
"Remind me?" Blackburn blinked as they hauled him to his feet and started marching him towards the humvees. Ah, hell. "Guys. Guys?"
"Talks an awful lot, don't he?"
Blackburn rolled his eyes, but made no effort to get loose from the hands around his arms. "My mom always said my mouth would get me in trouble."
"Think it can get you out of trouble, too?" Hoot asked, glancing at Blackburn as they pulled him around a corner and pinned him against the nearest vehicle.
"Hell, yes."
Eversmann smirked. "Think you might need to prove that."
Blackburn just lifted his chin and gave them both a level look. "Just make sure you got enough lube this time."
"Oh," Hoot said, reaching for his belt buckle as Eversmann opened the back of the humvee, "we brought plenty."
The Boondock Saints
for azewewish
Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus, girls
There's a girl down at the pub that won't give the MacManus boys the time of day. They know; they've tried.
Each time, she just smiles at whichever one is trying to suss her out. Smiles and tells them no in the nicest, sweetest way possible. But it's still a no. And this girl is one who could make angels weep.
Legs that go on for miles. A firm ass that would fill their hands nicely. Tiny waist and flat stomach. Breasts big enough to make a man say a few prayers, and that have never known a surgeon's knife. Long black hair that tumbles over her shoulders and down her back, begging to be pulled and tangled as she's taken from behind. And her mouth.
Fuck, but Murphy thinks he could write odes to her lips. Full and soft and pink, they were made to have a cock slid between them. Connor claims he could die a happy man if he could just fuck her once. Murphy agrees.
But she always says no. It's become a ritual. They ask, she smiles, and they ask again, she says no. Round and round, no end in sight.
Until the night she walks into the pub, sees them, and crooks a finger. That's all. Then she walks back outside.
The boys need no other encouragement. They're off their stools and out the door before it finishes closing. By the time they hit the sidewalk, she's just vanishing around the corner. They share a glance, then take off, each determined to be the first to have her.
They round the corner and skid to a halt. There's someone else there. Another girl. And all the boys can see is the flash of pink tongues as the girls kiss, hands roaming freely over each other. Then they pull away from each other and flash near identical smiles at the brothers.
"Fuck me," Connor breathes, staring.
Murphy nods. "Blessed Mary, she's a twin."
CSI
for csichick_2
Nick Stokes/Greg Sanders, at a club
"Y'know," Greg shouted, then hiccupped, swaying against the bar as Nick looked over. "He'll be back. Gris-Grissom can't stan' it, loves th'lab too much."
"You're drunk," Nick laughed, reaching out to catch Nick as he swayed again.
"No' drunk," Greg insisted, then flashed Nick an owlish smile. "Jus' feelin' good."
"Drunk," Nick repeated. He wrapped a steadying arm around Greg's waist, pulled him from the bar. Greg didn't even attempt to resist as Nick led him through the crowd around the dance floor; he just leaned against Nick, keeping up a steady stream of drunken babble that had Nick grinning.
Then they were outside, and the cold, desert night air slapped them in the face. Greg still leaned, still babbled, but there was a little more coherency to it. A few more steps took them around the corner, and Nick had no time to react as Greg twisted in his grip and slammed him against the wall.
Brick dug into his back, cool through his shirt, and Nick opened his mouth to protest. But Greg was there, lips warm and firm on Nick's, tongue sneaking in to slide over Nick's in a wet glide. The way Greg rubbed against him left no doubt that he was enjoying the kiss.
As Nick's hands came up to fist Greg's hair, he was a little surprised to realize he was enjoying it just as much.
Leverage
for meredevachon
Eliot Spencer/Alec Hardison, food
From the very beginning, Eliot knew Alec was weird. But he didn't realize just how weird until Alec brought up the peanut butter. After all, it just hadn't sounded, well, appetizing.
And when Alec mentioned strawberry jam, Eliot shuddered. The joke was on him. Okay, there, he was man enough to admit it. But then Alec had given him a look.
The next thing Eliot knew, he was flat on his back on the desk, naked as the day he was born, with peanut butter and jelly swirled all over his body. And if Alec ever told anyone, Eliot was going to kill him.
for pez_gurl
Eliot Spencer/Parker, pegging
"Why am I letting you do this again?"
"Stop whining," Parker muttered. "It won't hurt. Much." The last was delivered under her breath and had Eliot twisting to look over his shoulder.
"Much? What the hell, Parker?" He watched her struggle into the harness, eyes narrowing as she reached for the bottle of lube.
"Relax and it won't hurt at all," she said, crawling on the bed behind him.
He still couldn't remember why he was letting this happen. Couldn’t remember how the conversation had ended up here, with him on his hands and knees in the middle of Parker's bed and her about to fuck him with a strap-on. Then slick fingers were pressing inside him, twisting and turning, curling up until they hit a spot that had his back arching like a cat's.
"Fuuuuuuuck," he breathed, every muscle quivering as she continued rubbing over that spot.
"I'm going to," she said, pulling her fingers away, and he almost whimpered. But then he had to relax as he felt a different press. The slick glide of the dildo stretched him, filled him, and Eliot had to fight the urge to rock back into it. Then it was fully inside him, and her small hands rested on his hips. "Ready?"
He nodded, the movement short and jerky. He only thought he was ready, though, because she did something and the dildo started to vibrate, sending shockwaves over his prostate as she pulled out and slid back in. She started to move in earnest then, thrusting into him, hands gripping his hips tight for balance. And fuck if it didn't feel amazing.
Parker never hesitated. Each thrust sent him closer to the edge, and he groaned her name as he came. She didn't stop, but just laughed softly. Eliot couldn't think, couldn't breath, and then her hand tangled in his hair. She pulled his head up, and he could feel her warm breath on his ear.
"Who's the crazy bitch, now, Eliot, hmm?"
The Lord of the Rings
for azewewish
Eomer/Legolas, eternity
"What is it like?"
His head cocked, turned a little, and Legolas looked at Eomer from the corner of his eye. "What is what like?"
"Being immortal."
"We are not immortal," Legolas murmured, eyes shifting to find the darkness beyond the walls again. "Not truly. We are merely long lived."
"You do not die of old age," Eomer pointed out, moving to stand beside the graceful Elf.
"No," Legolas said. "Nor do we often die of disease. Yet we can, and do, die by means other than battle."
"I wonder, at times, what it would be like," Eomer said, hands resting on the wall in front of him, "to spend forever at your side. That time is not, however, given to me, not matter how I wish it."
"What you have is time enough," Legolas said. A faint smile curved his lips, and long fingers brushed a delicate touch across the back of Eomer's hand. "My people are masters of turning a moment into a lifetime."
"Truly?"
"Come," Legolas breathed, moving backwards into shadows, one hand beckoning Eomer. "Let me show you."
for savageseraph
Eomer/Aragorn, falling
When Aragorn had plunged over the cliff, snared tight in the Warg's harness, he'd thought it was the end. Arwen had not once crossed his mind. Instead, he had remembered strong hands and dark eyes.
When he'd dragged himself from the river and onto Brego, he had tried to tell himself that he was doing it for her. Deep down, he knew he was doing it for a husky voice that had whispered in his ear in the darkness of the night.
When he'd finally made it to Helm's Deep, he looked upon Legolas and was relieved that his friends had survived the attack. Yet his spirits fell as he looked long and hard, unable to find long blond hair that had tangled up his hands.
When the sky began to lighten outside the keep, he had challenged Theoden to ride out, meet the enemy. It would be a tale to survive the ages, but they would not be around to hear it told. Then the sun had crested the mountain.
When Aragorn looked up, saw the host plunging down the side of the mountain to meet the Orcs, his eyes were drawn to the one in the lead. The one with the horsetail crest streaming from his helmet, eyes alight with the savage joy of battle, sword swinging with every shift of a muscled arm.
When Aragorn forced his way through the screaming hoard, Eomer's head turned, and Aragorn knew he was lost as the battle raged around them.
for galor5
Aragorn/Legolas, sunrise
Legolas had taken the last watch, and he still stood there, bow in hand, when Aragorn awoke. It was not yet dawn, but there was a paleness creeping into the sky from the east. Near silent as an elf, Aragorn settled his weapons about his body, and stood, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.
"We should move soon," Legolas said, not looking over his shoulder.
Aragorn nodded. "At first light," he murmured, casting a glance to the still sleeping dwarf. "We'll eat on the run."
Legolas nodded. Aragorn did not need to see his face to know those uncanny eyes were relentlessly scanning everything in sight. Digging out a chunk of waybread, he stepped close. "You need your rest as well, old friend. Do not think I failed to see you did not sleep during my watch."
"I could not," Legolas said, accepting the food with a nod of thanks. "Someone must watch over you. If you fall, we are all doomed."
"I can guard myself for a few hours," Aragorn said, a faint smile crossing his face as Legolas finally looked at him. "Your cousins taught me well."
"Of that I have no doubt," Legolas replied in Elvish as Gimli's form started to stir. "Yet my heart can not trust in their training. If you fall, I am lost."
He turned back, eyes fixed on the horizon as it turned from indigo to violet and the first faint tinges of peach and pink colored the sky. Aragorn rested a hand on a slender shoulder and moved close enough to feel the heat from Legolas' body. "Then, meleth nin," he said, and watched the dawn at Legolas' side, "I shall have to make sure I do not fall."
The Mummy Returns
for azewewish
Jonathan Carnahan/Ardeth Bay, tattoos
It wasn't the first time they had shared close quarters, but it was the first time that Jonathan really looked at Ardeth. Naturally, he'd noticed the overpowering masculinity and barely controlled violence of the other man the first time they'd met, but it was different now.
And Jonathan couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, it was. It would come to him, though. It always did.
When it did, it came with a vengeance.
He'd meant to knock, but he'd been thinking about that diamond. The really big one he'd snatched from the top of the temple. So he'd simply barged in without any forewarning what so ever.
And stopped dead on in the doorway.
Ardeth stood with his back to Jonathan, clad in nothing more than a pair of loose, flowing trousers. When he turned, one eyebrow raised in cool amusement, Jonathan swallowed hard. He was used to the markings on Ardeth's face and hands, but this...
Tanned skin was marked with symbols, lines, and whorls that wrapped along strong biceps, flowed down over a nicely muscled chest. Each bit of blue ink drew the eye, and Jonathan's followed their path, down to where they disappeared into the waistband of Ardeth's trousers. Great Heavens. The man was gorgeous.
A soft chuckle snapped him out of his reverie, and Jonathan's eyes flew up to meet Ardeth's. A blindingly white smile split a dark beard. "You should close the door," he said, his voice a low purr that caused Jonathan's blood to throb. "Unless you wish to leave?"
Leave? Oh, not bloody likely!
Supernatural
for meredevachon
Dean Winchester/Ellen Harvelle, wait
"Now?"
"Not yet." Dean smiled, eyes tracking the course of the ice cube over taut nipples. He watched as Ellen writhed on the bed, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets, evidence her patience was wearing thin.
The ice cube tracked lower, slid wetly over her stomach, and she whimpered. Dean just kept smiling. Her thighs relaxed, fell open, and the ice cube dipped even lower, slipping between her legs, rubbing along slick folds. Her heels dug into the bed, pushed up, and Dean laughed softly as he pressed the sliver of ice against her, into her, holding it between two fingers so he could feel her close around him, draw him deeper.
She gasped his name, arched up. He felt her body tighten as she came, and that was what it. Before she could relax, breathe, he moved over her and slid home in one smooth thrust.
"Now," he whispered, starting to move as she came again, crying out his name, nails digging into his shoulders. Some things were absolutely worth waiting for.
Underworld
for caras_galadhon
Viktor/Lucian, chains
He carries the key in a pocket in his trousers. At any time, he could unlock the collar and leave, free himself, but he hasn't. Not yet. Instead, he remains there, night after night, and waits.
And each night, Viktor doesn't disappoint him. Lucian thinks he could predict, to the second, when Viktor will walk into the tiny room Lucian's been given. The timing is that regular. The events always play out the same, with little variation.
Tonight is no different. When it's over, Lucian sits in the corner of the room and stares into the darkness. The back of his neck aches, courtesy of Viktor's tight grip that held him pinned to the floor. His body twinges as he moves, sore muscles reminding him of the ungentle nature of Viktor. Again, he wonders why he stays, why he allows himself to be used, degraded, treated as little more than the animal he knows they think him.
One night, soon, he will leave. So he tells himself, and lifts his hands in front of his face, staring at naked wrists that feel the weight of invisible iron.
for caras_galadhon
Viktor/Lucian, burning effigy (The Wicker Man)
Lucian doesn't know why he kept the collar or the key. They are symbols of what once was, what he hates more than anything, and all they do is remind him of pain and humiliation.
And Viktor.
He stares at them, sitting there on the table, and remembers the feel of the metal around his neck, pressing into his skin, keeping him from being who he truly was. Remembers how Viktor kept him chained, how Lucian allowed it. Remembers the feel of powerful hands on him in the dark, sharp fangs at his throat, fingers pressing, bruising, and a growls builds in Lucian's chest.
Never again.
Not even if another thousand years should pass.
He will see Viktor dead first. He will finish the job that he started centuries ago.
With a vicious snarl, Lucian scoops up the collar and key, slings them into the fire that crackles in the fireplace, and walks away.