Fic post! "Aiding and Abetting"
Title: Aiding and Abetting
Author:
miri_away
Date: Oct 29, 07 3:00-ish AM
Type: Original
Genre: Action, citrus
Rating: NC-17 to be safe.
Summary: On a normal day, this would be very, very awkward. Never leave your partner in the dark.
Warning: Mature Content! Slash or homosexual relationship-- in other words: HOT n STEAMY Boi-make-out-scene.
AN: Before we begin: I love you,
dayofglory. *cackles* Attempt 2 at her prompt: “Hot n steamy" Not really graphic enough, though. "At one or two points I was very disgusted with what was going on-mostly because of the sound effects I had to put in-but the end result was very satisfying. The character was flimsy but in the end I got ‘em. Don’t ask me what’s going on because I like hearing interpretations."
---
Aiding and Abetting
miri_away
For dayofglory
The kiss is an entity all its own. It's greedy, wet, and very, very persistent.
It says, in all its intensity, that once it ends, the owner is going to have a mouthful of very loud, very true words.
It started with a punch to the gut. Without a gasp of air, there is no protest, no complaint when your mouth is covered, claimed, and completely invaded. There is no noise but the faint growl that you feel, actually, more than hear, coming from just passed his Adam's apple. You don't regain sense enough to taste him until, apparently, you can breathe again; you don’t do either until he bites your top lip.
He tastes like…like he hasn’t had time to brush his teeth. Like he smells: like sweat. Someone else’s sweat? No. Like-like blood. Tentatively, you try to return the kiss, if only to figure out if he’s lost any teeth this time, but you are forced out of his entirely too warm mouth but a steely glare and the disturbing ‘dot’ of a snapping jaw. It is nothing now but a challenge, and you wish he wasn’t staring right at you-that he’d lick again, because it can’t end now, not when you know exactly why he’s so passionate. Not now.
It’s not gentle, it’s teasing, it’s angry, and it’s very much in control. You try again, parting your lips under his in the vain hope he’ll let you communicate this way, let you coax him out of this strange stand-still. You lower lip catches in between his teeth.
He’ll clamp down. You know he will. It’s not exactly a smirk-- how can you tell with him holding you so close?-but you still, out of self-preservation, and resist the urge to back up (you love your lower lip where it is, where it has always been and hopefully will stay and you really don’t want this to end) while he slurps your lip back in between his.
If you didn’t already know why you should have seen this coming, you’d either be mildly disgusted, becoming increasingly angry, or giggling your head off.
As it stands, you spend the next heated moment wondering why he hasn’t done anything but stare at you very pointedly, very intensely, and why the only parts of you touching him are the ones he’s holding oh, so possessively. On a normal day, this would be very, very awkward.
Convinced, you’re sure, that he has your attention and compliance, his lips move, releasing your own and you dare not do anything but let the pressure-venom-whatever the hell this is build, and increase, while he sucks, nibbles, presses, and impresses upon your unwillingly unresponsive “jabber bags” everything he’s about to say without breaking contact and from almost every angle possible when not breaking contact.
You smell his sweat, nothing new, and the Something Else that covers his hands, both of which clawed at the side of your head until they settled on your cheeks very close to the time you realized you were being, in the best sense of the word, attacked. It doesn't seem appropriate, right now, to glance to the sides and find out exactly what is being so forcefully embedded in your face-skin or to figure out if you are entirely sure you want to be offended by it. You’re not sure-actually, more not sure, when he starts massaging from your temples to the corners of your jaw-but you have gone from being terrified, turned on, confused, to very reluctant all in a span of less than a minute and you are being pushed away from somewhere that was, while very heady, extremely, brutally, warm.
Hobbling back, you are met with a displaced wall of unoccupied air and the site of a very pissed off, very dirty man who you could have sworn would have done more than kiss you upon arriving back. One look at his pants says that after the argument, or even during, but most probably after, there would be sex. Sweet, sweaty, steamy sex. It was always good when it was angry (not that you did all of this just for the gratification of mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasms, oh, no, never that) and it was always very, very inevitable. His hard on was already taking over much of his stance, his personality and, despite how hard he was trying, how fast he could chew you out for being so rash.
Though it doesn’t help in the department of cooling him down (not that you are doing any of this on purpose, of course) hands held, arms and shoulders dejectedly following, you look vaguely chastised. You cover your smirk with a sigh and a heavily hanging head because there’s no reason for him to see you have a matching bulge, which is steadily-increasingly-- getting harder to hide behind your prayer-like gesture, in your pants. Never that.
Author:
miri_away
Date: Oct 29, 07 3:00-ish AM
Type: Original
Genre: Action, citrus
Rating: NC-17 to be safe.
Summary: On a normal day, this would be very, very awkward. Never leave your partner in the dark.
Warning: Mature Content! Slash or homosexual relationship-- in other words: HOT n STEAMY Boi-make-out-scene.
AN: Before we begin: I love you,
dayofglory. *cackles* Attempt 2 at her prompt: “Hot n steamy" Not really graphic enough, though. "At one or two points I was very disgusted with what was going on-mostly because of the sound effects I had to put in-but the end result was very satisfying. The character was flimsy but in the end I got ‘em. Don’t ask me what’s going on because I like hearing interpretations."
---
Aiding and Abetting
miri_away
For dayofglory
The kiss is an entity all its own. It's greedy, wet, and very, very persistent.
It says, in all its intensity, that once it ends, the owner is going to have a mouthful of very loud, very true words.
It started with a punch to the gut. Without a gasp of air, there is no protest, no complaint when your mouth is covered, claimed, and completely invaded. There is no noise but the faint growl that you feel, actually, more than hear, coming from just passed his Adam's apple. You don't regain sense enough to taste him until, apparently, you can breathe again; you don’t do either until he bites your top lip.
He tastes like…like he hasn’t had time to brush his teeth. Like he smells: like sweat. Someone else’s sweat? No. Like-like blood. Tentatively, you try to return the kiss, if only to figure out if he’s lost any teeth this time, but you are forced out of his entirely too warm mouth but a steely glare and the disturbing ‘dot’ of a snapping jaw. It is nothing now but a challenge, and you wish he wasn’t staring right at you-that he’d lick again, because it can’t end now, not when you know exactly why he’s so passionate. Not now.
It’s not gentle, it’s teasing, it’s angry, and it’s very much in control. You try again, parting your lips under his in the vain hope he’ll let you communicate this way, let you coax him out of this strange stand-still. You lower lip catches in between his teeth.
He’ll clamp down. You know he will. It’s not exactly a smirk-- how can you tell with him holding you so close?-but you still, out of self-preservation, and resist the urge to back up (you love your lower lip where it is, where it has always been and hopefully will stay and you really don’t want this to end) while he slurps your lip back in between his.
If you didn’t already know why you should have seen this coming, you’d either be mildly disgusted, becoming increasingly angry, or giggling your head off.
As it stands, you spend the next heated moment wondering why he hasn’t done anything but stare at you very pointedly, very intensely, and why the only parts of you touching him are the ones he’s holding oh, so possessively. On a normal day, this would be very, very awkward.
Convinced, you’re sure, that he has your attention and compliance, his lips move, releasing your own and you dare not do anything but let the pressure-venom-whatever the hell this is build, and increase, while he sucks, nibbles, presses, and impresses upon your unwillingly unresponsive “jabber bags” everything he’s about to say without breaking contact and from almost every angle possible when not breaking contact.
You smell his sweat, nothing new, and the Something Else that covers his hands, both of which clawed at the side of your head until they settled on your cheeks very close to the time you realized you were being, in the best sense of the word, attacked. It doesn't seem appropriate, right now, to glance to the sides and find out exactly what is being so forcefully embedded in your face-skin or to figure out if you are entirely sure you want to be offended by it. You’re not sure-actually, more not sure, when he starts massaging from your temples to the corners of your jaw-but you have gone from being terrified, turned on, confused, to very reluctant all in a span of less than a minute and you are being pushed away from somewhere that was, while very heady, extremely, brutally, warm.
Hobbling back, you are met with a displaced wall of unoccupied air and the site of a very pissed off, very dirty man who you could have sworn would have done more than kiss you upon arriving back. One look at his pants says that after the argument, or even during, but most probably after, there would be sex. Sweet, sweaty, steamy sex. It was always good when it was angry (not that you did all of this just for the gratification of mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasms, oh, no, never that) and it was always very, very inevitable. His hard on was already taking over much of his stance, his personality and, despite how hard he was trying, how fast he could chew you out for being so rash.
Though it doesn’t help in the department of cooling him down (not that you are doing any of this on purpose, of course) hands held, arms and shoulders dejectedly following, you look vaguely chastised. You cover your smirk with a sigh and a heavily hanging head because there’s no reason for him to see you have a matching bulge, which is steadily-increasingly-- getting harder to hide behind your prayer-like gesture, in your pants. Never that.