Unfinished, untitled Chiana/D'Argo smutfic
Unedited, too.
This is both an attempt to be brave and to get over myself - my tendency is to write and rewrite and rewrite until I'm filled with loathing for myself and for the story. I have dozens of fics in various stages of progress that will probably never see the light of day and I'm currently stalled on the 3rd draft of one that I would very much like to post, but can't until I get it just so. I love building a story, but at some point I lose sight of the structure and wind up feeling trapped and confused.
So. Since smut seems to be judged by somewhat different standards and since my first draft smut is more coherent and less stream of consciousness than my usual first drafts, I'm going to share this as a way of pushing myself. And maybe someone will enjoy it - I'd be thrilled to come across a Chi/D'Argo story written by someone else, in whatever state. They're rare to the point of being mythical and it makes me sad D=
603 words, rated R, set at the end of WSS. All belongs to Henson.
Her skin is cooler than he remembers, smokier. He runs his lips along the long curve of her neck, tasting the difference the last two cycles have made. Her hands move to unhook her corset and he reaches around to cover them with his own, his lips brushing against her earlobe.
“Let me,” he says softly, and draws her hands down to her sides. She clenches her fists for a microt, then sighs and flexes her fingers, her eyes fluttering closed as his hands skim over her stomach. He undoes the hooks from the bottom up, his nails snagging on the gauzy material of her shirt as she shrugs out of the corset, his mouth hot against her shoulder.
She tilts her head to the side as he unbuckles her belt, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of her pants. Pulls the fabric down a dench, then two, as his lips find the pulse point in her neck, her skin salty with dried sweat. He sucks, gently, and feels her heartbeat quicken beneath his tongue.
She laughs, low and uncertain. Says, “You gonna frell me or what?”
“Or what,” he says, grazing her throat with his teeth, her hipbones with his fingers, through her shirt. She rocks her hips against him and he tugs the shirt up, repeats the motion against her bare skin, kissing the back of her neck as she tips her head down, her hair falling forward over her face. He runs his hands over her arms, working her gloves down and off, and she tangles her bare fingers with his.
The smell of salt intensifies and he turns her around, tilts her chin up. “Chiana,” he says as he brushes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, “Forgive me.”
She opens her eyes, her mouth an ‘oh’ of surprise, and he stops her question with a kiss, cupping her face in his hands; and after a microt she kisses him back, her tongue teasing between his lips, her fingers playing over his tenkas before wrapping around his neck. He straightens, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around his waist; and he’s missed this, the way her body fits against his, the weight of her in his arms. He deepens the kiss as he carries her to the bed and lays her down, one hand stroking the curve of her breast, her side, coming to rest on her hip. She writhes against him, sucks hard on his tongue, and he breaks the kiss.
“Slowly,” D’Argo says as he cants onto his side and slides his hand between her thighs. Chiana groans in protest, then in pleasure, as he cups her sex through her pants, the slowly building pressure tightening her nipples.
She licks her lips, her back arching. “Tease.”
He grins and grinds the heel of his hand against her clit, the fabric warm and increasingly damp to the touch. “I remember,” he says, dipping his head to trail his tongue around her nipple, grazing it with his teeth through her shirt, “you liked it when I spent a long time on you.”
She shakes her head, her hair falling in her face as her breath quickens, his fingers curling into her. “Your memory is dren,” she gasps. “I liked it when you spent a long time in me.”
He laughs, the heat of his breath tingling against her skin; she takes advantage of his distraction and twists in his arms, pushing him onto his back, straddling his hips. His fingers span her waist and she lays her palms flat on his chest, her fingers tracing the scars.
This is both an attempt to be brave and to get over myself - my tendency is to write and rewrite and rewrite until I'm filled with loathing for myself and for the story. I have dozens of fics in various stages of progress that will probably never see the light of day and I'm currently stalled on the 3rd draft of one that I would very much like to post, but can't until I get it just so. I love building a story, but at some point I lose sight of the structure and wind up feeling trapped and confused.
So. Since smut seems to be judged by somewhat different standards and since my first draft smut is more coherent and less stream of consciousness than my usual first drafts, I'm going to share this as a way of pushing myself. And maybe someone will enjoy it - I'd be thrilled to come across a Chi/D'Argo story written by someone else, in whatever state. They're rare to the point of being mythical and it makes me sad D=
603 words, rated R, set at the end of WSS. All belongs to Henson.
Her skin is cooler than he remembers, smokier. He runs his lips along the long curve of her neck, tasting the difference the last two cycles have made. Her hands move to unhook her corset and he reaches around to cover them with his own, his lips brushing against her earlobe.
“Let me,” he says softly, and draws her hands down to her sides. She clenches her fists for a microt, then sighs and flexes her fingers, her eyes fluttering closed as his hands skim over her stomach. He undoes the hooks from the bottom up, his nails snagging on the gauzy material of her shirt as she shrugs out of the corset, his mouth hot against her shoulder.
She tilts her head to the side as he unbuckles her belt, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of her pants. Pulls the fabric down a dench, then two, as his lips find the pulse point in her neck, her skin salty with dried sweat. He sucks, gently, and feels her heartbeat quicken beneath his tongue.
She laughs, low and uncertain. Says, “You gonna frell me or what?”
“Or what,” he says, grazing her throat with his teeth, her hipbones with his fingers, through her shirt. She rocks her hips against him and he tugs the shirt up, repeats the motion against her bare skin, kissing the back of her neck as she tips her head down, her hair falling forward over her face. He runs his hands over her arms, working her gloves down and off, and she tangles her bare fingers with his.
The smell of salt intensifies and he turns her around, tilts her chin up. “Chiana,” he says as he brushes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, “Forgive me.”
She opens her eyes, her mouth an ‘oh’ of surprise, and he stops her question with a kiss, cupping her face in his hands; and after a microt she kisses him back, her tongue teasing between his lips, her fingers playing over his tenkas before wrapping around his neck. He straightens, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around his waist; and he’s missed this, the way her body fits against his, the weight of her in his arms. He deepens the kiss as he carries her to the bed and lays her down, one hand stroking the curve of her breast, her side, coming to rest on her hip. She writhes against him, sucks hard on his tongue, and he breaks the kiss.
“Slowly,” D’Argo says as he cants onto his side and slides his hand between her thighs. Chiana groans in protest, then in pleasure, as he cups her sex through her pants, the slowly building pressure tightening her nipples.
She licks her lips, her back arching. “Tease.”
He grins and grinds the heel of his hand against her clit, the fabric warm and increasingly damp to the touch. “I remember,” he says, dipping his head to trail his tongue around her nipple, grazing it with his teeth through her shirt, “you liked it when I spent a long time on you.”
She shakes her head, her hair falling in her face as her breath quickens, his fingers curling into her. “Your memory is dren,” she gasps. “I liked it when you spent a long time in me.”
He laughs, the heat of his breath tingling against her skin; she takes advantage of his distraction and twists in his arms, pushing him onto his back, straddling his hips. His fingers span her waist and she lays her palms flat on his chest, her fingers tracing the scars.