Pick-A-Porn: Round Four
For pirateygoodness -
Tricia/Katee
Katee watches. It’s all she can do, her hands tied behind the wooden slats of the chair, her ankles cuffed to the feet. The wood seat is slick against her bare skin and she can feel wet and heat building and spilling, sliding over her skin.
Tricia watches too. Lies there on the bed and watches Katee’s face flush with frustration and hunger. She watches Katee’s eyes darken as Tricia reaches down and spreads her skin, her fingers teasing over the pink flesh, tracing it carefully. Katee licks her lips as Tricia circles her clit, feeling the blood pulse in the hardened flesh, and has to close her eyes, imagining it’s Katee’s tongue against her skin. She wants it, Tricia knows, as she thrusts her fingers slowly inside herself, two of them scraping the inner walls with the slightest hint of nail. Wants Katee’s head buried between her legs and tasting her, fucking her, but this…this is good too. Knowing that Katee wants it, is burning for it. Smelling the hot need building.
Katee presses down against her chair, grinding against it, desperate for relief. Tricia laughs, hot and husky and needing, the end of it breaking off as she comes against her thrusting fingers. Katee groans and whimpers, knowing better to speak, though she can’t help the relieved gasp as Tricia slides off the bed and starts crawling across the floor in her direction.
For nolivingman -
Bush/Maria
They dock in Portsmouth for a few short hours, barely enough time for Hornblower to rush to the Admiralty and for Haver to supervise the loading of supplies. Bush takes the time and Hornblower’s grant of leave to find shore, find the room he knows is waiting. There was nothing by way of letter, merely the mention in Hornblower’s letter that they would be ashore with no time to pay call, but he did not wish for Maria to hear of it otherwise.
Those simple words hold unspoken meaning to Bush though, and to Hornblower’s wife. There is a room for let and money under the table, a few hours rented like a dockside whore, but more. So much more.
She is no longer shy with him, brazen almost in the way she stands by the window. Someone could see if they would raise their eyes, but here no one looks above the dirty sidewalks and streets, so she is safe. He is safe. They are safe. He doesn’t speak her name as he shuts the door, but she turns regardless, moving into him with the speed of a long-lost lover. He is more - husband’s closest confidante, husband’s second in command - but here he is just that to her, just a man who needs to touch and taste and find himself inside her in ways that no other woman before or since he first touched her has been able to fulfill.
She is only dressed in her sheath, aware of the need for haste in this to prolong the pleasure in other things. He eases it off of her, reminding himself by touch of her skin. It is soft as down and full, buxom and warm with wide childbearing hips that he holds with no sense of decorum or delicacy. He has left bruises that no one has seen but the two of them, and Maria has whispered for them, wanting proof that she can press against at night, her body flooded with the memory of him.
He knows no polite names for what they do, only the ones of the Bible and the streets and the ships, and he whispers them to her when she asks what they are doing, watching the blush heat her skin until she clenches around him, hot and wet and wild as the storms that claw at his sails on the waves.
He goes back to the ship with the smell of her on his tongue and the marks of her nails hidden where his Captain will never see.
For elzed -
Lee/Kara
The cameras are turned off for an hour. It’s the most that his father will grant them, and Lee knows he can’t ask for more. To be asking for more would be another kind of mutiny, and Lee has, at last, learned how much his father is willing to give and to push no farther. Not in this, not when having it all taken away will hurt worse than having so little to begin with.
It is not where he imagines their first - last - time together will be. They have done this before, but not them now, not these people that they’ve become. Kara is like a star that went out and returned, brighter than before, and Lee is like a diamond, rock crushed and weathered to smoothness and sharp edges. But he does not complain about the bars of the guards two doors away or the hardness of the cot beneath him. He just focuses on the softness of her skin and the husky timbre of her voice and the need that engulfs him as he slides into her, losing himself and knowing - no doubts, no confusion, nothing but certainty - that this is Kara. His Kara.
She groans his name as he pushes deeper, their bodies moving together, the skills borne of flying made flesh as they join and dance, skin and more joining and pulling apart, spinning them like an engine let go and freefall, floating forever until time snaps back into focus again and the light goes out, the cameras come on and the sound of the hatch to the cells opening is the same as the one they make when they hit the ground.
For quicknow -
Goddamn Lonely Love/Love Like This
She burns hotter than the sun, faster and brighter, and the lights shine on her like stars, falling from the sky and sizzling to nothing as she absorbs them. She’s something better than nothing, and he knows better than to keep watching, because he wants the nothing that his life has become, even if he can’t have that nothing anymore.
Not that home - nothing - is all that great. Too much booze and a bottle broken to shards and wasted whiskey soaking the floorboards he passes out on, waking up shivering from the coldness radiating from the bed that used to be warm enough without him, hotter with him. They used to be in love, make love, make it all mean something, but now he’s here, looking at temptation like it’s worth giving into, knowing that he’s already halfway across the bar by the time it’s too late to say no.
He doesn’t ask and she doesn’t say yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that the hallway to the emergency exit is dark and the bathrooms are deserted, worse off than most of the sadness hanging off barstools and booths in the other room. She tastes like beer and lipstick, cheap and waxy, but he devours it, boosting her and her short skirt up onto the bathroom sink, his eyes open and his reflection staring back at him. She could be anyone and he’s no one but himself, so at least he knows who to blame.
She’s hot and wet and dressed for sex, so it’s not hard to find himself inside her, her legs wrapped around him and the porcelain cold against his thighs. The back of her head is against the glass and her mouth is open, the wheeze-whine of arousal pitched just above comfortable. He doesn’t want comfort though, or he’d be home or the closest thing he has to it, reveling in the small moments before it all goes to hell. Her nails rake at his shirt and he feels the rough edges of her high heels against his ass, scraping away skin. The pain makes it better and he grips the sink, driving inside her, closing his eyes long enough to forget, long enough to remember.
He hates the after - sticky and flavored like cotton candy on a sour stomach, spun sugar and bile - and the awkward, watching her put herself back together as his dick shrinks and they both pretend that they’re somewhere else, someone else. Instead, they’re them and the music is loud outside the door and he should at least buy her a beer or something stronger to wash the taste away.
Tricia/Katee
Katee watches. It’s all she can do, her hands tied behind the wooden slats of the chair, her ankles cuffed to the feet. The wood seat is slick against her bare skin and she can feel wet and heat building and spilling, sliding over her skin.
Tricia watches too. Lies there on the bed and watches Katee’s face flush with frustration and hunger. She watches Katee’s eyes darken as Tricia reaches down and spreads her skin, her fingers teasing over the pink flesh, tracing it carefully. Katee licks her lips as Tricia circles her clit, feeling the blood pulse in the hardened flesh, and has to close her eyes, imagining it’s Katee’s tongue against her skin. She wants it, Tricia knows, as she thrusts her fingers slowly inside herself, two of them scraping the inner walls with the slightest hint of nail. Wants Katee’s head buried between her legs and tasting her, fucking her, but this…this is good too. Knowing that Katee wants it, is burning for it. Smelling the hot need building.
Katee presses down against her chair, grinding against it, desperate for relief. Tricia laughs, hot and husky and needing, the end of it breaking off as she comes against her thrusting fingers. Katee groans and whimpers, knowing better to speak, though she can’t help the relieved gasp as Tricia slides off the bed and starts crawling across the floor in her direction.
For nolivingman -
Bush/Maria
They dock in Portsmouth for a few short hours, barely enough time for Hornblower to rush to the Admiralty and for Haver to supervise the loading of supplies. Bush takes the time and Hornblower’s grant of leave to find shore, find the room he knows is waiting. There was nothing by way of letter, merely the mention in Hornblower’s letter that they would be ashore with no time to pay call, but he did not wish for Maria to hear of it otherwise.
Those simple words hold unspoken meaning to Bush though, and to Hornblower’s wife. There is a room for let and money under the table, a few hours rented like a dockside whore, but more. So much more.
She is no longer shy with him, brazen almost in the way she stands by the window. Someone could see if they would raise their eyes, but here no one looks above the dirty sidewalks and streets, so she is safe. He is safe. They are safe. He doesn’t speak her name as he shuts the door, but she turns regardless, moving into him with the speed of a long-lost lover. He is more - husband’s closest confidante, husband’s second in command - but here he is just that to her, just a man who needs to touch and taste and find himself inside her in ways that no other woman before or since he first touched her has been able to fulfill.
She is only dressed in her sheath, aware of the need for haste in this to prolong the pleasure in other things. He eases it off of her, reminding himself by touch of her skin. It is soft as down and full, buxom and warm with wide childbearing hips that he holds with no sense of decorum or delicacy. He has left bruises that no one has seen but the two of them, and Maria has whispered for them, wanting proof that she can press against at night, her body flooded with the memory of him.
He knows no polite names for what they do, only the ones of the Bible and the streets and the ships, and he whispers them to her when she asks what they are doing, watching the blush heat her skin until she clenches around him, hot and wet and wild as the storms that claw at his sails on the waves.
He goes back to the ship with the smell of her on his tongue and the marks of her nails hidden where his Captain will never see.
For elzed -
Lee/Kara
The cameras are turned off for an hour. It’s the most that his father will grant them, and Lee knows he can’t ask for more. To be asking for more would be another kind of mutiny, and Lee has, at last, learned how much his father is willing to give and to push no farther. Not in this, not when having it all taken away will hurt worse than having so little to begin with.
It is not where he imagines their first - last - time together will be. They have done this before, but not them now, not these people that they’ve become. Kara is like a star that went out and returned, brighter than before, and Lee is like a diamond, rock crushed and weathered to smoothness and sharp edges. But he does not complain about the bars of the guards two doors away or the hardness of the cot beneath him. He just focuses on the softness of her skin and the husky timbre of her voice and the need that engulfs him as he slides into her, losing himself and knowing - no doubts, no confusion, nothing but certainty - that this is Kara. His Kara.
She groans his name as he pushes deeper, their bodies moving together, the skills borne of flying made flesh as they join and dance, skin and more joining and pulling apart, spinning them like an engine let go and freefall, floating forever until time snaps back into focus again and the light goes out, the cameras come on and the sound of the hatch to the cells opening is the same as the one they make when they hit the ground.
For quicknow -
Goddamn Lonely Love/Love Like This
She burns hotter than the sun, faster and brighter, and the lights shine on her like stars, falling from the sky and sizzling to nothing as she absorbs them. She’s something better than nothing, and he knows better than to keep watching, because he wants the nothing that his life has become, even if he can’t have that nothing anymore.
Not that home - nothing - is all that great. Too much booze and a bottle broken to shards and wasted whiskey soaking the floorboards he passes out on, waking up shivering from the coldness radiating from the bed that used to be warm enough without him, hotter with him. They used to be in love, make love, make it all mean something, but now he’s here, looking at temptation like it’s worth giving into, knowing that he’s already halfway across the bar by the time it’s too late to say no.
He doesn’t ask and she doesn’t say yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that the hallway to the emergency exit is dark and the bathrooms are deserted, worse off than most of the sadness hanging off barstools and booths in the other room. She tastes like beer and lipstick, cheap and waxy, but he devours it, boosting her and her short skirt up onto the bathroom sink, his eyes open and his reflection staring back at him. She could be anyone and he’s no one but himself, so at least he knows who to blame.
She’s hot and wet and dressed for sex, so it’s not hard to find himself inside her, her legs wrapped around him and the porcelain cold against his thighs. The back of her head is against the glass and her mouth is open, the wheeze-whine of arousal pitched just above comfortable. He doesn’t want comfort though, or he’d be home or the closest thing he has to it, reveling in the small moments before it all goes to hell. Her nails rake at his shirt and he feels the rough edges of her high heels against his ass, scraping away skin. The pain makes it better and he grips the sink, driving inside her, closing his eyes long enough to forget, long enough to remember.
He hates the after - sticky and flavored like cotton candy on a sour stomach, spun sugar and bile - and the awkward, watching her put herself back together as his dick shrinks and they both pretend that they’re somewhere else, someone else. Instead, they’re them and the music is loud outside the door and he should at least buy her a beer or something stronger to wash the taste away.