painting a dotted line {sam/ellen}; waiting for the black to replace my blue {chuck/serena}
From the porn battle:
Title: Painting A Dotted Line
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Ellen
Rating: R
Word Count: 254
Author's Note: Spoilers for Season 4.5.
There was always something that drew him to her.
Back then, before, it had been New Caprica and loneliness. The weight of the absence of people they loved, hell the weight of the future of humanity practically, on their shoulders. There was a lot of lost sleep, a lot of wringing of hands, and through it all the mantra of fight them until we can’t echoing in their heads, a solemn reminder that this was going to end one way or another, and probably not the way they intended.
Sam remembers, on the nights where all they could hear was the damn chrome jobs moving around outside, or the New Caprica police having themselves another raid, voices carrying in the cold, stale air, she’d moan and gasp and shout clear over them. Drown them out, fill up the space with something familiar. He was grateful for it. And if anyone got too close, suspiciously so, she’d eat the sounds he made when he came, losing rhythm, and himself, inside of her.
He may have been the brawn, the strong one here, but she was always so much wiser than him. Than all of them. She’d pulled the wool over their eyes for so long that she had to be.
Later, after they know it was her, that she was the fifth, he’ll think maybe she knew what she was all along. What they were. Intuitively. Like he’s always felt that link, that pull between them.
It’s easier to think someone understood all of this.
---
Title: Waiting For The Black To Replace My Blue
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Characters/Pairings: Chuck/Serena
Rating: R
Word Count: 377
Author's Note: Spoilers up 2.16 (to be safe).
Somehow, the fact that his dad died and therefore he’s no longer technically her stepbrother makes this less hard to swallow. It doesn’t matter if her mother adopted him, you know, for the company’s sake, or that him and Blair have had this thing for forever, or that he’s Chuck Bass (which, really, should be the worst part of this whole equation - it should have been enough to make her slam the door in his face when he came up here in the first place). As long as that little technicality (which didn’t mean all that much in the first place when you think about it) is cleared up, this doesn’t feel quite as wrong.
Chuck whispers things she doesn’t want to hear in her ear, little reminders, the syllables stretched out long and slow. It’s “tell me you haven’t always wanted to do this” or “time to stop pretending”, and she claws at him with her manicured nails exactly like she’s trying to hurt him because, well, she sort of is. This feels a bit like regressing (it is), like the past year and a half, and coming back, hell leaving in the first place, doesn’t end up amounting to a whole lot, and Serena doesn’t like that thought.
Not anymore than she likes the fact that she is, at the moment, topless and splayed on the bed with Chuck’s head between her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipples, fingers playing at the waistband of her underwear (cotton because it’s not like she planned on sleeping with Chuck, or kissing Chuck, or being in the same room with Chuck, tonight, or any other night - she’s been on a bit of a dry spell, as of late, anyway).
She still gasps at the feeling. Still arches into his mouth when he moves lower. Still flexes around him when he slides inside of her.
Because Serena knows this, she knows how to do this, instinctively. How to have the one-night stands, the quick fucks, the dirty boys who know things that they shouldn’t know at seventeen or eighteen or whatever. She knows, and she’s good at it, and eventually everyone needs that familiarity, that sense of comfort in the past.
(She thinks he might need it too)
Title: Painting A Dotted Line
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Ellen
Rating: R
Word Count: 254
Author's Note: Spoilers for Season 4.5.
There was always something that drew him to her.
Back then, before, it had been New Caprica and loneliness. The weight of the absence of people they loved, hell the weight of the future of humanity practically, on their shoulders. There was a lot of lost sleep, a lot of wringing of hands, and through it all the mantra of fight them until we can’t echoing in their heads, a solemn reminder that this was going to end one way or another, and probably not the way they intended.
Sam remembers, on the nights where all they could hear was the damn chrome jobs moving around outside, or the New Caprica police having themselves another raid, voices carrying in the cold, stale air, she’d moan and gasp and shout clear over them. Drown them out, fill up the space with something familiar. He was grateful for it. And if anyone got too close, suspiciously so, she’d eat the sounds he made when he came, losing rhythm, and himself, inside of her.
He may have been the brawn, the strong one here, but she was always so much wiser than him. Than all of them. She’d pulled the wool over their eyes for so long that she had to be.
Later, after they know it was her, that she was the fifth, he’ll think maybe she knew what she was all along. What they were. Intuitively. Like he’s always felt that link, that pull between them.
It’s easier to think someone understood all of this.
---
Title: Waiting For The Black To Replace My Blue
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Characters/Pairings: Chuck/Serena
Rating: R
Word Count: 377
Author's Note: Spoilers up 2.16 (to be safe).
Somehow, the fact that his dad died and therefore he’s no longer technically her stepbrother makes this less hard to swallow. It doesn’t matter if her mother adopted him, you know, for the company’s sake, or that him and Blair have had this thing for forever, or that he’s Chuck Bass (which, really, should be the worst part of this whole equation - it should have been enough to make her slam the door in his face when he came up here in the first place). As long as that little technicality (which didn’t mean all that much in the first place when you think about it) is cleared up, this doesn’t feel quite as wrong.
Chuck whispers things she doesn’t want to hear in her ear, little reminders, the syllables stretched out long and slow. It’s “tell me you haven’t always wanted to do this” or “time to stop pretending”, and she claws at him with her manicured nails exactly like she’s trying to hurt him because, well, she sort of is. This feels a bit like regressing (it is), like the past year and a half, and coming back, hell leaving in the first place, doesn’t end up amounting to a whole lot, and Serena doesn’t like that thought.
Not anymore than she likes the fact that she is, at the moment, topless and splayed on the bed with Chuck’s head between her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipples, fingers playing at the waistband of her underwear (cotton because it’s not like she planned on sleeping with Chuck, or kissing Chuck, or being in the same room with Chuck, tonight, or any other night - she’s been on a bit of a dry spell, as of late, anyway).
She still gasps at the feeling. Still arches into his mouth when he moves lower. Still flexes around him when he slides inside of her.
Because Serena knows this, she knows how to do this, instinctively. How to have the one-night stands, the quick fucks, the dirty boys who know things that they shouldn’t know at seventeen or eighteen or whatever. She knows, and she’s good at it, and eventually everyone needs that familiarity, that sense of comfort in the past.
(She thinks he might need it too)