Untitled (2016-02-16)

This is… probably… NSFW.

This is what happens when an ace person reads too much smut, I guess. I dunno? I had this stuck in my head for a while and… well… apparently nothing else wants to be written until I get this done first.

~

Thea stands in front of the glass walls of her office, ostensibly enjoying the view of the city skyline at night, but really using the reflection to see behind her. It’s late enough that the lights are dimmed down to only a quarter brightness, everyone’s computer monitors on sleep mode–almost everyone has gone home to enjoy their weekend.

A soft, muffled noise, cloth rubbing against leather. She smiles, sees it on her reflection, the way her mouth slides sideways showing teeth.

Almost everyone.

A series of dull, near inaudible steps makes its way from the sofa to her. She doesn’t turn around, not even at the first tentative touch of lips to the nape of her neck. She doesn’t need to–she can keep her eyes straight ahead and still enjoy the sight of Cody’s torso curling down to accommodate their height differences. The curve of his neck so he can continue to press kisses to her neck, her shoulders, the faintest pressure she can barely feel through the fabric of her suit jacket.

“Careful,” she warns, reaching a hand back, twining her fingers into his dark hair, mussing the neatly combed part, “This outfit is worth more than your little farm back home.”

“Yellow,” he murmurs, though he accepts the hair pulling with grace, lightly bracketing his hands over the curve of her hips.

She hums, turning in his hold so that they are face to face, chest to chest. The suit’s lapels curving over her breasts just barely brushing against the worn cotton of his tee shirt. His hands remain where they are, ready but awaiting orders.

“That was cruel of me,” Thea responds, acknowledging but neatly sidestepping the matter. Her hands trail across his body–one following up the lines of his arm, his shoulder, his neck, the other fluttering down around his skull, his ear–until both of them cup his jaw, the heels of her hand cradling his chin, her thumbs sweeping slow and sure over his cheekbones, back and forth.

“You’ve been so good for me,” she praises, and with the barest of movements, just a hint of a pull, Cody bends down further, “So good for me,” she repeats, as he goes to his knees in front of her, “Would you like to continue?” she asks.

“Yes,” he breathes, leaning in until his forehead rests against her belly. His hands remain where they are, but they clench eagerly, anticipating.

Thea smiles, pleased, “For my skirt, use your hands,” she orders, because this is still a very expensive suit. But–one last swipe of her thumbs over his cheeks before she lets go, index finger catching on his lower lip as she pulls away–“Everything else, you only use your mouth.”

Cody is used to waking up in the morning and being used as living, breathing furniture; Thea’s laptop balanced on his pecs, her paperwork on his abs, and herself curled up or sprawled over his lap like a cat–confident of her claim, but fluidly forming to the space. At least there isn’t a cup of coffee on him this time.

“No, I don’t care what Hendricks’ plans are, get him in that meeting today any way you can,” Thea says into the cellphone jammed between her shoulder and jaw, hands typing furiously away, “He owes us for last quarter’s budget meeting–he’s lucky he still has a job, much less his department. Remind him of that, and tell him if he doesn’t show up then he won’t have either,” she huffs, irritated, a full throated whoosh of air, no doubt distorting painfully into the call.

Cody doesn’t move, careful not to dislodge her or her things, but he strokes a hand up Thea’s side–reveling in the feel of bare skin–gentle enough as to not be distracting but firm enough not to tickle.

She glances to him, noting his calm expectant smile, before shooting him one of her own, “Yes, thank you, Sam. I’ll see you later,” she finishes, before hanging up and setting the phone on top of her makeshift desk.

“Stressful day already?” He asks, both hands gripping her sides, groping their way upwards; fingers skimming across ribs, teasing around the curve of her breasts, the hardening peaks of nipple, “I can help with that,” he offers, before stroking back down again, the jut of her hipbones fitting perfectly into the palms of his hands. Still, none of her things move from where she placed them on him.

“I know you can,” she says, shifting around to straddle him, knees digging into the mattress, the warm press of their thighs against each other. Already Thea can feel the shape of his cock, the curve of it firm beneath her hand, twitching and swelling in time to his pulse.

She gives it a squeeze, enjoying the way his expression blows open and wanton; but she’s far more proud of the way he bites back a moan, the aborted almost thrust of his hips seeking additional friction.

“Unfortunately,” she sighs, pulling her hand away, as if she really were too busy to indulge, “I have so many things to do before my meeting today,” she smirks, “I couldn’t possibly postpone for a fuck,” she punctuates with a roll of her own hips, brushing against the head of his dick. It leaves a smear of precum on her skin, but she ignores it in favor of the desperate look on his face.

He pants, a whine catching in his voice, “Who said anything about postponing?” he asks, even now staying so obediently still.

Thea’s grin widens, honest and pleased. Good behavior deserves a reward, and he does have a point: she’s always been good at multitasking.

~

A/N: Uh… I guess the smut was alluded to more than actually shown… typical of me. But still! NSFW! Um… if you got this far, cool, hope you enjoyed this little story about a domme and her sub. I was going to write more–about how Thea’s asshole of a stepbrother is trying to muscle her out of the company by trying to contest her share of the inheritance even though she’s been running it for the past five years, and how the meeting is basically getting the other major shareholders to sell her part of their shares so that she remains on the board if he succeeds or so she has more than he does if he doesn’t… uh. Basically, corporate politics so which didn’t super mesh well with the Thea+Cody scenes so, mreh?

Untitled drabble (2015-11-05)

This has been stuck in my head for at least two weeks and I don’t want to write it, but it’s also being really persistent. So I guess here’s a weirdly clinical take on the fuck-or-die situation that still has potential for a consensual romantic relationship happen? I dunno… I’m an aro sex-averse ace :/

This drabble is probably NSFW.

Darren’s morning routine goes as such: wake up, spit about 30 mL of saliva into a specimen cup, prepare and eat breakfast, brush teeth, masturbate, collect semen into an enema bag, pack cup and bag into backpack, change pajama pants into workout shorts, jog for an hour, end jog at Thomas’ apartment. He has a key to Thomas’ apartment, specifically so he can let himself in, so Darren is unnerved when the door opens before he can do so.

The guy that is on his way out startles back, looking as surprised as Darren feels. But he recovers much more quickly than Darren does, a smirk sliding onto his face after his eyes make a quick assessing glance up and down Darren’s body, “Tommy’s obviously got a type,” he says, before shoving his way passed, and leaving. No introductions needed or wanted.

Fine by Darren, he has more important matters to attend to. And Tommy? Thomas hates it when people call him that.

Darren locks the door behind him and heads directly for the bedroom. No need to knock or call out, Thomas won’t be awake. He can’t be; not without Darren.

Thankfully, there isn’t an overt stench of sex, but the marks littering Thomas’ skin speak well enough about what he and his rude visitor did last night. A flare of jealousy burns beneath Darren’s skin, but he breathes and dismisses it.

This is how the rest of Darren’s morning goes: he takes off his shirt soaked by sweat–from sleep and exercise both–and gently puts it on Thomas. The specimen cup is placed on the nightstand by Thomas’ bed, the enema bag in his bathroom by the sink. Then he goes to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Thomas.

As he pulls out ingredients for an omelette, Darren hears the sound of movement from the bedroom, his sweat beginning to take effect. As he whisks the eggs, he hears the plastic thunk of the specimen cup being slammed onto the nightstand, several shaky footsteps, and the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.

The batter goes into the pan with a soft hiss.

In ten minutes, Thomas will finish with his own morning routine and find a meal but no chef in his kitchen.

It’s nobody’s fault. Not really. Darren happened upon a situation that he grudgingly called Thomas for help, Thomas stumbled upon the trap, Darren tried to pull him away, but the curse was placed regardless.

The team spent a week trying to figure out what exactly happened–unsure why one of their number lay uninjured but in a coma–until Darren, running on a total of ten hours of sleep, was sedated and practically shoved into bed beside Thomas for rest while the others continued to work.

Four hours later, Thomas woke up to a pair of clammy arms gripped tight around him, Darren in the throes of a nightmare. Of course, when Thomas attempted to wake Darren, he was only hugged tighter for his efforts.

But eventually they found out that skin contact was not enough; not by a long shot. Thomas would need more from Darren.

And Darren, in love with Thomas for almost half a decade, would never say no to him.

“No,” Darren says, hands curled tight into fists. Around him, his teammates look shocked, skeptical, confused.

“But…” Frances hesitates, but chooses to speak where the others do not, “You love him. Don’t you want to?”

“Not like this,” he answers with a shake of his head, “Not like this.”

Lina has finally found the information on the exact curse, along with previous cases where it was used, but given the last such case was over two hundred years ago… They have only ever gone with the most obvious answer.

What is sex? How exactly is this curse interpreting sex?

It clearly isn’t taking emotions into account, given the obvious undertones in the written records of the cursed, so it must be something of the physical act itself… or the tangible products of the act–sweat, saliva, semen–bodily fluids are almost as important to magic as intent.

Sonya is the one to suggest an alternative treatment plan. She says it exactly like that, “an alternative treatment plan,” and the rest of the team cringe at how clinical it sounds but Darren appreciates it.

Replicate sex without actually having it. A borrowed sweat-soaked shirt instead of naked skin. A single ingested dose of saliva instead of kisses. And, to put it bluntly, a semen suppository. One, two, three every day, and Thomas will never need to have sex with Darren.

Wanting is a different story.

~

A/N: I kind of don’t want to explain what exactly led me to this, though I will say that there was a fic involved. That fic was good and in no way involved fuck-or-die magic, but it did involve someone being infected by a poison where the cure turned out to be a different person’s sweat/natural oils. And there was a strange tension because the two characters were on the edge of getting together before said poisoning happened and now it’s like… I love you but I don’t know if you love me is this just the weird poison/cure arrangement or do you actually like me?

It’s better than I’m explaining and I would recommend it, but I also don’t want this drabble in any way connected with that because I am mostly ashamed of this and only wrote it to expel it from my brain. So… wow, if you got this far, I am seriously impressed by your fortitude.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-09)

This drabble is NSFW.

They first meet on a Friday evening.

Besides the custodian, she’s the only one left on her floor and half of the lights have been shut off already. The walk to the elevators is dim, but it’s a well-practiced route, one she could do in her sleep. Her stockinged feet pad softly across the carpet. As she passes by Phil emptying trash bins, head bobbing to the music in his headphones, she gives a small wave. Her high heels are clutched in her hand, but the other arm weighed down by her bag; he nods to her in greeting, used to her late hours.

It’s been a long week, she thinks as she pushes the call button for the elevator. She’s eager to go home and change into her pajamas and just veg out in front of her TV for the next two days. Possibly go to the dog park with Felix. Try that recipe for blueberry cheesecake that her brother sent her.
Then the elevator doors open.

She’s so caught up in fantasizing her weekend plans that it takes her several moments to process what exactly she’s seeing.

They first meet on a Friday evening, Mina shoeless and silently gaping in front of the elevator doors, Jessie in said elevator on her knees with Steve from Accounting’s dick in her mouth.

“Ah,” Mina says, unsure of what there is to be said, yet being the only one able to say something–without someone else’s genitals or their own hand in her mouth.

It’s… well. It’s actually not that explicit, really. The occupants of the elevator are mostly clothed, only slightly disheveled. Really, if it weren’t for the way Jessie’s hand was conspicuously in Steve’s trousers and the obscene stretch of her lips around his cock, it wouldn’t even…

Okay, no. It’s pretty obvious what’s going on, she can’t deny it.
Steve’s stuttering, helpless hip thrusts notwithstanding, the elevator occupants are almost frozen in their graphic tableau of interoffice fraternization. As if so long as they didn’t move, didn’t make any noise, it was as if they were simply paused in time instead of awkwardly interrupted.

“… I’ll just get the next one then” Mina chokes out after the silence has extended long enough to leave her ears ringing. Luckily, the elevator doors take pity on her, and close with an apologetic ding, taking away all the evidence that the past thirty seconds ever happened.

When Phil and his cleaning cart pass by her ten minutes later, her cheeks are still flushed a ruddy, embarrassed red.

~
A/N: I’m gonna be honest, this is my first time trying to mention/reference/write sex in any sort of explicit manner. But this blog is a way for me to develop my writing skills so it’s as good a place as any to start. I know it’s not like full on smut and porn but getting into even a somewhat sexual headspace is kind of difficult for me, so… I am, unsurprisingly, more like Mina in this situation than anything else.

I think I’m going to continue this… like a specific NSFW series I can go back and play with when the mood hits me. I’ll try to come up with a title for this series, then.