Fail. Fandom. Anon.

[Just a snippet from a WIP. I highly doubt anyone on here is in this fandom though...]

The night was cool, breezy, and the moon hung low and brilliant in the sky. They walked past old men sitting on their porches, playing cards; little kids helping their mothers carry bags home from the market; young couples walking hand-in-hand or with their arms woven around one another. The suffocating mood began to lift, and when Tyler glanced over at Jon he saw, even in the dim light, that Jon looked relaxed, his arms swinging naturally as he walked, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth a little open.

The lush sound of a steel Hawaiian guitar guided them up the steps, welcoming them into their apartment. The music came from the bedroom; a woman began singing over the guitar. Tyler recognized the voice; he imagined Conchetta sitting cross-legged on Mikael's bed, strumming the guitar in her lap, tapping out the rhythm with her foot, her breathy voice floating on the breeze wafting in through the open window that led out to the balcony. He recognized the song, too, though she was singing in Spanish.

Que juego perverso para jugar
Para hacerme sentir de esta forma
Que cosa perversa para hacer,
Que me permita soñar contigo...

They tried turning on the light, only for nothing to happen; perhaps a bulb had burned out. Before Tyler could ask if they had a spare lightbulb, Jon ducked into into the kitchenette and reappeared with a couple of those saint's candles. He sat them on the windowsill and lit them. The candles threw dancing shadows on the wall, evoking a long forgotten memory in Tyler: his grandmother, who'd died when he was little, lighting candles like that in her house, crossing herself and offering up a little prayer as she did so. The memory entwined with the dancing candlelight and the sensual singing; Tyler felt as though he were in a trance.

Jon went into the bathroom - no lights in there, so it seemed the electricity was out all together - and Tyler was vaguely aware of the sound of him drawing a bath. Jon came out and walked up behind him, resting a hand on the small of Tyler's back. Tyler drew a shaky breath. "Come with me," whispered Jon, and Tyler complied almost without thinking. There was another candle burning on the sink, and a warm bath waiting for them. Jon stripped him, let him get in the tub, and then followed. At first they had to draw their knees up to their chests to both fit, but then Jon maneuvered a leg and Tyler shifted a little this way and that way, and their bodies fit together, buoyed a bit by the water. Tyler sighed at the sensation of his spine unkinking, aches and pains he hadn't consciously been aware of melting away. The wistful guitar caressed them, surrounded them, as did the water.

Reaching out to him, Jon's fingers trailed from Tyler's chest up his neck; Tyler tilted his head back and let his eyes slide closed. When Jon's fingers forced their way into his mouth, he bit down lightly, peeking out from beneath his lashes to gauge's Jon's reaction. Jon looked at him with such naked hunger that Tyler's heart began beating double-time, a wild tempo against his breastbone all out of time with the melancholic music. Jon pulled his fingers back, then braced his hands on the sides of the tub, lifting himself up, straddling Tyler so that their groins pressed together. Instinctively, Tyler held him close, like a lover, one hand tangling in the damp strands of Jon's hair.

Jon pressed his face into Tyler's neck, mouthing at his neck, then pulled away, and stepped out of the tub; dazed, Tyler watched as Jon stood with his back to him, lit in dark and red tones by the flickering candle light. Jon pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Intro: So I've wanted for awhile to write a story where Bashir is confronted with Garak's past in a way he can't deny -- a new Bajoran patient who was tortured by the Obsidian Order, and quite possibly even by Garak himself. I'd like a happy ending between them, but I'm not married to it. I've tried writing from Bashir's POV -- this draft is a stab at Garak's. I'm worried that Bashir sounds sulky instead of properly upset, among other problems.

I'm stuck and I need crit, basically.

~~~~~~~

Garak had spotted her across the Promenade this morning, exiting the Infirmary. And now Julian was picking at his spaghetti and trying to look like nothing was bothering him.

"I see we have a new Bajoran face on the station," Garak ventured.

Bashir looked at him with frank suspicion. "Do you notice every new Bajoran face, or just this one?"

"Potential new customers are always of interest, Doctor!" Bashir outright scowled at that, and Garak relented a little. "And this particular woman, of course, is rather memorable. Did you know she was one of the few Bajorans honoured with a full Cardassian trial? She even served her sentence in a labour camp designated for Cardassian academic dissidents."

"How comforting that must have been for her," Bashir snapped.

He obviously wouldn't be placated with an explanation of how [name] had been recognized as an intellectual equal and granted the full rights and responsibilities of a citizen in response to her Resistance activities, so Garak simply waited to hear what he would say next.

"Were you the one who tortured her?"

Ah. The reality of a "mysterious" past was finally sinking into a naive and optimistic young man's core. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" He didn't shout, but his voice was loud enough to draw unwanted attention. When Garak responded, he was deliberately quiet and gentle.

"Whether I tortured her or not, I tortured people like her, and people unlike her. Dozens of them, Doctor."

Bashir's face went still and tense and he stared at his food again.

"Odo is a resilient being. The effects of an Obsidian Order interrogation weren't so obvious with him, were they?"

Bashir didn't move, and Garak sighed. This was not something that would be resolved in a single lunchtime discussion.

In case people prefer to reply here, here is a thread.

She can tell they are getting close by the way the walls look. In the North the walls aren’t made of bricks and cement the way they are at home. They are made of broken pieces of slate and granite jumbled together in a way that looks dangerous, as if a touch might tumble them down. The fields have inexplicable ridges in them under the grass, like the spines of dragons sleeping under the earth. In her opinion this the kind of place where adventures happen. She has very high expectations of it, especially at Christmas.

To get to her grandparent’s house they have to drive up a lane, which looks more like the bed of a river than an actual road, all loose rocks, and in winter, sheets of ice. Her mother grips the handle above her seat hard as they bump and wobble their way up it. The lights are on in the house, her grandfather’s studio is a blaze of yellow light. Her grandparents greet her in the way they always do: her grandmother with two swift kisses to either cheek, her grandfather with a handshake.

Later, she helps her grandmother make the beds. “I expect you’re glad your Uncle isn’t here, aren’t you?” her grandmother says. “No one to bother you while you’re reading.”

It is a Family Joke that her Uncle always wants to give her a hug, especially when she is busy reading and that she always fiercely resists his attempts to do so. In actual fact, she doesn’t mind her Uncle that much. Secretly she quite likes the way he smells, like cool air and bonfires. Of course the reason for that smell is that he smokes cigarettes which isn’t something she feels she can be seen to approve of. And once, a long time ago when she had asked her parents why her Uncle wasn’t allowed to babysit her, she had been told that her Uncle had an illness in his mind, and that he might one get confused and hurt her. It is a possibility that she always tries to bear in mind.

Dinner is delayed that evening. Her grandmother stops making dinner halfway through to go and talk on the phone.

“Yes, a green checked shirt, and brown corduroy trousers,” her grandmother says. “Three days ago, but he doesn’t usually remember to change his clothes unless someone tells him to.”

In the end, she eats by herself because the adults are too busy. The pudding tastes horrible, but when she complains she is told off. The next morning they all apologise: it turns out her grandmother had used salt for the crumble instead of sugar. She is given extra honey on her porridge that morning and a chocolate coin from the tree.

Later in the day she begins to get anxious. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and there are hardly any presents under the tree. Usually by this point there is a pile under the tree already, and she has already planned out the precise order in which she is going to allow people to open them. Eventually she brings the matter up with her mother. She intends to do so in a reasonable and polite manner but ends up bursting into tears.
The next morning the pile of presents under the Christmas tree has tripled, and almost all of them have her name on it. She wants to explain that she didn’t cry because she wanted presents. Christmas is supposed to be special and she is beginning to have a lurking fear that this one might not be.

Late that night, she is woken up by the ringing of a phone. Her mother and father go out into the corridor. Soon her father comes back and pulls on his clothes. He is going to London, he explains, to collect her Uncle and bring him home. After he has gone, her mother tells her that her Uncle had been supposed to take the train but had been frightened by something – perhaps all those crowds of people on the escalators or the wind from the dark underground tunnels. He was running away from it until the police found him.

The next morning they all wait on the station platform for her Uncle’s train to come in. Her mother takes her aside. “I know you don’t like it,” she says. “But I think you should give your Uncle a hug when you see him. I know he’s a bit strange but he has feelings too, you know.”

Changed the names for some degree of anonymity. I don't usually write PWPs or rarepairs, so I'm unsure if the lack of feedback was because the porn was bad, or the ship. Or both. Any opinions or concrit would be great, thank you.

.

The briefing went down with the usual frowns and uncertain, doe eyes, but at least there was no one trying argue or second-guess his methods. It was, Campion supposed, the benefit of having a bunch of green idiots for a squad.

Or, he thought, as he dismissed them to prepare, it should have been the benefit. At least one had a mouth on him, and being quiet in such a meeting wasn't usual.

'Blackavar, you stay behind,' he said, then waited for the rest of them to file out and shut the door behind them before continuing.

‘Well?’ he said, narrowing his eyes at the boy. ‘Spit it out.’

Blackavar looked down at the table, and hesitated. Fuck it, this was going to be something stupid, wasn’t it. Blackavar rarely withheld any of his better ideas.

Half a second from being sent out, something to say or not, Blackavar finally spoke. ‘I don’t really think the plan... that is, it’s a good plan, but...‘

He trailed off, visibly trying to gather the right words, and Campion only just managed to not do anything more severe than roll his eyes. He could see where this was going.

‘It’s just that you put yourself in one of the most dangerous positions,’ Blackavar said, in a rush, then hurried to correct himself. ‘I know you’re the most suited for it, and changing the path of the diversion to decrease the threat to you will only increase that to Hazel-rah’s squad. And while you’re highly valued in fighting ability, and troop moral, and because they know they can trust you, strategically speaking it’d be much worse to lose a whole squad.

‘So, it’s a good plan, and I don’t think we have a better alternative right now. That’s why I didn’t say anything. It’s just – I would prefer it if... you were safer. That's all.’

Campion almost scoffed. Blackavar, clearing waiting to be shot down, almost pathetically eager to eat his own words, glanced up, met Campion’s eye, and looked away again quickly.

‘You have a long way to go if you were planning on filling Erwin’s shoes,’ Campion said, finally.

Blackavar looked at him properly, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Campion had just enough time to recognise the sudden look in his eyes as a bizarre, sly sort of honesty. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Campion snorted in laughter. ‘Fucking unbelievable,’ he said, and stood, pushing his chair back carelessly. There weren’t many who could make him laugh. Blackavar, the little shit, had heard it enough that the sound had made him relax.

Shrugging his jacked off to toss on the back of his chair, Campion leant one hip against the table. Blackavar, sensing the change in mood, stood a little straighter.

‘Strip,’ Campion said with a jerk of his head, and was pleased to see the flush on Blackavar’s face, and the slight clumsiness of his fingers as he hurried in undoing the buttons of his shirt. In truth Campion wasn’t particularly in the mood, but he supposed if he did croak it in the upcoming mission, this would be good for Blackavar. Or was it the other way around, and it’d only add to the kid’s long list of issues? Campion shrugged off the thought. At this point, it hardly mattered.

Dressed as he was in civilian clothes, Blackavar didn’t take long before he was naked, pale skinned and rapidly changing Campion’s opinion on whether he was in the mood or not – or at least, his dick’s opinion. Motioning Blackavar to come closer, Campion gripped him around the nape of his neck as soon as he came within reach, and pushed him down to his knees. Half sitting, half leaning on the table, Campion caught a fistful of Blackavar’s hair, and used it to press Blackavar’s face to his crotch.

His trousers wouldn’t appreciate the move, he thought briefly, but as Blackavar mouthed at his hardening cock through the fabric, he found himself with limited ability to care. Rocking his hips he exhaled roughly, letting himself enjoy the tension starting to coil up in his lower belly, behind his balls.

After a moment Blackavar took the initiative to lean back just far and long enough to undo Campion’s trousers and underwear, and submitted without resistance when, without further preamble, Campion shoved his cock down Blackavar’s throat. Blackavar gagged but didn’t struggle, and as Campion used his grip on Blackavar’s hair to rock his head back and forth, Blackavar hollowed his cheeks and sucked in time with the thrusts, the tip of his tongue providing the sort of friction that made Campion grit his teeth.

In the back of his mind he considered, not for the first time, whether this was natural talent or the result of long experience. He didn’t particularly care either way, though he had briefly wondered whether, if experience, it was from a current partner who preferred not to share.

Whatever. That was Blackavar’s problem, and he was enthusiastic enough.

He yanked Blackavar back, hard enough to send him sprawling. ‘Against the table,’ Campion said, voice rough, and watched as Blackavar picked himself up, and a step from the table, braced himself against it with straight arms. His cock was hard, standing unattended to between his legs.

Campion’s own cock, wet with enough saliva to hide the potentially embarrassing amount of precum he could feel it leaking, felt on the verge of aching. Stepping up behind Blackavar, grabbing his wrist with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, Campion shoved him down onto the table. Blackavar’s chest hit the wood with a thud, forcing a grunt from his lungs, half surprise and half pain. Campion kicked Blackavar’s legs further open, and letting go of his wrist, guided his cock to push into Blackavar’s arse.

Without proper lubrication it was a little too tight, the friction just pushing the wrong side of painful. Campion gripped Blackavar’s hip with his free hand, fingers digging tight into the muscle there, and thrust in deeper with each harsh rock. Beneath him Blackavar was making muted, gasping noises, somewhere between pleasured moans and wet little cries of pain – if they were one or the other, Campion couldn’t tell.

There was a pressure mounting at the base of his cock, a spring being slowly pushed down until it strained, coiling up in his insides. He could feel sweat prickle on his back, under his collar. Heat flushed from his chest up to his face. His balls slapped rhythmically against Blackavar’s arse.

Campion shifted his feet, reaching forward to grab Blackavar’s wrists, and forced them behind Blackavar’s back to hold tight in place with one hand. With the other he pulled Blackavar closer by the back of the neck, repositioning them to allow himself in that much deeper. Blackavar hissed, and ground his forehead against the surface of the table.

Thrusting a few more times, breathing through his teeth as the internal tightness wound its way down his cock, Campion let go of Blackavar’s neck, and grabbed a fistful of his hair instead. He yanked it brutally, forcing Blackavar’s head back and his spine to arch, until only his hips touched the table. Blackavar whined, high and wavering in the back of his throat.

‘Go on,’ Campion ground out, thrusting harder to jostle Blackavar’s whole body, pulling all the harder at his hair. ‘Make up for being so quiet before.’

Blackavar didn’t obey instantly, so Campion jerked his hand to wrench at Blackavar’s head. Blackavar cried out at that, a high pitched noise that trailed into breathless moans, sobbing to the tempo of Campion’s thrusts. ‘Please, please–‘ he said.

Campion came, the tension released like lightning, and he groaned at the pleasure of it. Blackavar slumped as Campion released him, as hard as if he’d fallen from a height, and as soon as Campion stepped back and there was room for it, he dropped off the table to his knees on the floor, curling up. He was panting, shoulders trembling.

Huh. Had he been pushed too hard? ‘Get up,’ Campion ordered, and Blackavar stood up on shaky legs, leaning heavily against the table. He looked Campion in the eye, though, and he was still hard, albeit less so than before. Annoyed at the vague sense of relief at the sight, Campion wiped himself off on a handkerchief, tucking his cock back into his trousers with fingers still tingling from orgasm.

‘Finish yourself off,’ he said, and sat down heavily on his chair.

Blackavar licked his lips quickly, clearly an unconscious gesture rather than some sort of seduction. His face and chest were flushed red and his hair was messed up. There were deep imprints from the table edge on his hips.

Still facing Campion, one hand bracing against the back of a chair, the other pulling obediently at his cock, Blackavar’s breath started to pick back up again. He made a long noise in his throat, a low hum, and half shut his eyes, thumbing over the head. His hips rocked, small motions at first that slowly grew larger and faster. Toes curling, mouth open and lips wet, it wasn’t long before he bowed his shoulders and came, the orgasm tearing out of him one last, quiet groan. He caught his come in his hand, then paused, as if unsure what to do with it. His chest still heaved for breath.

Campion huffed, amused, as he stood. Blackavar looked up at him and smiled a small, but open and honest smile that, in Campion’s opinion, did not belong on the face of someone standing bollocks naked, having been recently and very thoroughly fucked.

It suited him, though. Campion snorted, annoyed at himself for the thought, but it remained. ‘Clean yourself, and wipe down the damn table,’ he said. ‘Then go join the others. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow.’

This has haunted the WIP/concrit threads for a while, so I'm putting it here with the latest revisions. Feedback is welcome!

Previously here:
http://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/93604.html?thread=454751908#cmt454751908

Just like the last time
they want to make a report
about a small town and how
a child's death changed
everything

Given my past experience
they ask for a few words
I tell them no, though
I have many things to tell

My story started with a snicker
laughter that grew into silence
of lunch break solitude

I guess it was something I did
what, I don't know
but I suffered my sentence
hoped it would matter

all the way to end
I hoped

Only a few times
what felt like a dream
happened: I made a friend

your story and mine
were just the same
to that point

Many parts of my life
I would like to rewrite
yours especially

I would write how
you left class one day
and never came back
much like reality
except this would be true:

You live happily somewhere

An interviewer wants
different answers
so I tell nothing at all.

Rationale: "Sometimes less is more, and sometimes it is just less. But no matter what, writing with a strict economy of purpose can force useful answers to fundamental questions. Even from one sentence you can learn both who the character is and what the story is about. To provide focus, it is helpful to begin by writing sentences in arbitrary pairs with established parameters."

Example (birth/death)
1. "I won't be doing any bonding with either of them for quite a while; I knew I shouldn't have gone into the delivery room."
2. "'He doesn't look peaceful or tortured or saintly, and no, he doesn't look 'just like himself'; he looks like some dead thing that I never knew, and I don't know why I'm here."

Pairs can be, but don't have to be, in opposition. Just related.

Suggested pairs: birth/death, falling in love/filing for divorce, dawn/dusk, spring/summer, make up your own!

Post your pairs of first lines here!

In which Loki is a stage magician, Thor is a disgraced politician who's now going through med school, and Darcy is Darcy.

—

Don sat up properly and shrugged. "I don't know. I've been thinking about changing my focus, so I suppose I have a few more years to consider my options," he said. It didn't sound like a spur of the moment decision; this was something he'd clearly been thinking about.

"What? Seriously? I thought you were almost done," Darcy said. Why the hell would he want to quit now?

Don nodded, almost mournfully. "I am," he said. And then he shrugged. "But I think I may enjoy surgery more."

He'd certainly like the money more, but Darcy kept that to herself.

"Can you do both?" She asked.

Don scrunched up his face in thought. "I don't know," he said. He looked like he thought it was a hell of a good idea, though. "Do you think I should ask?"

Darcy wondered if he would actually go through with it if they let him. It sounded insane. "Who's your advisor?" She asked.

"Harris," said Don. "Useless man is never where he's meant to be."

Darcy knew the pain. Harris had been her advisor until she demanded to be re-assigned.

"Eep. Start emailing now if you want an answer by graduation," she said.

Don rolled his eyes. He definitely knew the pain and agony that was Harris. It was a wonder the man had a job at all, with how much effort he seemed to put into avoiding doing it.

"So, you're going to be, like, a million dollars in debt the time you finish," Darcy said. She was so not even thinking about all the student debt she'd racked up over her few years in college. Don had been going at his degree for almost the entire time he'd been in the country. He had to have been living off of ramen and white rice to afford it. That and steroids, because he definitely did not have the body of someone who lived on ramen and white rice.

Except he looked weirdly sheepish at Darcy's question. "No, I'm, uh. Onascholarship." He said the last part into the back of his hand as he looked away, but Darcy understood every word of it.

"Oh, I hate you," she said with a dramatic glower. "You asshole. I'm gonna be bankrupt before I even get my first real job."

Don cringed and shrugged. "Sorry," he said. He didn't sound like he was sorry at all.

Darcy picked up the stack of sticky pads and threw them at Don. He laughed and tossed them back at her.

"Shall I make it up to you?" He asked, rising to his feet. "Make the perilous trek up to Jason's as recompense?"

"Yes," Darcy said. She didn't like to think she was so easily bought, but Jason's was expensive and delicious. "The mushroom artichoke thing. I want that. And a cherry soda."

Don bowed like he was a knight about to embark on a deadly quest. "Then you shall have it."

As he left the office, Darcy called out her thanks and started getting to work.

—

Loki stood in the middle of the only room of his so-called apartment, examining the fishbowl on the counter while he picked through a carton of cold lo mein. He'd managed to make it last two days, which really only meant he'd spent the last two days pretending he wasn't hungry. He really should not have bought the fish bowl, but there it was. A 40,000kr investment that represented every poor decision he'd ever made. If he bombed his callback, he'd have just enough money to make it back to Reykjavík, and not a króna more.

He sat down on the itchy sofa and ignored the fact that he hasn't thought any of this through. He needed a miracle at this point. Maybe if he didn't get the job, he could just wander out to the desert and feed the vultures. It would probably be less painful than going back home.

With a sigh, he looked down at the remains of his dinner. It was mostly carrots and cabbage at this point. Loki hated cabbage. He didn't trust it. It remained far too green, even after being cooked to rubber. He quickly ate it anyway, trying to get it down without tasting it in the name of not wasting the money. Dropping the Styrofoam container to the ground by the window, Loki leaned over and tried to lie down on the sofa. It wasn't very easy though, being it was only about four feet long and lacked arm rests, and he was six feet and change. The sofa pulled out in a mockery of sofa beds, making it a completely useless oversized Ottoman at its full size.

Maybe bombing the audition would almost be worth it. Then he'd at least have an excuse to go back home and sleep in a real bed. With an annoyed huff, he threw the pillow out from under him and rolled onto the floor after it. The neighbours below probably weren’t to happy with the ceiling sounding like it was going to collapse on them, but knowing he’d probably made them that much more miserable almost lightened his mood. Reaching up the wall with one long arm, he managed to flip off the light and plunge the room into partial darkness; the bright lamp right above his window outside made sure it was never actually dark enough to get any real sleep, and it was in cahoots with the constant stream of police sirens that blared down the street after 10pm.

by the embarrassed nonnie from this thread: http://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/97267.html?thread=475399155#cmt475399155. thought people might want to read it without seeing html tags. ;)

--

She hadn't expected to still be this horny eight months in. Actually, she hadn't expected a lot of things, most of all for her body to take so well to the pregnancy. An Omega's body was tailor made to bear children, but Noire had been fairly fragile, always sick as a child and not healthily proportionate. But aside from the backaches and exhaustion, she felt mostly fine.

She sat on the edge of her bed, hands resting on her huge belly, feeling one or more of the babies kick now and then. Her breasts were swollen and heavy and a bit of milk would leak from one or both nipples now and then, and more often than not she'd find herself wet and swollen and aching between her legs. She'd always been sensitive but lately the slightest shift in wind could send her into a paroxysm of hormones; her nipples hardening and a damp heavy feeling between her legs.

She hoped Severa would return from her errand soon.

Sighing, Noire spread her legs slightly, gasping as the cool morning air came in contact with her swollen nether regions. One arm cradled her heavy abdomen as her other hand slid between her thighs, feeling the thick, slippery juices gathering there. She felt so shy about doing this, even knowing she'd done so much more with Severa...it was how she'd gotten into this state to begin with, after all, and Severa still didn't mind having sex with her in this state. Most Alphas kept a harem and barely touched their Omegas after they became pregnant, but Severa was different somehow.

She panted slightly, slipping a finger between her engorged lips. It was hot enough to fry an egg inside her, more fluids trickled from her as she gasped, opening her legs further. The more she touched herself the harder it was to sit up and she soon had to lie down, legs bent and pressed to either side of her belly as she ground her core against her hand, making the most embarrassing noises. So close, so close...! Not that it would help, she could climax at least three times before she was fully sated these days.

"Noire?!"

Severa's voice jolted her out of her reverie.

"Noire, are you okay?! The babies aren't coming yet, are they?" Noire turned bright red, Severa had heard her and thought she was giving birth!

"I-I'm okay!" she squeaked. "They're still where they are!" Hopefully. Some Omegas would go into labor a month early the first time, but she trusted her and Severa's babies to stay where they belonged until it was time.

"Good." Severa walked in before she had time to pull the blankets over herself, and Noire's face burned. She was still lying on the bed, spread and flushed and swollen and leaking not just down below but from her breasts now as well.

"U-um...welcome home?"

Severa sighed, shaking her head as she walked over to her.

"Totally insatiable. I had a feeling I'd find you like this, but still," she said, sitting down next to her. Noire tried to pull herself up to no avail.

"Sorry..."

"I guess you couldn't wait for me to get home?" Severa smiled. "It's okay, I'm here now." She closed her lips around a nipple, and Noire felt her first climax overtake her; all she could do was writhe and shriek, one hand in Severa's hair and the other on her big belly to stabilize herself. Severa stroked, kissed and suckled first her breasts and finally her core, now feeling as swollen as the rest of her and dribbling thick fluids onto her Alpha's lips.

When she was finally finished she only had the strength to collapse back onto the bed, still holding her middle, panting and sweaty and sticky from her orgasms. She was vaguely aware of Severa wetting a cloth in the washbasin, then sponging her off.

"Think you'll be okay for another hour?" she asked.

"I think so..." Noire blushed as Severa helped her into her robe. "Thank you."

"You're lucky I love you," Severa mock-grumbled, but she was smiling.

A kind nonnie sent this to me. I'm posting it here so as to not spam the flatmemers so much.

01 Aug 2013 Misha IS Harriet
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/63118.html?thread=295552910#t295552910

05 Aug 2013 No place for self-reflection
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/63452.html?thread=297183964#t297183964

19 Aug 2013 Mostly About Socks
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/64423.html?thread=302794663#t302794663

23 Aug 2013 Jensen's Soul Mirrors
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/64910.html?thread=304854158#t304854158

29 Aug 2013 Drink it all in
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/65480.html?thread=307138760#t307138760

12 Sep 2013 Diagnosis Special!
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/66334.html?thread=312637726#t312637726

18 Sep 2013 Inside Information
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/66936.html?thread=315601016#t315601016

23 Sep 2013 The Rise and Fall of Dotty
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/67535.html?thread=317803727#t317803727

29 Sep 2013 Sausage Outrage
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/68030.html?thread=321268670#t321268670

01 Oct 2013 Sausage fallout
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/68112.html?thread=322587408#t322587408

06 Oct 2013 Gen in the Crosshairs
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/68815.html?thread=324959951#t324959951

14 Oct 2013 Jen's Gay Atoms
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/69500.html?thread=328637308#t328637308

17 Oct 2013 Brickpants Blowback
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/69832.html?thread=329886152#t329886152

21 Oct 2013 It hampers the mood
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/69903.html?thread=331327503#t331327503

26 Oct 2013 Destiel Edition
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/70391.html?thread=333212919#t333212919

28 Oct 2013 The First Wank Returns!
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/70499.html?thread=333950563#t333950563

31 Oct 2013 Chicago con Fall Out
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/70703.html?thread=335224111#t335224111

07 Nov 2013 Why won't Jared declare his love?
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/70959.html?thread=337380143#t337380143

10 Nov 2013 Danneel takes it to another level
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/71281.html?thread=338491761#t338491761

15 Nov 2013 Goss finds its smoking gun!
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/71929.html?thread=340383481#t340383481

19 Nov 2013 The Return of the (Troll) King
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/71975.html?thread=341728295#t341728295

24 Nov 2013 Nobody Expects Orlando Jones
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/72555.html?thread=343460715#t343460715

28 Nov 2013 Jensen has never liked Genevieve
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/72931.html?thread=344933091#t344933091

02 Dec 2013 The cherry on her twisted PR cake
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/73129.html?thread=345863337#t345863337

06 Dec 2013 Twitter Rollercoaster
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/73284.html?thread=347242820#t347242820

11 Dec 2013 Too many Trolls on the Dancefloor
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/73547.html?thread=349098571#t349098571

13 Dec 2013 Her Scrapbook of Baseless Ego
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/73766.html?thread=349893158#t349893158

16 Dec 2013 If Jared was a black woman
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/74201.html?thread=351133401#t351133401

20 Dec 2013 You have to put up with being treated like a bunny
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/74407.html?thread=352704935#t352704935

24 Dec 2013 When A Child Is Born
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/74743.html?thread=354083319#t354083319

29 Dec 2013 Very Mishacollins-Esq
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/74876.html?thread=355732348#t355732348

01 Jan 2014 Jared misses Jensen's musk
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/75167.html?thread=356840351#t356840351

04 Jan 2014 You who worship at Meard's altar
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/75509.html?thread=358067445#t358067445

10 Jan 2014 They are not the Queen of England or God
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/76024.html?thread=360401912#t360401912

13 Jan 2014 I bet he really wanted to wear a pretty dress
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/76186.html?thread=361655962#t361655962

16 Jan 2014 Cockblockers would abound
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/76387.html?thread=363118179#t363118179

19 Jan 2014 His feet point toward Jared
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/76574.html?thread=364588830#t364588830

24 Jan 2014 Jen-sen, senny
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/77079.html?thread=367096855#t367096855

27 Jan 2014 Ignorance is not cute
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/77447.html?thread=368364167#t368364167

30 Jan 2014 Jensen likes to sit on Jared a lot
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/77797.html?thread=370115813#t370115813

03 Feb 2014 Jensen Withdrawal
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/78126.html?thread=372348462#t372348462

06 Feb 14 Get off the Jared hater horse
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/78421.html?thread=374131541#t374131541

06 Feb 14 Misha Directs, J2 pie him (with supplementary goss summary)
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/78421.html?thread=374293845#t374293845

09 Feb 14 If one J had been born female
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/78829.html?thread=375595757#t375595757

11 Feb 14 Amell will want in that ass
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/79030.html?thread=376748982#t376748982

First attempt at writing breathplay, so feedback is much appreciated! This is the direct continuation of a scene I first posted to meme in, uh, mid-2013 (see last link below). I *think* these are all the previous parts, in order, including some shorter excerpts in my replies to nonnies' comments:

http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/59203.html?thread=276780099#t276780099
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/60142.html?thread=281211118#t281211118
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/60361.html?thread=282056137#t282056137
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/60762.html?thread=285053786#t285053786
http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/61040.html?thread=286191472#t286191472

Kaner doesn’t know how long he lasts like that, almost suspended in limbo as he jerks off super slowly, before Tazer finally says, “You want to come?”

“Fuck, yes,” Kaner says, his voice catching. He opens his eyes and tilts his head up to look at Tazer. “Please, Jonny, please.”

“Speed it up, then,” Tazer says; and, still holding Kaner's gaze, he slides his right hand up until the curve of his palm cups the base of Kaner’s throat. He doesn’t push down or anything, just lets it rest there. With his thumb lying in the hollow of Kaner’s collarbone on one side, and his fingers curled up and around the other side of Kaner’s neck, Tazer must be able to feel his pulse racing – and feel it in Kaner’s wrist, too, which he’s still got pinned against his thigh.

Kaner can inhale and exhale pretty much fine, despite the weight of Tazer’s hand, but he still feels short of breath. Adrenaline prickles at his skin, warning of danger. Yet Kaner doesn’t want to do anything except lie here and take whatever he’s given, watching Tazer watching him. So he stays motionless under Tazer's grip, except for the hand on his cock and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

He’s getting close again when, without warning, Tazer slides his hand further up Kaner’s throat and pushes down – callused palm pressing heavy over his Adam’s apple and windpipe, and thumb and fingers squeezing either side of his neck too.

Kaner gasps for air and can’t get enough...not nearly enough, fuck. Fear spikes inside him, sharp and shocky, but it’s like his limbs won’t obey his mind’s command to struggle and break free. His ribcage feels too small for his lungs, painfully tight, and every muscle in his body trembles and goes tense. His right hand clenches in place until Tazer says, “Keep going.”

He finds himself obeying that command instead, helplessly, working his cock hard even though the grip around his throat hasn’t relented at all. Kaner can get just enough breath to make high-pitched little whimpering sounds, and he can’t even tell if it’s pleasure or panic or a bit of both; he’s dizzy and his thinking has gone all fuzzy, same as his vision.

Tazer’s face is out of focus now, but Kaner can still recognize the expression on it. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed, just like when he comes back from a good walk. And Tazer’s voice sounds further away than before when he says, “Good, Kaner. Come now, c’mon.”

Some of Kaner’s greatest goals were scored while he was hurting and breathless, and the desperate urge to come – to do what Tazer wants – overrides everything else. Three quick rough strokes and Kaner is obeying, back arched, head tipped back, mouth open but no sound emerging as come spatters his skin and his whole body convulses. Every sensation is intensified, even though Kaner feels kind of detached from reality right now. It’s terrifying; it’s fucking mind-blowing.

Tazer lets go of Kaner’s neck once his orgasm is done, letting him suck in deep, painful lungfuls of air that turn into a coughing fit. But he keeps hold of Kaner’s wrist, thumb smoothing back and forth across the pulse point. And he starts pushing Kaner’s hair back off his forehead again, over and over. Those slow, rhythmic movements help calm Kaner down, help him feel safe while he keeps his focus turned inwards, trying to pull himself together again after being blown apart. Eventually, his breathing is almost back to normal, and he opens his tear-blurred eyes.

“You okay?” Tazer reaches down to wipe the tears from Kaner's cheeks, licking them off his fingers. He looks happy, proud even, and Kaner gets this warm feeling in his chest that’s totally unlike the way his lungs were burning before. But knowing that he pleased Tazer isn’t enough to counter the ache in his throat and the trembling he still can’t control.

He clears his throat and then rasps, “The hell, man? Why’d you do that?”

“Thought you’d like it,” Tazer says.

Kaner should sit up, should confront Tazer face to face, but his limbs still feel heavy and all his energy has gone. All he can do is glare up at Tazer as he says, “You can’t just – Jesus, you could’ve killed me.”

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” Tazer tells him, still calm. “And you did like it, didn’t you?”

Kaner feels weirdly mesmerized by Tazer’s eyes. Slowly, he nods, and Tazer smiles down at him.

“Okay, but seriously – what’s with the fetish?” Kaner asks. “You touch my neck all the time, you did that scarf thing and then rubbed your jizz all over it last time, and now this?”

Tazer laughs a little. “I guess I do have a neck thing, yeah.”

He touches Kaner’s throat again; Kaner shivers, but doesn’t break eye contact as Tazer trails warm fingertips from his chin down to his collarbone and up again. Every nerve ending feels raw, even though the skin is unbroken.

“I don’t think you mind too much, though – not really,” Tazer adds softly.

Kaner can’t deny that, not with how hard he just came. “But I have to be able to breathe.”

“You seemed to manage pretty well at the end there, even with oxygen in short supply,” Tazer says, still stroking Kaner’s skin very gently. “And you trust me, don’t you?”

One of Tazer’s hands is on his throat, and the other is gripping his wrist; and yet that’s not why Kaner finds that there’s only one answer he can give. “Yes, Jonny.”

Like what even is this???? It somehow needs to get from this alley to sex in this alley and I'm just at a loss. I have no motivation, but this is a very late gift for someone.


--
At 11, at 18, at 26 and soon to die, Bucky Barnes knew, from the top of his head right down to the ever present hangnail on his big toe, that he was put on this earth for one confirmed reason at least: keep Steve Rogers safe. Keep him sound. Keep his dumb lips upticking into a half smile, and his thick skull intact, despite black eyes, black days, and the black smoke of war.

When they were children he was comfort against the dark; so sure of himself even at 11 that he truly believed he was enough to chase off any of Steve’s fears, all of his misgivings, and whatever self-doubt lingered thereafter. Bucky, back then, was certain that by force of will alone he had chased even Death away from Steve’s bedside more than once.

Wouldn’t say any of this outloud, no siree, not to his sisters, nor his ma, and certainly not to Steve or the motley gang of goons they ran with most days. His self-assigned role as protector felt sacred, secret. He had a personal mission to see Steve Rogers all the way through this life and into the afterlife as well; a hand at his back and a proverbial lantern against the gloom raised in his fist. And if there were a rifle strapped to his shoulder, or a knife tucked into his boot, then all the better for it, because light wasn’t always enough to keep the wolves at bay. He knew that even as a kid, tucking his house keys between his knuckles before coming at whomever was going at Steve. And when death, or what looked like it, came for him, Bucky's only thought was of Steve and the dark he would leave him to.

Now, a century between his vigils at Steve’s beside and the nightmare of his present, what’s left of Bucky Barnes knows that he is a wolf and light cannot hold him at bay. Nothing can. He is no longer a mean dog with a master; he can choose which way to wield the dark.

--

There are 12 men total, with at least 15 weapons between them that he can count from his vantage point. Four of the assailants wield tasers as well as guns. Three of them he recognizes from his days at Alexander Pierce’s heels. He’ll kill them first. It’s a mercy considering what they’ve seen done to him. He could enact hell on them in return for their compliance.

Then there is Steve Rogers. Captain America, the man on the bridge, the man from the helicarrier, his mission, his mission since childhood. Steve fights with grace, he always did. Even as a messy, invalid little kid with bangs falling in his face and knuckles cut up, his awkward back alley brawling had a certain gormless charm. Bucky remembers, the Winter Soldier remembered, that bruised up face with startling clarity. Then came horror, and its sister shame, for having wrecked that face with his own fist. He had failed, he was compromised, the mission was two-fold and the one seared into his bones but long forgotten had flared to life and set his nerves on fire. He dove into the Potomac to quell the flames, to start over. To save Steve.

He raises his rifle, and looks through the sight, takes a moment to calculate the angles. The Hydra agents drop quickly. Bucky takes them out, one by one, quiet and sure. Steve whirls to land a roundhouse kick to the chest of a brutal-looking fucker in a thick kevlar vest, but Bucky hits him with a bullet between the eyes before Steve even makes contact.

Captain America stops. He looks around at the carnage in the tight alley, and holds stock-still like a deer frozen at the sound of a twig snapping. His lips turn into a frown, and Bucky can’t see his eyebrows, but he’d bet a million dollars that they’re drawn together in annoyance and concern beneath the cowl. It’s a face he’s seen Steve wear before, mostly when they were bruised up kids and he couldn’t stand being pulled out of a scrape.

One of the felled thugs groans, maybe stirs a little, and Bucky fires one more round at his head, like shooting fish in a barrel. Steve’s frown deepens.

Why he chooses that moment to jump down into the alley from his hiding place, why he chooses that moment to reveal himself, is unclear even to him. He lands in a crouch, metal fingers to the asphalt, rifle in his other fist. He’s blacked his eyes, but he wears civilian clothes. The make-up comes off. It’s harder to hide in plain sight if you’re wearing urban battle gear. Steve’s led him on a lot of journeys since they faced one another dead-on in DC. But Steve’s alone today, for the first time in months, and he’s still damned foolish enough to land himself in a firefight without anyone watching his six.

“Guess you’ll never learn,” is what Bucky says first. His voice is raspy from disuse, but he can hear the ghost of his old self, of what he remembers of his old self. He stands, deliberately tries not to look menacing.

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Steve tosses back blithely, like it’s 1941 and not 2014. Then he scowls, and comes back to himself. The mental jolt is visible. He drops his shield with a clang, takes off the cowl, and throws himself at Bucky with a guttural roar.

“Whoa, hey now, hey.” He’s got just enough time to grab the knife at his hip before Steve crashes them both against the brick wall at Bucky’s back, and grabs two fistfuls of his beat up leather jacket, hauling him up by his clothes. His heels dangle against the wall several inches off the ground \e has to stop himself from an overtly violent kneejerk reaction. This is Steve, not some Hydra thug.

“Hey?” Steve spits. “HEY? Are you kidding me?”

“Put me the fuck down, Steve,” Bucky says, calmly as he can, gently. He lifts the knife in his metal hand to the place where Steve’s neck meets his jaw. Steve swallows and drops him. He doesn’t land on his feet. Instead, he has to catch himself with his flesh hand to the ground, and a knee flung out to break his fall. He returns the knife to his side.

Above him, Steve is shaking his head, and rubbing at his forehead, thumbs massaging his temples.

“How many months?” he wants to know, voice tinged with anger and disbelief.

Bucky stands up. “Since you left.” His lips thin into a line, turned down at the edges, and he makes eye contact.

“Left where?”

“Since you left DC. Since you started looking for me with your winged friend.”

“His name is Sam,” Steve corrects.

“I know.”

“That was almost eight months ago. Why now?”

They’re surrounded by dead bodies, but they could always forget the world when faced with each other.

Bucky shrugs, and tilts his head. “You’re alone.”

“I’m alone a lot.”

“Not like this. Not like a stupid kid in a fight he can’t win.”

Steve smirks meanly and shakes his head. “You don’t know the half of what I can and can't win.”

“I know you,” Bucky says.

"No. Ya really don't."

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes, and I've known you my whole life."

Steve boggles at him, half hopeful, half unsure.

"The part. The part of my life that matters, anyway," Bucky adds.

[STUFF HAPPENS]

"Someone's gonna see us," Steve says, breathless, a little hysterical.

"Don't care," Bucky says, and presses his lips back against Steve's. His mouth is so soft, his lower lip catches on Bucky's and Bucky gently nips at it. Steve makes a startled moan, high in his throat, so Bucky does it again.

Steve's hands slide up the back of his neck, his fingers leaving trails of sensation wherever they touch. Bucky feels like all his nerves are lit up, like all of him, the whole of him, is yearning toward Steve. He crowds Steve closer to the brick wall behind him until they're close enough for him to bracket one knee against the brick and lift Steve up. If Steve protests at being manhandled onto Bucky's leg and a foot or so off the ground, it's swallowed by their kisses.