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blue_soaringETA: I will get as many as I can done before New Years Day! :D
I have holiday fail. Being unemployed for more than half the year hasn't left me with a lot of leeway to give people gifties, and I have guilt. Horrible holiday guilt. And I have gotten gifties! IT MAKES IT WORSE. I feel like I'm accidentally boycotting Christmas over here. :/
So, I want to do New Years Drabbles, just because it's nice to start the new year with a giftie! Or something like them, as they don't have to be New Years themed nor are they in any way guaranteed to be proper drabbles.
BUT. All my fandoms are so teeny these days, and most of you are in other teeny fandoms, AND IT IS SUCH A COP-OUT TO SAY NAME SOMETHING(S) YOU WANT, GIVE ME A PROMPT AND I'LL SEE IF I CAN DO EEEET.
...naturally, this is exactly what I'm saying. ._.
Things I could feasibly do! Anything in my tags, most of the Final Fantasy series, Fringe, FMA, Harry Potter, Shadow Hearts 1&2, Devil Summoner 1&2, DDS, the Suikoden series (though omg I can't remember details of II D:), Supernatural, Transformers, (so not keeping this alphabetised anymore), Iron Man, the Terminator series(s), also incredibly random movies like The Mummy, Boondock Saints, Batman (oh Nolanverse!), Live Free of Die Hard, and I will so try the new Star Trek if you reallyreally wants it (pls keep in mind I have never seen an episode of Star Trek like, ever)...uh. Um. Srsly. There are so many things I could probably drabble for. ^^' ASK ME, I WANT TO GIVE YOU PRESENTS.
Also anything you have heard me flail about? \o/
I have holiday fail. Being unemployed for more than half the year hasn't left me with a lot of leeway to give people gifties, and I have guilt. Horrible holiday guilt. And I have gotten gifties! IT MAKES IT WORSE. I feel like I'm accidentally boycotting Christmas over here. :/
So, I want to do New Years Drabbles, just because it's nice to start the new year with a giftie! Or something like them, as they don't have to be New Years themed nor are they in any way guaranteed to be proper drabbles.
BUT. All my fandoms are so teeny these days, and most of you are in other teeny fandoms, AND IT IS SUCH A COP-OUT TO SAY NAME SOMETHING(S) YOU WANT, GIVE ME A PROMPT AND I'LL SEE IF I CAN DO EEEET.
...naturally, this is exactly what I'm saying. ._.
Things I could feasibly do! Anything in my tags, most of the Final Fantasy series, Fringe, FMA, Harry Potter, Shadow Hearts 1&2, Devil Summoner 1&2, DDS, the Suikoden series (though omg I can't remember details of II D:), Supernatural, Transformers, (so not keeping this alphabetised anymore), Iron Man, the Terminator series(s), also incredibly random movies like The Mummy, Boondock Saints, Batman (oh Nolanverse!), Live Free of Die Hard, and I will so try the new Star Trek if you reallyreally wants it (pls keep in mind I have never seen an episode of Star Trek like, ever)...uh. Um. Srsly. There are so many things I could probably drabble for. ^^' ASK ME, I WANT TO GIVE YOU PRESENTS.
Also anything you have heard me flail about? \o/
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Date: 2009-12-25 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 01:48 am (UTC)does dis helps?
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Date: 2009-12-25 02:03 am (UTC)twincest is always a good start to a new year -- Connor/Murphy, cleaning your gun if you know what I mean
and someday I still want you to write me Shadow Hearts wolf porn XD
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Date: 2009-12-25 02:06 am (UTC)is kurando involved in this wolf porn? :x
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Date: 2009-12-25 02:08 am (UTC)Connor/Murphy - The Problem with Turnabout
Date: 2009-12-31 06:55 am (UTC)Flicking his cigarette into the ashtray, Murphy wandered over to drape both arms over Connor's shoulders, a welcome bit of warmth until he said, "You'll fuck it all to hell if you keep at it like that," with his chin digging into the top of Connor's skull.
"Fuck off." Connor ducked down, aiming a smack to the side of Murph's head, easily dodged, and rubbed the sting from his scalp. "I know what I'm doing."
Murphy's laugh came with a retaliatory smack to the gun's naked barrel. "Do you now?" He settled back into place, clingy as a piece of plastic wrap, and caught Connor's wrist before a set of scarred knuckles could drill into the side of his thigh. "Sure you don't need a hand there?"
"I'll give you a fucking hand," Connor muttered, twisting around to get free while Murphy kept on laughing. An elbow to the gut cut that racket short, and Murphy's half-assed and far too late attempt at dodging a second time around sent pieces of the gun clattering to the floor. "Christ, Murph, look at what you're about, making a fuckin' mess all over the place."
Murphy's laugh picked up right where it'd left off, a little rougher around the edges as he fought to pin Connor to the chair, his free hand skidding south to slap over Connor's cock. "How about you give me something else then, and I'll make a proper mess of it," he said, giving it a firm squeeze.
Connor surged up and the chair went broadside, the table ass over kettle and everything left on it scattering to the corners of the cramped little room. They went down in a tumble, Connor's flail to keep his balance turned to a scramble up on top of Murphy. Then it was a laugh and a curse as he grabbed at Murphy's face, gave him a wet, smacking kiss and a light cuff to the side of the neck.
"What's that supposed to be?" Murphy scrubbed the back of his arm across his face, a punch to Connor's shoulder landing like an afterthought. He struggled up, rolling beneath Connor's arm to straddle his chest, pin both arms to the dusty floor with his knees. "There now."
"And what's that supposed to be?" Connor asked, giving Murphy's frayed zip a pointed look. "A polite suggestion?"
Murphy eased off, planting both hands on either side of Connor's head at the same time Connor slapped both hands to his hips. "With how you fumbled that gun, I won't go getting my hopes up."
"Too right you won't, you saucy fucker." A knee to the backside unbalanced Murphy enough for a shove to send him sprawling, and Connor was quick to scramble back up, usurping his reign in their endless game of king of the mountain.
Murphy shrugged, as slow and lazy and as careless as his grin. "Aye, good job," he said, tucking both arms behind his head, "but now what're you going to do? Bit too far away from a round of turnabout, aren't you?"
"So you say," Connor said, yanking Murph's zip down and losing skin on the jagged edge. Patience gone, a gift belonging to a saint not him, he shoved a hand in through the half open zip. Metal teeth scraped his wrist hard enough to raise a bright welt over the scars he wore in Murphy's name, hardly worth the notice as he finally reached bare skin, wrapped his fingers tight around Murphy's cock and felt the hot rush of blood thickening it up. Carelessly tugging clothes out of the way, he freed Murphy's cock and slid his hand down, squeezed a little tighter near the base, the soft weight of Murphy's balls pushed up against the side of his hand.
Murphy let out a grunt that might've been a curse, and Connor said, "But I wasn't of much a mind for fair play," through the devil's own grin curving his mouth.
Re: Connor/Murphy - The Problem with Turnabout
Date: 2009-12-31 03:10 pm (UTC)aaaahhhh the voices and the banter and the playful violence and aaaaahhh
<3 <3 <3 <3
Re: Connor/Murphy - The Problem with Turnabout
Date: 2009-12-31 08:46 pm (UTC)Wolf porn! Giant warning o' (omgquickanddirty) wolf porn!
Date: 2009-12-31 08:45 pm (UTC)The village was quiet, comfortably familiar, but the adrenaline lingering in Kurando's veins held sleep at bay. With it lurked the worry that for all his training, this was a future he wasn't prepared to face.
As quickly as the thought formed, he ruthlessly shoved it away, rolling onto his back and folding his hands over his belly. Closing his eyes, he focused on the flow of his breath, consciously slowed it to the rhythm of sleep.
Astaroth's screams shattered the calm of his mind, Blanca's fangs buried in the meat of its thigh, its oily black blood pouring out to mat Blanca's fur. Sighing, he rolled back onto his side and shook the memory free. Of all the things he'd seen, of all the things he'd learned, he has no idea why his whirling thoughts spiralled always back to Blanca.
A wolf with a warrior's spirit, a soul to match his own, was no great stretch. Neither was the fierce intelligence burning in Blanca's sharp yellow eyes, nor the prickling of his skin when Blanca's eerie howl filled the sky. Even Blanca's tendency to guard Anastasia during battle came as no great surprise, considering his own urges to shield her slight frame from fang and claw.
But for Blanca to viciously tear through a flock of tengu to reach his side, to have Blanca heal his fractured wrist and to stay with him even after they had reached the village gates, had been startling. Yuri had made good-natured--or at least not mean-spirited--jokes at his expense and he took it all in stride, too curious over Blanca's attentions to do much else. Only after he had scrubbed a cautious hand through Blanca's ruff did the wolf pad quietly away.
He rubbed his hand against his sleeping mat, trying to brush phantom weight of Blanca's fur from between his fingers.
Heaving another sigh, he sat up, intending to make better use of his time since sleep remained annoyingly elusive, and the scrape of nails outside his door brought his pulse to a peak. A quiet snuffle followed it, and first a paw dug at the wooden frame, then a nose wedged into the tiny crack. Blanca flowed into the room through an opening a ghost would have to squeeze through and sat calmly in front of it, his head cocked to one side.
"Soon you will have me believe you can hear my thoughts," Kurando muttered, and snorted softly as Blanca's tongue swept over his muzzle. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
Blanca's ears swivelled forward.
"If that means it's somehow my fault, I disagree."
Blanca yawned, maw gaping wide to show rows of ferocious white teeth, and he stood, giving his fur a shake. His nails clicked on the hardwood then caught on the mat's fine weave; he delicately picked his way closer and lifted a paw, nudging Kurando in the chest with his ankle.
"I still disagree, respectfully," Kurando said, smiling a little but settling back when Blanca pushed harder, claws carefully pointed away from the thin nightclothes that would provide little protection against their sharp tips. He folded his arms beneath his head. "Have you given up your spot by the braziers and decided to sleep with me instead?"
Blanca took two smooth steps back, his ears perking and his tail flicking. He pawed with his hind legs at the sheets Kurando had tossed aside, pushing them into a heap.
The first hint of uncertainty nipping at his heels, Kurando said, "It's customary to share the blankets," and sucked in a quick breath as Blanca darted forward, one paw planted firmly in the centre of his chest and a very chill nose poking him in the side of the neck. He flinched, reflexively ducked his chin, and froze when he felt the growl rumbling low in Blanca's throat.
"Easy," he said, slowly unfolding his arms but hesitating to lift his chin. His entire body rebelled at the idea of baring his throat to a wolf's killing stroke.
Blanca growled again, making no other move that suggested he meant harm, and Kurando swallowed tightly, slowly tilted his head back.
Blanca's building snarl switched almost immediately to a quiet whuff, warm and ticklish in the crook of Kurando's neck. He teeth snapped lightly in the air, full inches from Kurando's jugular, and he nosed at Kurando's hair, at the curve of his underarm, everywhere Kurando's scent lay strongest.
"I don't understand," Kurando said, caught midway between a laugh and a gasp as Blanca's claws scraped his belly, catching on his robe and yanking it askew. Not expecting much in the way of an answer, he got one in the form of Blanca's muzzle in his crotch. The first pass of a warm, wet tongue dragged his thin robe out of the way, sent his mind reeling, and the second grazed roughly over the bare softness of his cock, a burst of ticklish pleasure sending blood coursing as hot as the Immortal Mountain's geysers through his veins.
He scrambled up, as shocked as he was confused, and Blanca let out one short, sharp yip. Claws still caught in his robe, the fine cotton tore like wet rice paper, and Blanca yipped again, louder, dancing away on three feet while Kurando stumbled and froze again, heart crashing against his ribs with the fear that the household would wake.
Blanca clawed his paw free of the tattered robe and huffed. He shook out his fur once more and pawed the mat where Kurando had lain, looking from it to Kurando and back again, his intent painfully clear.
What Kurando could have done then, what he should have done, was not to cast a guilty glance at the open screen and steal softly over to ease it shut, and was definitely not to return to the mat, sinking to his knees in front of a strange white wolf. He dug both hands deep into Blanca's ruff, fingertips finding warm skin. "I know you have no wish to hurt me," he said, his voice a strained, crackling whisper, "but I think you will if we do this."
Blanca whuffed again and nosed at his cheek, a gesture Kurando couldn't help but think of as purely human and entirely for his benefit. A moment later his head dipped and Kurando's grip tightened as he lapped again at vulnerable flesh, another surge of blood and pleasure thickening Kurando's cock.
Decision made, Kurando shrugged out of his robe before he had a chance to rethink it and dropped forward onto his palms. He shivered as Blanca rubbed up against his side, nuzzling at his hip and then crawling beneath him, all that warm fur so wonderfully soft against his bare skin. Blanca rose up and pressed against his other side, ears flattened as he rubbed his head up under Kurando's chin, the last of almost a week of what Kurando realised now was the scent-marking of an assumed mating.
The nervous churning in Kurando's gut worsened as Blanca turned in a tight circle, place a paw on his calf and nosed at him from behind. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pressed his chest low, prepared but still surprised by the wet, sloppy pass of Blanca's tongue, rough against delicate skin. He muffled the noise he couldn't completely strangle in the crook of his arm, spreading his knees a little wider to give Blanca unhindered access to all of him.
He shook when Blanca's rough tongue dragged over his sac, and he reached down with an unsteady hand to angle his cock back, forced to muffle another ragged noise as Blanca lapped at the head. The quiver that started up in his belly spread outward as Blanca nuzzled the insides of his thighs, became a trembling in his limbs as Blanca paused to sniff him and then return to licking at his asshole with wide, almost lazy swipes, pushing a little harder each time until muscle began to loosen.
Committed and shamefully eager to see this through, Kurando reached further between his legs to push two fingers inside himself, Blanca's soft whuffing noises becoming more frequent, his pawing at the back of Kurando's thigh less careful. He spread his fingers wide, a sharp spike of sensation followed by the thrilling heat of Blanca's tongue, and Blanca answered the low moan that escaped him with an eager yip.
Kurando pulled his fingers free and said, "Mount," the word sending as much a jolt through him as the sudden weight of Blanca on his back, the brush of soft belly fur on his skin and the slippery slide of Blanca's angled cock through his fingers. Blanca rutted hard, filling him too quickly, and he gasped out, "I can't, not everything."
Blanca whined, forepaws scrabbling for purchase, and Kurando bent lower, let his knees skid wide. Teeth snapped near his ear, made him jerk and shudder and Blanca howled softly, the gentle press of his muzzle to the back of Kurando's neck, the way he rubbed his face against Kurando's shoulder a shocking contrast to his hard, frantic fucking. His thrusts stayed shallow, his body trembling with the need to go deeper, to mate properly, and Kurando barely recognised the rasp of his own voice promising Blanca that when they next had the time to lay tied together, he would try.
The swelling at the base of Blanca's cock pressed dangerously close to sinking inside him as Blanca came, and he clenched his muscles tight, as much to prevent it as to feel Blanca's cock wedged inside him while he quickly finished himself, his strokes as hurried as Blanca's rutting.
When he'd caught his breath, he crawled away from the mess he'd made on the blanket and flopped onto his belly, aching. With another soft whine, Blanca settled halfway on top of him, paws draped sideways over his shoulders and head resting against his.
Too exhausted to manage a grab for the blanket, Kurando made do with curling closer to Blanca's warmth, unable to help a smile as Blanca's tail thumped against his legs.
Re: Wolf porn! Giant warning o' (omgquickanddirty) wolf porn!
Date: 2010-01-01 02:22 am (UTC)you are so awesooooooommeeee :D :D :D
♥
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Date: 2009-12-25 01:50 am (UTC)Ummm... Logan/Remy any which way you like. ^^
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Date: 2009-12-25 01:59 am (UTC)My default mode is shameless porn. XD
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Date: 2009-12-25 02:11 am (UTC)dare I say hanging off a chandelier?
Logan/Remy - Nights Run Long - post Origins movie
Date: 2009-12-31 09:01 pm (UTC)Old bedsprings creak as Remy grabs at the edge of the mattress like a man dangling over the side of a cliff. The curse he gasps out when Logan's teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder isn't anything Logan understands beyond the sentiment behind it. A shiver becomes a long, languorous stretch under the pass of Logan's hands, lean muscle smoothing out like warm clay.
"Don' stop now, cher," Remy says, rubbing his cheek against threadbare sheets, as loose and languid as a cat in the noonday sun. "I've been missing you."
"Christ," Logan says, the same thing he's been told he said before, and traces the worst of the bites with his tongue. The raw taste of it sparks the memory of how moments ago Remy had been writhing, held pinned by hands and teeth, how his moans had cracked when Logan had broken skin, and just maybe he's remembering a fraction of a time before, too.
Remy is a mottle of old and new, fresh red welts on the backs of his thighs, faded yellow bruises on the round curve of his ass, more here, there. There are never as many as Logan thinks there are, maybe as many as he thinks there should be; they're spread out, easily hidden beneath clothes. It's the constant scent of healing wounds that threatens to drive him to distraction more than the teasing scraps of a familiarity he might be imagining. That, and the spike in Remy's pulse when he starts thinking about them and his smile turns lazy, the red of his eyes flaring brighter and the black seeming all the blacker for it.
"Nights run long in New Orleans," Remy says, and rolls onto his back, baring his belly to the scrape of Logan's teeth. A growl ripples up from the pit of Logan's stomach, something weeks ago he would've tried to hold back, but if he doesn't remember Remy past the taste of his flesh, then Remy remembers him well enough and the proof of what Logan really is only serves to bring a fresh rush of blood up close to the surface of his skin. He shivers as Logan scents it, the thin string of precome trembling from the head of his cock finally snapping, glistening wetly in the weak light. "No hurry."
"So you keep telling me." The skin stretched taut over the bone in Remy's hip is soft against Logan's open mouth, thinner, more delicate than the vulnerability of his tender belly. His breath hisses and his spine arches when Logan kisses him there, remakes a bruise that had almost completely vanished with swift, sucking pressure and the cruel edge of his teeth. "Something tells me I never bothered to listen before."
"Non," Remy says, his smile as slow and shameless as the spread of his legs as he bares the soft insides of his thighs to the press of Logan's teeth. He still smells like Logan, like sex and sweat, like something had and to be had again, and the sound of his moans, the sweet, hot flush of his body fucked loose and open around Logan's fingers, is a sin a man would be hard-pressed to forget he'd already committed.
"Learn something new everyday," Logan says, and pushes his fingers deep, fills his mouth and his memories with the taste of Remy's skin.
Re: Logan/Remy - Nights Run Long - post Origins movie
Date: 2010-01-01 12:41 am (UTC)I love the mixture of memories actually remembered and those not quite; with hints of what might have happened in the past. Amazing. Thank you. ^_^
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Date: 2009-12-25 01:53 am (UTC)Fringe? Walter trying to make spaghetti while flashing back to hanging out with Timothy Leary? Um.
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Date: 2009-12-25 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 10:04 am (UTC)Walter & Astrid, Where the Magic Happens
Date: 2009-12-31 10:36 pm (UTC)She wouldn't have minded a raise, though. In the words of every Hollywood FBI agent ever, she so did not get paid enough for this shit.
"Whatever that is, Walter, it's burning."
"Oh?" The ladle in Walter's hand remained motionless. "Hm, yes."
"Walter! Burning!"
Walter started and blinked back into this plane of existence. "Oh my goodness. I'm sorry, I was thinking about the last time you and I whipped up a batch of--Oh, Agent Farnsworth, it's you. I thought you were Tim."
"What is that, anyway?" Astrid asked, wandering over to peer cautiously into the boiler. "It smells like tomatoes."
"That's because it is tomatoes! Exactly 2.32 pounds of vine-ripened roma tomatoes!" He gave the spoon a victorious twirl about the thick bubbling liquid. "They're the best for a robust sauce, you know."
Astrid sniffed again. It smelled pretty good, but then so had the ear omelet and she'd known better than to get too close to that one. "Didn't we agree not to cook in the lab anymore?"
"Well." Walter's shoulders slumped, and he took a quick, sneaky glance around. "Peter isn't here right now, and I was hungry."
"You stopped stirring again," Astrid said.
"Oh dear."
With weeks and weeks of practice under her belt, it was easy enough to gently nudge Walter out of the way and usurp the spoon. "There. I'll stir, you tell me what else needs to go in. Do you want all of these mushrooms?" she asked, dumping about three-quarters of the bowl in.
Water watched the last one sink into the sauce. "Those were magic."
The pot burbled. Astrid sighed.
"Oh, it's all right, that's what they were for." Walter smiled and patted her shoulder. "I just wanted you to know."
"Okay," Astrid said, "but no powdered worm bits. And I'm not taste testing it for you this time."
"Quite all right, Agent Farnsworth." He gave her shoulder another friendly pat. "I suspect the fumes will be enough for you."
Re: Walter & Astrid, Where the Magic Happens
Date: 2010-01-02 07:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 03:05 am (UTC)Icon. XD
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Date: 2009-12-25 04:22 am (UTC)I am still so tickled pink that I can say anything that would inspire you to write! I love sharing the utter joy of these things with you. ♥
Ally bought me paid time so now I can upload loads more icons~ I am very absurdly excited by this.
no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 02:37 am (UTC)Tony/Steve tickling. YOU WANT TO WRITE IT ANYWAY.
Or if that's like, not really /drabbly/ then how about a bit of White Collar crossover goodness! Neal wants that Jackson Pollock that Tony's got squirreled away. >:DDDDD
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Date: 2009-12-25 03:06 am (UTC)Also, Tony would possibly eat Neal alive, in a very good way.
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Date: 2009-12-25 03:12 am (UTC)He so would, and it would be hotness, and they could sip espresso together and it'd be awesome.
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Date: 2009-12-25 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-26 12:05 am (UTC)Tony/Neal; Neal/Peter/Elle
Date: 2009-12-31 07:08 am (UTC)Neal really should've known better. Anybody who bought a Pollock one day and stuffed it in storage the next wasn't going to trot it out again six months later without a damn good reason. Mozzie had told him he should know better, the little voice in the back of his head had told him he should know better; hell, even the fence waiting up in Oregon had said he should know better.
But it wasn't until the bloody house he'd just broken into told him he really should've known better and offered him a drink that he honestly started to doubt his sanity.
Half an hour and two whiskey sours later, Tony Stark walked into Neal's life wearing a Gaultier suit as slick and playful as the smile quirking his lips. His gaze jumped from Neal's jacket slung over the piano bench to the classic Borsalino perched at a cocky angle on the back of the couch, and by the time it landed on the empty glass in Neal's hand, his smile had spread slowly into a grin. "Glad to see you made yourself at home."
Cufflinks clinked onto the sidebar. Neal pointed at the ceiling. "By his invitation. And speaking of," he added, watching Tony pour a few fingers of whiskey into a fresh glass, "you could've saved me a lot of trouble if you'd just sent along one of those."
"Where's the fun in that? Besides, this was like an invitation." Loosening his tie, Tony meandered across the room to the couch where Neal had gotten comfortable, opting to sit on the edge of the big leather ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. He barely glanced at the Pollock, still tucked safely away inside its clear display case on the wall. "So, where is it?"
Neal heaved a weighty sigh. "Still in the crate," he said, lifting his glass for a sip. Remembering he'd run out of drink a moment too late, he turned the movement into a negligent wave towards the fireplace. "I should charge you shipping and handling."
Tony plucked the empty glass out of his hand and replaced it with the fresh drink he'd just poured. "We'll talk about that," he said, and rose with a wink to go pry off the crate's cover. He crouched down, taking a good long look at the forgery tucked inside, and his low whistle of appreciation poured a shot of warmth into Neal's veins rivalling the whiskey sliding down his throat.
The next moment Tony was up and running his fingers along the display case's seal, eyes on the ceiling and lip caught between his teeth. "Oh, come on," he said, "you didn't even give it a shot?"
"I didn't think you'd appreciate me breaking your toys," Neal tried. He had given it a shot. The thing that called itself Jarvis had even applauded his attempt, its resonant voice raining sarcasm all over his parade.
"But stealing them is totally kosher."
"I prefer to think of it as the temporary relocation and preservation of goods," Neal said, sitting up to drain the dregs of Tony's drink.
Tony shucked his jacket and left it in a heap on the floor. "Fair enough," he said, coming back to prop one hand on the back of the couch, the other sliding the empty glass out of Neal's. This close, the tiny flecks in his eyes shone in shades of copper and caramel. "Let's talk temporary relocation."
Neal clumsily shoved at a pillow, pressing his forehead to the cool sheets beneath, but the air heated too fast, his breaths shunted back into his face. Lifting his head, he managed to suck in a lungful before he lost it again, poured it all straight back out in a stumbling groan.
"The Matisse," Tony said, smearing a kiss down the length of his spine. "'Creole Dancer'."
Neal twisted halfway onto his side, his nerves buzzing and chest aching, his ribs battered from the inside by his pounding heart. "Allegedly," he gasped out, the sweet ache of Tony's cock shoved deep inside him momentarily eclipsing everything else. He clenched down on reflex, the brief flickers behind his eyelids turning to bright starbursts as Tony drew back, grated, "Oh fuck, sweetheart, do that again," and drove back into him.
Neal would've said the exact same thing, if he could've just managed to catch his breath long enough to do more than moan.
Tony's bedroom held no clocks, but the windows were dark and the voice from above remained reassuringly silent as Neal rolled carefully out of bed. He ached in a dozen tiny ways, all wonderful little twinges that reminded him of Tony's hands on him there, mouth on him here, as he quietly dressed. He belatedly discovered he'd lost a few buttons on his shirt somewhere between the couch and the bed, and with a shrug exchanged it for Tony's. The soft white cotton smelled as warm and clean as Tony's skin had before they'd gotten around to wrecking both the bed and each other.
Before he left, he signed the back of the forgery and left a note on the bottom of the stairs containing his thanks for a lovely evening, his hopes that they could maybe do it again sometime, and his fond wishes that Tony would enjoy being the only person to ever own a confirmed Caffrey semi-original.
A week later, a private courier showed up at Neal's door bearing gifts of the Pollock's detailed provenance and a gold-lettered invitation to the Stark Foundation's Fall Restoration Gala.
Peter seemed suspicious.
After three months, two days, and approximately seven hours, Neal thought that he'd be used to Peter Is Suspicious. Comical protestations aside, he knew he was thief, Peter knew he was a thief, the entire bureau knew he was a thief, but like an unfortunate overbite or Peter's woeful lack of anything even remotely resembling fashion sense, it tended not to matter so much.
Sometimes it was a little bit of an embarrassment, but generally speaking.
In any case, not even Elle's polite but firm elbow to Peter's gut could dislodge the formidable line of disapproval drawn between his brows. "When," he said, each syllable carefully controlled and precisely enunciated, "and how, do not leave out how, did you manage to steal this."
"Peter," Elle said, loving yet disappointed. "It's a wonderful gift."
Since Peter didn't seem interested, Neal turned his smile her way. "Thank you. I'm glad you like it."
"Don't encourage him," Peter snapped.
Neal picked up the envelope that he'd set out on the mantle and handed it over. "The provenance is right here, clearly stating how it very legally came into my possession."
"See?" Elle touched the edge of the frame, moving it a fraction of an inch to the right. "Have a little faith, Peter."
Peter grumbled something under his breath, eyeballing the painting as Elle nudged it back to the left. He flipped through the documents until he came to the latest addition, lips moving faintly as he read through the careful script. When he was done, he slapped the pages. "You could've forged these, too!"
"Oh, Peter," Elle said, still loving but now slightly disgusted.
"In all honesty, I'm insulted," Neal said, opting for a dramatic flop onto the couch. "You heard me," he said, pointing a finger at Peter's bug-eyed stare, "insulted. That was a gift to me from a very good friend, and the idea that you actually believe I'd give you a stolen painting for your anniversary is, well, it's insulting, that's what it is."
"I- But you-" Peter frowned and cleared his throat. "You expect me to believe this guy just gave you a Jackson Pollock worth-" he glanced at the paper again, then squinted and yanked it closer. "Holy shit."
"A bit less in today's market," Neal said. "Hang on to it for awhile."
Elle frowned at him, absently edging the painting half an inch to the right. "You know we wouldn't sell it, Neal. It's perfect right where it is."
Neal shrugged, the warmth in his belly spilling out into his smile. "Good for a rainy day."
"Okay," Peter said, pacing to the dining table and back, papers still clutched in his hand. "All right. It's not that I don't believe you-"
"Yes it is," Neal cut in.
"Not that I don't want to believe you, but you know I have to check this out. If I don't, the bureau's going to want to know why."
"Of course."
"I'll just go make a quick call, get the ball rolling," Peter went on, already headed for the kitchen with his cell in hand. "I'm sure it'll be fine," he added, watching Elle rearrange the candles on the mantle.
As the door swung shut, Neal looked up and said to her, "You don't have to worry."
She waved a hand dismissively. "I know, and he knows it too, Neal. It's just his job. Sometimes it gets to him."
Neal shrugged, more than willing to take a little bad along with the good. "Back to the left," he suggested, nodding at the painting.
With one last tap, Elle stepped back, crossing her arms with an air of contentment, her smile finally finding its way back. After a moment, she asked, "Who was it that gave it to you?"
"A guy I know out in California," Neal said. "He really is amazing, but honestly, a lost cause when it comes to art."
Elle laughed, about to say something more, when from the kitchen came Peter's disbelieving shout of, "Who!?"
Neal sat back, arms tucked behind his head, and smiled.
Re: Tony/Neal; Neal/Peter/Elle
Date: 2009-12-31 07:32 am (UTC)And weeeeee. omgweee. Tony, still the reigning little black dress. :D
Peter's ZOMG is hilarity. Neal getting fucked stupid is hotness. WEE I SAY.
Re: Tony/Neal; Neal/Peter/Elle
Date: 2009-12-31 02:36 pm (UTC)Re: Tony/Neal; Neal/Peter/Elle
Date: 2010-01-01 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-25 05:28 pm (UTC)white collar ot3ness? *hopeful look*
no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 07:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-26 05:46 am (UTC)It has your name written across it in HUGE GLARING RED letters. With a ps saying "this was for Blue's brain".
Like a proper fangirl (of you and RDJ), I beg you to see. Holmes/Watson. Yes. It even *gasp* pushes Tony slightly out of the way.
I had to share ^.^
no subject
Date: 2009-12-26 05:57 am (UTC)The books were freakin' slashy enough, I can only imagine what Guy Ritchie and RDJ did with it. Wee, wee I say!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-26 04:56 pm (UTC)Mike/Greg!
Date: 2009-12-31 07:11 am (UTC)This was not the sort of shit Greg should be up to. Which wasn't to say he didn't appreciate it, or that he was going to do something crazy and insane and possibly incredibly stupid like try to put a stop to it, but it was so not something he should be doing in the parking lot outside the lab at 1:42 AM.
If the racket they were making--okay, that he was making; it was not his fault, he honestly couldn't help it--didn't give them away, the foggy windows a la Makeout Point totally were.
"Uncle," he said (cried, squeaked, moaned; final answer: all of the above). "Oh god, white flag, white flag."
Mike made a noise like a flat, disapproving stare. "Too easy," he said, the words barely registering past the heat of his breath and the gentle scrape of stubble against Greg's cock. "You can take more."
Between gulps of sweet, precious air, Greg grit out, "Nope, sorry, no can do," and flexed his hand, his fingers gone numb from the edge of the seatbelt cutting into his palm. "Jesus Christ, I'm going to die of a heart attack in the back seat of a government vehicle with my dick hanging out."
"But you're still talking," Mike said, and Greg glanced down, risking complete cognitive failure by witnessing the push of Mike's tongue under his foreskin, the swirl of it around the head. He sucked in a sharp breath and ended up choking on it as Mike caught delicate skin between the blunt edges of his teeth.
One little tug set China's entire supply of fireworks off inside Greg's head. Sparks flew down his spine, fizzled straight into his gut, and when he finally managed to stifle whatever the hell that noise was that had just burst out of him, it was Mike's down-a-back-alley, trapped-in-a-dark-corner laugh he heard.
"My career is so over," Greg moaned.
"Maybe," Mike said, all cool and casual as if they were having a chat in the hall about tomorrow's chances for rain, "but you've got another fifteen minutes of lunch break to go first."
Re: Mike/Greg!
Date: 2009-12-31 02:28 pm (UTC)Re: Mike/Greg!
Date: 2009-12-31 10:40 pm (UTC)I am glad you liked! :D
no subject
Date: 2009-12-26 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 11:32 pm (UTC)"You didn't really want it anyway," Neal said, kicking one leg free of his slacks. His back hit the wall, the edge of the doorframe digging into his shoulder blade. "Clearly."
"Not so, mon ami." Remy's hands were quick, slick as the streets as he hoisted Neal up with a hell of a lot more strength than the fancy leather coat and cocksure smile had hinted at. "Seems it is I've only found something I want more."
Neal clamped his legs tight around Remy's waist, slid his hands up under Remy's shirt to feel the flex of all that runner's muscle, trace the lean, shallow lines down to where Remy's open jeans clung to slim hips. He pulled in a breath that tasted of clove. "I'm ashamed to admit I'm looking forward to you fucking me stupid and swiping it right out from under my nose."
Remy looked up, the coalfire gleam in his eyes bright and hungry. "That would be the plan, cher, but I've no shame to say I'm looking forward to you returning the favour."