Jane Davitt's Blog, page 10
April 25, 2016
Update to Sir, Revisited
I finally updated Sir, Revisited. Not much, but hopefully I can add more when my edits on two novels are done.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/1665...
http://archiveofourown.org/works/1665...
April 16, 2016
Saturday Smut
Why should Friday have all the fun?
Fic from two POVs. Sentinel fandom, though it doesn't really matter. This is pure smut, no plot.
Blair's Side
I'm lying in Jim's bed, ass raw, jaw aching, lips bruised red. The sheets are damp with sweat and spunk, clinging to my skin, peeling free reluctantly when I roll to my stomach, sprawling wantonly, legs wide, over as much of the bed as I can stake a claim to.
Jim's pillow yields to the press of my cheek and I see, caught against the yellow cotton, a single straight, dark hair. I breathe on it and watch it move, caught in the flow of air, tossed and helpless as I'd been the night before, Jim over me, surrounding me, all muscles and heat and a starkly direct hunger.
He'd consumed me. Chewed me up and spit me -- well, no. He'd swallowed. Licked his lips with a faint, pensive frown of concentration and then smiled, a dark, promising smile that had made my hips arch up off the bed involuntarily, a mute offering that had won me an approving caress, his hand passing over my spent, limp body with an assurance I'd fostered.
I'd put that hunger in his eyes, that smile on his lips --
I'd given him permission to take me, use me to fulfill any need he had or wanted. He hadn't disappointed me with a half-hearted, token acceptance.
My ass hurts, a red, raw soreness I feel with every shift on the rumpled sheet. He hadn't been gentle, but then, I hadn't wanted him to be. I clench on emptiness and moan, biting into his pillow the way I'd dug my teeth into the meat of his arm, the flat expanse of his chest. My lips are frayed, abraded, the corners tender against my probing tongue. His fingers beside his cock as he fucked my mouth, spreading my lips open, obscenely wide, choking me, filling me, until all I could taste, all I could smell, was the ripe, male reek of his arousal, smeared and painted on his skin…
I'm arching and rubbing against the sheet now, my cock carving a groove in the fabric, but I won't let myself come when he's not there to watch me, blue eyes intent, or hear my anguished, ecstatic cries. He made me talk to him last night, say stuff I've never spoken even in the secret darkness of my head. I was scarlet, stammering, but I could see what it did to him, meant to him, and my voice steadied, went husky, confident, blatantly seductive. I told him what he was going to do to me and he nodded, did it, and did it, and did-- oh, fuck, Jim, what you did to me. God.
What did you do?
I don't know. But I'm lying here in your bed, my world narrowed to sheets and pillow and the scent of you, lying here hot and aching, waiting for you to come back and do it again.
***
Jim's Side
I'm almost at the door when I stop, halted in my tracks. I can hear Blair. I can smell him. I harden, helplessly, completely, in the space of a few quick, gulped breaths and hope that no one appears in the hallway, because I'm so turned on, I can't move without spilling in my pants like a teenager.
He's moaning, guttural, pained whimpers that make me close my eyes so that I can hear them better. I'm concentrating on him to the exclusion of everything else and it feels as if I'm standing beside our bed listening, watching, my hands empty, yearning to touch.
He's hurting, he wants me so much. I -- I can't -- God, that's just -- I did that to him? Me? I separate out the words from the whimpers and hear my name, over and over, Jim, Jim, Jim a prayer, a plea.
I should go to him. Quiet him down with my mouth on his, my hand soothing the tremors running through his body. His skin's so warm where I touch him, every time, flushing hot with blood, tiny hairs prickling up, stiff and strong against my palm, something only I can feel. It's selfish of me, but I get off on knowing him better than any other lover has.
Last night I used him. Played with him. Enjoyed him, with his words and body urging me to take everything just that single step further, again and again, until I was so lost in lust that the only thought left was the hope that I didn't go too far.
When I'd finished with him, he was a mess, sweaty, spattered with spit and come, his skin marked by my teeth and nails, and I loved him. God, the way he looked up at me from our bed, drowned eyes, scarlet cheeks, his mouth open on a breath. He looked…dazed, adoring. Blair.
I put my hand on him when I was done and felt him quiver, arch up into the light caress. We couldn't have gone again, but I wanted so much from him still and I don't see that changing. I held him close until he fell asleep, every breath tormenting me, because I was aroused in my head and physically incapable of getting it up.
Not a problem I've got right now.
My hand is on my key, the sharp edges digging into my skin. I'm going to use it; walk in, close the door behind me, and go up to where he's waiting for me in a bed that smells of sex and both of us. Stand by the bed, and watch him turn to his stomach, spread his legs, and look back at me, imploring, impatient, inviting.
And whatever it was I did to him last night, I'll do again until we're both raw from fucking, exhausted and smiling.
Smiling. I've been doing that all day…
The key slides into the lock easily; accepted, familiar, and I walk inside.
He says my name, not a greeting but a sigh of relief.
Waiting's over, Chief…but I still walk slowly up the stairs, just to hear him whisper my name again, hooking me with a word and reeling me in.
Fic from two POVs. Sentinel fandom, though it doesn't really matter. This is pure smut, no plot.
Blair's Side
I'm lying in Jim's bed, ass raw, jaw aching, lips bruised red. The sheets are damp with sweat and spunk, clinging to my skin, peeling free reluctantly when I roll to my stomach, sprawling wantonly, legs wide, over as much of the bed as I can stake a claim to.
Jim's pillow yields to the press of my cheek and I see, caught against the yellow cotton, a single straight, dark hair. I breathe on it and watch it move, caught in the flow of air, tossed and helpless as I'd been the night before, Jim over me, surrounding me, all muscles and heat and a starkly direct hunger.
He'd consumed me. Chewed me up and spit me -- well, no. He'd swallowed. Licked his lips with a faint, pensive frown of concentration and then smiled, a dark, promising smile that had made my hips arch up off the bed involuntarily, a mute offering that had won me an approving caress, his hand passing over my spent, limp body with an assurance I'd fostered.
I'd put that hunger in his eyes, that smile on his lips --
I'd given him permission to take me, use me to fulfill any need he had or wanted. He hadn't disappointed me with a half-hearted, token acceptance.
My ass hurts, a red, raw soreness I feel with every shift on the rumpled sheet. He hadn't been gentle, but then, I hadn't wanted him to be. I clench on emptiness and moan, biting into his pillow the way I'd dug my teeth into the meat of his arm, the flat expanse of his chest. My lips are frayed, abraded, the corners tender against my probing tongue. His fingers beside his cock as he fucked my mouth, spreading my lips open, obscenely wide, choking me, filling me, until all I could taste, all I could smell, was the ripe, male reek of his arousal, smeared and painted on his skin…
I'm arching and rubbing against the sheet now, my cock carving a groove in the fabric, but I won't let myself come when he's not there to watch me, blue eyes intent, or hear my anguished, ecstatic cries. He made me talk to him last night, say stuff I've never spoken even in the secret darkness of my head. I was scarlet, stammering, but I could see what it did to him, meant to him, and my voice steadied, went husky, confident, blatantly seductive. I told him what he was going to do to me and he nodded, did it, and did it, and did-- oh, fuck, Jim, what you did to me. God.
What did you do?
I don't know. But I'm lying here in your bed, my world narrowed to sheets and pillow and the scent of you, lying here hot and aching, waiting for you to come back and do it again.
***
Jim's Side
I'm almost at the door when I stop, halted in my tracks. I can hear Blair. I can smell him. I harden, helplessly, completely, in the space of a few quick, gulped breaths and hope that no one appears in the hallway, because I'm so turned on, I can't move without spilling in my pants like a teenager.
He's moaning, guttural, pained whimpers that make me close my eyes so that I can hear them better. I'm concentrating on him to the exclusion of everything else and it feels as if I'm standing beside our bed listening, watching, my hands empty, yearning to touch.
He's hurting, he wants me so much. I -- I can't -- God, that's just -- I did that to him? Me? I separate out the words from the whimpers and hear my name, over and over, Jim, Jim, Jim a prayer, a plea.
I should go to him. Quiet him down with my mouth on his, my hand soothing the tremors running through his body. His skin's so warm where I touch him, every time, flushing hot with blood, tiny hairs prickling up, stiff and strong against my palm, something only I can feel. It's selfish of me, but I get off on knowing him better than any other lover has.
Last night I used him. Played with him. Enjoyed him, with his words and body urging me to take everything just that single step further, again and again, until I was so lost in lust that the only thought left was the hope that I didn't go too far.
When I'd finished with him, he was a mess, sweaty, spattered with spit and come, his skin marked by my teeth and nails, and I loved him. God, the way he looked up at me from our bed, drowned eyes, scarlet cheeks, his mouth open on a breath. He looked…dazed, adoring. Blair.
I put my hand on him when I was done and felt him quiver, arch up into the light caress. We couldn't have gone again, but I wanted so much from him still and I don't see that changing. I held him close until he fell asleep, every breath tormenting me, because I was aroused in my head and physically incapable of getting it up.
Not a problem I've got right now.
My hand is on my key, the sharp edges digging into my skin. I'm going to use it; walk in, close the door behind me, and go up to where he's waiting for me in a bed that smells of sex and both of us. Stand by the bed, and watch him turn to his stomach, spread his legs, and look back at me, imploring, impatient, inviting.
And whatever it was I did to him last night, I'll do again until we're both raw from fucking, exhausted and smiling.
Smiling. I've been doing that all day…
The key slides into the lock easily; accepted, familiar, and I walk inside.
He says my name, not a greeting but a sigh of relief.
Waiting's over, Chief…but I still walk slowly up the stairs, just to hear him whisper my name again, hooking me with a word and reeling me in.
April 6, 2016
New book
Alexa and I finished our new book today. Now we start editing before subbing it to Loose Id. We discovered one of the MCs had no last name today too. Heh. Now he does!
It's a different one for us; first time writing a futuristic setting on a new planet (as a team anyway) and first time with non-con elements to the BDSM. Pretty dark in places but it was interesting to go there and there's definitely a happy ending; we might have villains, but we always have a hero too.
The title is O/s.
For one hero we pictured Idris Elba and the bad guy is Richard Armitage (sorry, Richard!)
It's a different one for us; first time writing a futuristic setting on a new planet (as a team anyway) and first time with non-con elements to the BDSM. Pretty dark in places but it was interesting to go there and there's definitely a happy ending; we might have villains, but we always have a hero too.
The title is O/s.
For one hero we pictured Idris Elba and the bad guy is Richard Armitage (sorry, Richard!)
March 30, 2016
Vote for Laying a Ghost Boxed Set!
is up for Book of the Month at The TBR Pile.Voting ends April 1.
If you liked the book, please consider voting!
http://thetbrpile.weebly.com/
February 12, 2016
Friday Smut
I got feedback on an old Psych fic (Shawn/Lassiter) I did and had almost forgotten so I decided to make it my Friday post.
Kinky, and if you don't know the show (so funny with poignant moments), Lassie's a cop and Shawn's the fake psychic/genuinely good observer who helps out the police department sometimes.
Preemptive Strike
Shawn's been over Lassiter's knee for twenty minutes now. His world's narrowed, gone fuzzy, until all that exists in this space of time is Lassiter's hand and what it's doing to him, which is plenty. Lassie's hand has got to be sore, his wrist and fingers aching.
He's been spanked. He'd expected that, enjoyed anticipating it as much as the spanking itself. Lassiter's hand is firm and sure and he spanks Shawn with a perfect balance of mercy and sadism.
Lassiter gets uncomfortable with that word being applied to him, but it fits, like its twin fits Shawn. Lassiter likes hurting him -- just a little -- and Shawn totally gets off on being made to whimper and beg. It's a label, nothing more. Shawn's slowly finding some peace over what he needs from Lassiter and once he has, he'll show Lassiter where to step in the minefield they live in.
He's also been lectured, Lassiter's voice rising and falling in time with his hand, measured cadences, a blur of admonitions that Shawn files away for later when he needs to work out the wiggle room that will let him do what he wants even if it clashes with Lassie's ideas of perfect behavior.
Lassie's getting better at closing loopholes, but Shawn's always one step ahead. It used to be three until he gave Lassie an all-access pass to his ass. Weird how that let Lassie catch up. Freaky, even.
There's another pause in the relentless rain of slaps and Shawn catches his breath, tear-hitched and shaky as it is. God, he's in so deep. It's going to kill him to sit, to walk, hell, to breathe, tomorrow, but it won't matter then. He doesn't plan on getting out of bed; leave the sheets soaked with Lassiter's scent, all that manly sweat and spunk and tears? No way.
Okay, no tears. Lassiter won't and Shawn's going to be cried dry by the time Lassiter decides enough's enough in this out of the blue session he's swept Shawn into with a growled command spat out of a tight, twitching mouth.
A lube-slick finger slides deep into his ass without warning, crooks just so, and Shawn's closing his eyes and seeing stars, every sting and throb transmuted to pure erotic gold.
Lassie finger-fucks him for a long time, slowly, smoothly, still talking, his voice a confiding whisper now, reeling off rules and regs that, come on, dude, Shawn knows by heart.
Like it matters about toothpaste blobs on the floor when his are going to be the only toes squishing and sliding on them. Like he's really going to be in bed by eleven when the bed's empty of Lassiter, reading a magazine with guns or fish on the cover, an adorable frown of concentration on his face or outright envy when he comes to something he really wants.
The finger's pulled out, and two shove inside him a moment later, all bumps and bones, promising a rougher ride ahead, Lassie's breathing quicker now, unsteady. If Shawn squints outside the haze fogging his eyes, he can see shapes on their bed, the vivid, lurid colors of the vibes and butt plugs he chose online, choices made to annoy Lassie who'd been eying up the metal finish ones with narrowed eyes.
Turns out, Lassie doesn't give a fuck if the plug he uses to spread Shawn's hole obscenely wide is lime green and sparkly. He just lubes it up efficiently, thoroughly, seats it carefully and rams it home. Job done.
"Tell me why I'm doing all this when you've been so good lately," Lassie says, turning Shawn over so that Shawn's cradled in his arms like a baby.
His ass clenches on emptiness and he misses Lassie's fingers so much. He wants to lick them clean, suck them the way he'll be sucking Lassiter's cock later. Lassie won't let him do that, no matter how much he begs. There's a box of wipes a few inches away from the lube and Lassiter's already used one on his fingers. Shawn's fastidious as a cat, but not here, not in this space. He'd lick Lassie head to toe if he was allowed.
A glint of metal and he gasps, arching up, the weight of the clamps Lassiter fixes on his nipples just about bearable, the savage bright bite of their teeth less so.
"Don't know," he grits out. "Don't care. Just don't stop."
"Oh, I won't," Lassiter promises in a voice as silky dark as chocolate. "My flight leaves at nine. We've got all night. Hours, Shawn. I'm going to wear you out before I go."
"You can try," Shawn manages to say. His body's restless now, the searing pain of the clamps shattering the calm he'd been floating in but also pushing him deeper into dark waters, scary if he was with anyone but Lassiter. "Clamps, Lassie. What gives? They're for when I've been bad and I haven't. Much."
"I know," Lassiter murmurs and his mouth brushes over Shawn's, a sweetness Shawn cherishes as much as the twist Lassiter gives the clamp on his left nipple a moment later. He can't even scream for that. He's supported and held against Lassiter, whose white shirt is clinging to his chest, sweat-damp and creased. "I've almost missed you misbehaving."
"You only have to ask." God, talking's hard with his chest on fire. He wants to babble out a dozen versions of Lassie's name not actual, sensible words.
Lassiter holds up another clamp, larger, smooth-edged this time, and Shawn blinks at it, not sure where Lassie plans to -- oh. Oh God, no. Or does he mean yes, please, Lassie, do it?
He kicks his legs, struggles, cries, and lets Lassiter soothe him, croon to him, until his hips arch up, mutely imploring. The wicked glitter of the clamp is decorating the head of his dick soon after. It hurts, but not as much as it could; this clamp's adjustable and that's more cause for concern than the throb of constricted blood that's heating his dick cherry-red.
"Can't -- how long? Fuck, Lassie --"
"Until I say it's time, Shawn." Lassiter's finger catches a tear as it wells up and over. "Until you tell me why I'm doing this."
Shawn frowns, the agony clearing his head as much as the familiar compulsion to solve a puzzle. "You don't need a reason. This is what we do. It's our thing. We're kinky and we love it." He swallows dryly, unsurprised when Lassie immediately reaches out for the bottle of water on the night table. He lies docile for now and lets Lassie push the neck of the bottle into his mouth, tilting it so that a manageable trickle flows into Shawn's tear-parched mouth. Shawn doesn't try to hold the bottle himself. Lassie wouldn't like that, and his hands are trembling too much anyway.
"This isn't kinky," Lassiter says with a twist of his lips, setting the bottle down. "This is just the bare minimum needed to keep you in order."
"Don't fool yourself," Shawn retorts. "You're the Master of Pain and we both know it."
A smile that's wry not smug lightens Lassiter's face, but he shakes his head. "Stop stalling."
"I don't know, okay?" He'll pay for the exasperation in his voice, but Lassiter's leaving him for a week, an endless fucking week, flying off to a conference with a suitcase full of white shirts and blue ties and Shawn hates the thought of being abandoned as much as he's peevishly uneasy about Lassiter -- his Lassie -- being let loose in a crowd of horny lawmen away from home and off the leash.
Anything could happen. Gus has gone to conferences and come back with stories that made Shawn wish he had a job, in a brief moment of insanity.
"Let me help you out."
Lassiter moves his arm and brings Shawn higher, in kissing distance and that's what he does, his mouth claiming Shawn's and it's sweet and hot until Lassie's free hand goes to work, removing the clamps. He smiles when Shawn breaks the kiss to howl a protest. They haven't been on long -- which means he'll feel them again later -- but it still hurts when they come off, a fresh starburst of pain blinding him.
Before he can reach up to rub his nipples, Lassiter's mouth is on one of them, avidly licking the heat and hardness like he can taste it, moving from one to the other until Shawn's muttering a lot of 'yes' and 'please' between groans. Lassiter bites down hard in his own version of that's all, folks, then unceremoniously dumps Shawn off his knee and onto the bed.
Shawn stays where he was put, sprawled out on his back, and waits.
"Preemptive strike," Lassiter says after studying him for a moment, his approval clear. Shawn supposes that he does look good like this, naked, hard, offering himself up to be used and abused the way only Lassie can. "I won't be here to deal with your little escapades, but that doesn't mean that they should go unpunished and I don't like making you wait when you've earned some much-needed discipline."
Shawn yawns, covering his confusion as best he can. He's getting punished for shit he hasn't done yet? Huh. Does that mean he has to do it to even things up? "Whatever, Lass. We both know it's the other way around and you just can't wait to spank the sin out of me, you stern Taskmaster 2000, you."
He knows that's not entirely true; if he screws up at the station, all that he gets is a scowl until later, at home, and sometimes Lassie does keep him hanging, prolonging the agony until Shawn's practically jumping up and down, flapping his hands, dying for Lassie to just get it over with so that he can stop being the bad boy in disgrace and go back to being his daddy's favorite.
Sort of.
"Is that so," Lassie muses. "You know, you could be right." With a speed that Shawn can't counter, laid out as he is, Lassie pounces, grabbing Shawn's ankles and bringing them together. His fingers are long and warm but he's holding on tightly. Shawn only has time to frown before his feet are lifted up and pushed back, leaving him doubled up. It's undignified, on his back like a struggling bug, his feet over his head and he feels so exposed that for the first time in months, he blushes. It's different when he's about to get fucked. They're both involved then. Like this, with Lassie staring down at him, he feels on show.
Lassiter grins at him, sharp and cool. "I need one hand free, Shawn. Help me out."
Shawn grimaces but takes over the job of holding onto his right ankle. His hamstrings are screaming and his balls are tight and high. He's aroused. He's freaking out, but he's turned on, too.
"So much skin I didn't get to," Lassie says, stroking the underside of Shawn's ass, then squeezing his balls. "Here and here…I'll deal with that in a moment. So, your spanking was for bothering O'Hara, something I'm sure you'll be doing more than once while I'm away, which is why you'll be getting another spanking later. The clamps were for getting this place messy. I know your habits, Shawn and I disapprove of every single one."
"But you love me anyway," Shawn says and gets a pat of Lassiter's hand on a particularly hot piece of his ass in reply as his legs are lowered.
"Help me out again," Lassiter says and there's that…imaginative glint in his eyes now. "Tell me everything you plan on doing this week that I won't like and we can discuss suitable penalties. Don't hold back, Shawn. I want to hear it all, and I'll know if you miss something."
"Dude, that is diabolical," Shawn says with sincere admiration.
Lassiter shrugs modestly. "I learned from the best."
They share a moment, then Shawn says, "Wait -- you mean me, right?"
That gets him an eye-roll. "I'm going to include fishing for compliments on the list."
Shawn pouts. "I didn't get any!"
Lassiter leans in close and places his hand flat over Shawn's chest, right over his heart. "I should be going over my notes. Checking the contents of my suitcase for any little surprises --"
"Does the picture of me naked I tucked into one of your spare shoes count?"
"Yes, it does." Lassiter looks interested rather than annoyed. "Just who took it? Do I need to shoot someone?"
"Me. On a timer. I asked Gus to take it and he started running. I think he's somewhere in the vicinity of Alaska right now."
"Understandable. As I was saying, I should be preparing for my trip and instead…"
"You're taking care of naughty little me," Shawn breathes, giddy with love. "You thoughtful Lassie, you. I almost forgive you for abandoning me for a week, a whole, entire seven days to flirt with your peers."
"I won't be flirting," Lassiter assures him. "And neither will you."
"Oh, I probably will," Shawn says sunnily. "You know me. I flirt with everyone. I'm shameless. A faithless slut." He wets his lips and stares up hopefully. "What are you going to do about that, Lassie?"
Lassiter smiles slowly. "What do I usually do, Shawn?"
Shawn feels his heartbeat increase. Truth be told, he doesn't flirt often these days. Lassiter doesn't really like it and there's not much Shawn won't do to keep that hurt, bruised look out of Lassie's blue eyes. If it's pretend flirting, hypothetical and never to be performed for real, though and it still gets him punished…win/win. A possessive Lassie, intent on showing Shawn just who he belongs to is super-nova hot. "Do it, Lassie."
"Not good enough, Shawn. Show me some goddamned respect. Try again."
"Please, Carlton."
Lassiter lets him get away with that for now -- and Shawn sneaks a look at the clock by the bed while his eyes can still focus. It's barely ten.
Hours of this to come, hours… God, he's going to need every minute to get through the next week. Before he's tied, before his mouth is filled with Carlton's cock, he twists free of Carlton's hands and gets his arms around Carlton, hugging him. Time out. They both need these sometimes. They play rough.
Carlton's hands slip over his back in long, soothing passes, gentle, careful hands, murmuring something comforting into Shawn's hair.
"Ready?" Carlton asks a few minutes later when Shawn's stopped shivering.
Shawn nods, brushes impatiently at his eyes, and lies down.
"The only greens I'm gonna be eating are apple, lime, and mint jelly beans…" he begins.
Kinky, and if you don't know the show (so funny with poignant moments), Lassie's a cop and Shawn's the fake psychic/genuinely good observer who helps out the police department sometimes.
Preemptive Strike
Shawn's been over Lassiter's knee for twenty minutes now. His world's narrowed, gone fuzzy, until all that exists in this space of time is Lassiter's hand and what it's doing to him, which is plenty. Lassie's hand has got to be sore, his wrist and fingers aching.
He's been spanked. He'd expected that, enjoyed anticipating it as much as the spanking itself. Lassiter's hand is firm and sure and he spanks Shawn with a perfect balance of mercy and sadism.
Lassiter gets uncomfortable with that word being applied to him, but it fits, like its twin fits Shawn. Lassiter likes hurting him -- just a little -- and Shawn totally gets off on being made to whimper and beg. It's a label, nothing more. Shawn's slowly finding some peace over what he needs from Lassiter and once he has, he'll show Lassiter where to step in the minefield they live in.
He's also been lectured, Lassiter's voice rising and falling in time with his hand, measured cadences, a blur of admonitions that Shawn files away for later when he needs to work out the wiggle room that will let him do what he wants even if it clashes with Lassie's ideas of perfect behavior.
Lassie's getting better at closing loopholes, but Shawn's always one step ahead. It used to be three until he gave Lassie an all-access pass to his ass. Weird how that let Lassie catch up. Freaky, even.
There's another pause in the relentless rain of slaps and Shawn catches his breath, tear-hitched and shaky as it is. God, he's in so deep. It's going to kill him to sit, to walk, hell, to breathe, tomorrow, but it won't matter then. He doesn't plan on getting out of bed; leave the sheets soaked with Lassiter's scent, all that manly sweat and spunk and tears? No way.
Okay, no tears. Lassiter won't and Shawn's going to be cried dry by the time Lassiter decides enough's enough in this out of the blue session he's swept Shawn into with a growled command spat out of a tight, twitching mouth.
A lube-slick finger slides deep into his ass without warning, crooks just so, and Shawn's closing his eyes and seeing stars, every sting and throb transmuted to pure erotic gold.
Lassie finger-fucks him for a long time, slowly, smoothly, still talking, his voice a confiding whisper now, reeling off rules and regs that, come on, dude, Shawn knows by heart.
Like it matters about toothpaste blobs on the floor when his are going to be the only toes squishing and sliding on them. Like he's really going to be in bed by eleven when the bed's empty of Lassiter, reading a magazine with guns or fish on the cover, an adorable frown of concentration on his face or outright envy when he comes to something he really wants.
The finger's pulled out, and two shove inside him a moment later, all bumps and bones, promising a rougher ride ahead, Lassie's breathing quicker now, unsteady. If Shawn squints outside the haze fogging his eyes, he can see shapes on their bed, the vivid, lurid colors of the vibes and butt plugs he chose online, choices made to annoy Lassie who'd been eying up the metal finish ones with narrowed eyes.
Turns out, Lassie doesn't give a fuck if the plug he uses to spread Shawn's hole obscenely wide is lime green and sparkly. He just lubes it up efficiently, thoroughly, seats it carefully and rams it home. Job done.
"Tell me why I'm doing all this when you've been so good lately," Lassie says, turning Shawn over so that Shawn's cradled in his arms like a baby.
His ass clenches on emptiness and he misses Lassie's fingers so much. He wants to lick them clean, suck them the way he'll be sucking Lassiter's cock later. Lassie won't let him do that, no matter how much he begs. There's a box of wipes a few inches away from the lube and Lassiter's already used one on his fingers. Shawn's fastidious as a cat, but not here, not in this space. He'd lick Lassie head to toe if he was allowed.
A glint of metal and he gasps, arching up, the weight of the clamps Lassiter fixes on his nipples just about bearable, the savage bright bite of their teeth less so.
"Don't know," he grits out. "Don't care. Just don't stop."
"Oh, I won't," Lassiter promises in a voice as silky dark as chocolate. "My flight leaves at nine. We've got all night. Hours, Shawn. I'm going to wear you out before I go."
"You can try," Shawn manages to say. His body's restless now, the searing pain of the clamps shattering the calm he'd been floating in but also pushing him deeper into dark waters, scary if he was with anyone but Lassiter. "Clamps, Lassie. What gives? They're for when I've been bad and I haven't. Much."
"I know," Lassiter murmurs and his mouth brushes over Shawn's, a sweetness Shawn cherishes as much as the twist Lassiter gives the clamp on his left nipple a moment later. He can't even scream for that. He's supported and held against Lassiter, whose white shirt is clinging to his chest, sweat-damp and creased. "I've almost missed you misbehaving."
"You only have to ask." God, talking's hard with his chest on fire. He wants to babble out a dozen versions of Lassie's name not actual, sensible words.
Lassiter holds up another clamp, larger, smooth-edged this time, and Shawn blinks at it, not sure where Lassie plans to -- oh. Oh God, no. Or does he mean yes, please, Lassie, do it?
He kicks his legs, struggles, cries, and lets Lassiter soothe him, croon to him, until his hips arch up, mutely imploring. The wicked glitter of the clamp is decorating the head of his dick soon after. It hurts, but not as much as it could; this clamp's adjustable and that's more cause for concern than the throb of constricted blood that's heating his dick cherry-red.
"Can't -- how long? Fuck, Lassie --"
"Until I say it's time, Shawn." Lassiter's finger catches a tear as it wells up and over. "Until you tell me why I'm doing this."
Shawn frowns, the agony clearing his head as much as the familiar compulsion to solve a puzzle. "You don't need a reason. This is what we do. It's our thing. We're kinky and we love it." He swallows dryly, unsurprised when Lassie immediately reaches out for the bottle of water on the night table. He lies docile for now and lets Lassie push the neck of the bottle into his mouth, tilting it so that a manageable trickle flows into Shawn's tear-parched mouth. Shawn doesn't try to hold the bottle himself. Lassie wouldn't like that, and his hands are trembling too much anyway.
"This isn't kinky," Lassiter says with a twist of his lips, setting the bottle down. "This is just the bare minimum needed to keep you in order."
"Don't fool yourself," Shawn retorts. "You're the Master of Pain and we both know it."
A smile that's wry not smug lightens Lassiter's face, but he shakes his head. "Stop stalling."
"I don't know, okay?" He'll pay for the exasperation in his voice, but Lassiter's leaving him for a week, an endless fucking week, flying off to a conference with a suitcase full of white shirts and blue ties and Shawn hates the thought of being abandoned as much as he's peevishly uneasy about Lassiter -- his Lassie -- being let loose in a crowd of horny lawmen away from home and off the leash.
Anything could happen. Gus has gone to conferences and come back with stories that made Shawn wish he had a job, in a brief moment of insanity.
"Let me help you out."
Lassiter moves his arm and brings Shawn higher, in kissing distance and that's what he does, his mouth claiming Shawn's and it's sweet and hot until Lassie's free hand goes to work, removing the clamps. He smiles when Shawn breaks the kiss to howl a protest. They haven't been on long -- which means he'll feel them again later -- but it still hurts when they come off, a fresh starburst of pain blinding him.
Before he can reach up to rub his nipples, Lassiter's mouth is on one of them, avidly licking the heat and hardness like he can taste it, moving from one to the other until Shawn's muttering a lot of 'yes' and 'please' between groans. Lassiter bites down hard in his own version of that's all, folks, then unceremoniously dumps Shawn off his knee and onto the bed.
Shawn stays where he was put, sprawled out on his back, and waits.
"Preemptive strike," Lassiter says after studying him for a moment, his approval clear. Shawn supposes that he does look good like this, naked, hard, offering himself up to be used and abused the way only Lassie can. "I won't be here to deal with your little escapades, but that doesn't mean that they should go unpunished and I don't like making you wait when you've earned some much-needed discipline."
Shawn yawns, covering his confusion as best he can. He's getting punished for shit he hasn't done yet? Huh. Does that mean he has to do it to even things up? "Whatever, Lass. We both know it's the other way around and you just can't wait to spank the sin out of me, you stern Taskmaster 2000, you."
He knows that's not entirely true; if he screws up at the station, all that he gets is a scowl until later, at home, and sometimes Lassie does keep him hanging, prolonging the agony until Shawn's practically jumping up and down, flapping his hands, dying for Lassie to just get it over with so that he can stop being the bad boy in disgrace and go back to being his daddy's favorite.
Sort of.
"Is that so," Lassie muses. "You know, you could be right." With a speed that Shawn can't counter, laid out as he is, Lassie pounces, grabbing Shawn's ankles and bringing them together. His fingers are long and warm but he's holding on tightly. Shawn only has time to frown before his feet are lifted up and pushed back, leaving him doubled up. It's undignified, on his back like a struggling bug, his feet over his head and he feels so exposed that for the first time in months, he blushes. It's different when he's about to get fucked. They're both involved then. Like this, with Lassie staring down at him, he feels on show.
Lassiter grins at him, sharp and cool. "I need one hand free, Shawn. Help me out."
Shawn grimaces but takes over the job of holding onto his right ankle. His hamstrings are screaming and his balls are tight and high. He's aroused. He's freaking out, but he's turned on, too.
"So much skin I didn't get to," Lassie says, stroking the underside of Shawn's ass, then squeezing his balls. "Here and here…I'll deal with that in a moment. So, your spanking was for bothering O'Hara, something I'm sure you'll be doing more than once while I'm away, which is why you'll be getting another spanking later. The clamps were for getting this place messy. I know your habits, Shawn and I disapprove of every single one."
"But you love me anyway," Shawn says and gets a pat of Lassiter's hand on a particularly hot piece of his ass in reply as his legs are lowered.
"Help me out again," Lassiter says and there's that…imaginative glint in his eyes now. "Tell me everything you plan on doing this week that I won't like and we can discuss suitable penalties. Don't hold back, Shawn. I want to hear it all, and I'll know if you miss something."
"Dude, that is diabolical," Shawn says with sincere admiration.
Lassiter shrugs modestly. "I learned from the best."
They share a moment, then Shawn says, "Wait -- you mean me, right?"
That gets him an eye-roll. "I'm going to include fishing for compliments on the list."
Shawn pouts. "I didn't get any!"
Lassiter leans in close and places his hand flat over Shawn's chest, right over his heart. "I should be going over my notes. Checking the contents of my suitcase for any little surprises --"
"Does the picture of me naked I tucked into one of your spare shoes count?"
"Yes, it does." Lassiter looks interested rather than annoyed. "Just who took it? Do I need to shoot someone?"
"Me. On a timer. I asked Gus to take it and he started running. I think he's somewhere in the vicinity of Alaska right now."
"Understandable. As I was saying, I should be preparing for my trip and instead…"
"You're taking care of naughty little me," Shawn breathes, giddy with love. "You thoughtful Lassie, you. I almost forgive you for abandoning me for a week, a whole, entire seven days to flirt with your peers."
"I won't be flirting," Lassiter assures him. "And neither will you."
"Oh, I probably will," Shawn says sunnily. "You know me. I flirt with everyone. I'm shameless. A faithless slut." He wets his lips and stares up hopefully. "What are you going to do about that, Lassie?"
Lassiter smiles slowly. "What do I usually do, Shawn?"
Shawn feels his heartbeat increase. Truth be told, he doesn't flirt often these days. Lassiter doesn't really like it and there's not much Shawn won't do to keep that hurt, bruised look out of Lassie's blue eyes. If it's pretend flirting, hypothetical and never to be performed for real, though and it still gets him punished…win/win. A possessive Lassie, intent on showing Shawn just who he belongs to is super-nova hot. "Do it, Lassie."
"Not good enough, Shawn. Show me some goddamned respect. Try again."
"Please, Carlton."
Lassiter lets him get away with that for now -- and Shawn sneaks a look at the clock by the bed while his eyes can still focus. It's barely ten.
Hours of this to come, hours… God, he's going to need every minute to get through the next week. Before he's tied, before his mouth is filled with Carlton's cock, he twists free of Carlton's hands and gets his arms around Carlton, hugging him. Time out. They both need these sometimes. They play rough.
Carlton's hands slip over his back in long, soothing passes, gentle, careful hands, murmuring something comforting into Shawn's hair.
"Ready?" Carlton asks a few minutes later when Shawn's stopped shivering.
Shawn nods, brushes impatiently at his eyes, and lies down.
"The only greens I'm gonna be eating are apple, lime, and mint jelly beans…" he begins.
February 7, 2016
Tenth anniversary boxed set of Laying a Ghost trilogy
So excited! On Feb 9, the Laying a Ghost trilogy will be available from Loose Id as a boxed set to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the first book, Laying a Ghost.
It looks so freaking cool!
To celebrate 10 years of Laying a Ghost: books 1-3 in a single, collected edition.
Laying a Ghost
When John McIntyre sees Nick Kelley step off the island ferry, he's instantly attracted, and fairly certain that he knows what Nick is keeping secret, because he's been doing it himself for years. When he discovers Nick's real secret he's drawn into a world he never knew existed, one haunted by grief and guilt and ghosts. In the shadowed world of the spirits, Nick's power is all that the ghosts have to help them. But Nick is still mourning the death of his lover in an accident he believes he caused, and John's determined to keep their relationship secret.
It's going to take a lot more than attraction and really good sex to solve their problems but will they be lucky? Or will one week be all they have before they're left alone again?
Giving Up the Ghost
Most of the people in Florida are soaking up the sun. Nick and John are dealing with a plane crash, a gold-digger, a reporter with an eye on more than a good story, and some startling revelations about Nick's family.
And that's before the ghosts from the crash get angry with Nick, the one person who can hear them.
They’re struggling with their relationship when the trip begins -- sex works, sex works well; it’s the other stuff that’s a problem. Getting away seemed like a good way to work things out. But this is one getaway that might leave John and Nick wishing they'd stayed at home.
Or it might be just what they needed to find out that home is where the heart is.
Waking the Dead
When your lover can speak to ghosts and his half-brother can read minds, you get used to life being a step away from normal. But when angry ghosts take over the bodies of the living, seeking revenge for their centuries-old murders, even John and Nick have trouble coping.
Teenaged angst, pushy tourists, and the dead walking... If they want the peaceful summer they'd planned, they're going to have to fight for it.
Side by side.
It looks so freaking cool!
To celebrate 10 years of Laying a Ghost: books 1-3 in a single, collected edition.
Laying a Ghost
When John McIntyre sees Nick Kelley step off the island ferry, he's instantly attracted, and fairly certain that he knows what Nick is keeping secret, because he's been doing it himself for years. When he discovers Nick's real secret he's drawn into a world he never knew existed, one haunted by grief and guilt and ghosts. In the shadowed world of the spirits, Nick's power is all that the ghosts have to help them. But Nick is still mourning the death of his lover in an accident he believes he caused, and John's determined to keep their relationship secret.
It's going to take a lot more than attraction and really good sex to solve their problems but will they be lucky? Or will one week be all they have before they're left alone again?
Giving Up the Ghost
Most of the people in Florida are soaking up the sun. Nick and John are dealing with a plane crash, a gold-digger, a reporter with an eye on more than a good story, and some startling revelations about Nick's family.
And that's before the ghosts from the crash get angry with Nick, the one person who can hear them.
They’re struggling with their relationship when the trip begins -- sex works, sex works well; it’s the other stuff that’s a problem. Getting away seemed like a good way to work things out. But this is one getaway that might leave John and Nick wishing they'd stayed at home.
Or it might be just what they needed to find out that home is where the heart is.
Waking the Dead
When your lover can speak to ghosts and his half-brother can read minds, you get used to life being a step away from normal. But when angry ghosts take over the bodies of the living, seeking revenge for their centuries-old murders, even John and Nick have trouble coping.
Teenaged angst, pushy tourists, and the dead walking... If they want the peaceful summer they'd planned, they're going to have to fight for it.
Side by side.
January 30, 2016
Love Strong as Death Giveaway
To celebrate the decade since Laying a Ghost was published, Alexa and I returned to John and Nick's (fictional) Hebridean island and wrote Love Strong as Death.
To enter a draw to win a copy of the new novella Love Strong as Death, answer this question correctly and your name goes in the hat.
I'll draw a winner after 11.00 p.m. Monday Feb 1st and announce the winner on Tuesday.
There's a Hebridean island with an ancient circle and a distillery.
Name the island, the circle, and the distillery and you're in with a chance.
Slàinte mhath!
To enter a draw to win a copy of the new novella Love Strong as Death, answer this question correctly and your name goes in the hat.
I'll draw a winner after 11.00 p.m. Monday Feb 1st and announce the winner on Tuesday.
There's a Hebridean island with an ancient circle and a distillery.
Name the island, the circle, and the distillery and you're in with a chance.
Slàinte mhath!
January 19, 2016
Love Strong as Death now out!
Love Strong as Death is now available from Loose Id
It's the fourth in the Laying a Ghost series and we wrote it to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the first book, Laying a Ghost, which was also the first we ever wrote together.
No amount of distraction can keep Nick and John from each other; time hasn’t dimmed the heat between them. That doesn't mean a frustrated, angry ghost isn't going to try, and she won't hesitate to do whatever it takes to force Nick to help her, no matter whose life she endangers.
Worried about John’s injured hand, guilty that his ability to see ghosts is disturbing their peace again, Nick’s torn between wanting to help this ghost and wishing her far away.
As events spiral out of control, they’re about to discover which is stronger; love or obsession.
For their sake, love needs to win.
It's the fourth in the Laying a Ghost series and we wrote it to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the first book, Laying a Ghost, which was also the first we ever wrote together.
No amount of distraction can keep Nick and John from each other; time hasn’t dimmed the heat between them. That doesn't mean a frustrated, angry ghost isn't going to try, and she won't hesitate to do whatever it takes to force Nick to help her, no matter whose life she endangers.
Worried about John’s injured hand, guilty that his ability to see ghosts is disturbing their peace again, Nick’s torn between wanting to help this ghost and wishing her far away.
As events spiral out of control, they’re about to discover which is stronger; love or obsession.
For their sake, love needs to win.
January 15, 2016
A Trip Back in Time
Next week, Love Strong as Death, a novella in the Laying a Ghost series comes out to mark the tenth anniversary of the first book.
Ten years. Wow. So I thought I'd go all rambling and nostalgic about how LaG came about.
Back in April 2004, Alexa and I weren't published authors, but we had dozens of fanfics to our name. Since we were in the Buffy fandom and friends we decided to co-write a Giles/Xander fic set post-show, with Xander alone on a Scottish island getting a house ready to serve as a training place for all the new Slayers. Willow dies and Giles travels there to break the news. He finds Xander involved in a mild flirtation with an islander, John, a character we created solely to make Giles jealous pretty much :-)
We adored John. The readers adored John. And because naturally, it being a G/X fic, John had to end up broken-hearted, we were left sad too.
Fast forward a little to 2005 and Alexa and I were dipping our toes in the world of pro m/m romances. Hey, all the cool kids on LJ were doing it and most of them were on our friends list, people we knew, read, co-wrote with.
But it was a scary step to take alone, so we decided to co-write and see how it went. We'd worked on many long fics together and we knew our writing styles meshed and the process was fun.
We needed a plot. And why not take our character John, move him to a fictional Hebridean island, and give him the HEA he deserved with Nick, an American who saw ghosts?
So we did. The setting was one we knew. Alexa, who's American, had been to Iona on a vacation and though I live in Canada now, I spent the first thirty-three years of my life in England. A month a year from age ten to twenty was spent in the Hebrides, camping with my family on the edge of a beach. I've visited half a dozen of the islands, creating lasting memories. My parents settled on Barra as their favorite, and they kept going back, making close friends and loving the peace. When Dad died, a memorial mass was said for him on Barra, a gesture that touched my mum deeply.
I said this would ramble, didn't I?
So that's how the first book came to be written, followed by Giving Up the Ghost and Waking the Dead.
I wrote some John/Nick snippets for Alexa on her birthday over the years (they're here; http://archiveofourown.org/series/46070) but it's been a long time since we wrote a proper story with them.
On January 19th, the first three books will be available as a boxed set, and the novella, Love Strong as Death will come out.
http://www.loose-id.com/laying-a-ghos...
We loved visiting John and Nick again and we hope you do too.
Ten years. Wow. So I thought I'd go all rambling and nostalgic about how LaG came about.
Back in April 2004, Alexa and I weren't published authors, but we had dozens of fanfics to our name. Since we were in the Buffy fandom and friends we decided to co-write a Giles/Xander fic set post-show, with Xander alone on a Scottish island getting a house ready to serve as a training place for all the new Slayers. Willow dies and Giles travels there to break the news. He finds Xander involved in a mild flirtation with an islander, John, a character we created solely to make Giles jealous pretty much :-)
We adored John. The readers adored John. And because naturally, it being a G/X fic, John had to end up broken-hearted, we were left sad too.
Fast forward a little to 2005 and Alexa and I were dipping our toes in the world of pro m/m romances. Hey, all the cool kids on LJ were doing it and most of them were on our friends list, people we knew, read, co-wrote with.
But it was a scary step to take alone, so we decided to co-write and see how it went. We'd worked on many long fics together and we knew our writing styles meshed and the process was fun.
We needed a plot. And why not take our character John, move him to a fictional Hebridean island, and give him the HEA he deserved with Nick, an American who saw ghosts?
So we did. The setting was one we knew. Alexa, who's American, had been to Iona on a vacation and though I live in Canada now, I spent the first thirty-three years of my life in England. A month a year from age ten to twenty was spent in the Hebrides, camping with my family on the edge of a beach. I've visited half a dozen of the islands, creating lasting memories. My parents settled on Barra as their favorite, and they kept going back, making close friends and loving the peace. When Dad died, a memorial mass was said for him on Barra, a gesture that touched my mum deeply.
I said this would ramble, didn't I?
So that's how the first book came to be written, followed by Giving Up the Ghost and Waking the Dead.
I wrote some John/Nick snippets for Alexa on her birthday over the years (they're here; http://archiveofourown.org/series/46070) but it's been a long time since we wrote a proper story with them.
On January 19th, the first three books will be available as a boxed set, and the novella, Love Strong as Death will come out.
http://www.loose-id.com/laying-a-ghos...
We loved visiting John and Nick again and we hope you do too.
January 12, 2016
Cover Reveal for Love Strong as Death
I'll have more to say about this before the release date a week today, but for now, here's the cover of Laying a Ghost 4, Love Strong as Death.
The cover's by the wonderfully talented Valerie Tibbs.
The cover's by the wonderfully talented Valerie Tibbs.
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