Jane Davitt's Blog, page 6
December 13, 2016
Schooling Him
I wrote this for the Boy Meets Boy anniversary celebrations so I thought I'd share it here.
Gorgeous prompt pic!
Schooling Him
“You’ve dishonored the house, Somerton.”
“I—I didn’t mean to cheat, but my father—If I failed this year—“
“Cheat?” I lean in close, every inch the Head Boy, eying his pale face and terror-glazed eyes with approval. “Everyone cheats. You got caught. And gave up the name of the boy you bought the crib from to escape a harsher punishment. Denville’s a particular friend of mine and I take his suspension personally.”
“I didn’t know. Please—I’m to be caned in front of the school tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?”
I’m looking forward to that. I’ll be on stage with the headmaster, handing him the heavy cane with another in reserve in case the first breaks, helping him draw down the trousers shielding shrinking flesh from the bite and sting of seasoned wood. I’d prefer to wield the cane, but the headmaster is an expert at placing precise, deep cuts and it’s educational to watch him work. After all, we are at school to learn.
“Not even a little. You’ll take my discipline first, my boy. Tomorrow you receive pain. Give me an antonym for pain.”
“Pleasure?”
“Why, that’s excellent. You paid attention to one lesson, at least. Yes. My pleasure, of course. On your knees, boy. You’ll apologize, then suck me until I tell you to stop. Then I’ll bugger your arse until you’re squealing as loudly as you did to the headmaster. And after that, well, it’s back to your mouth again. I’m damned if I’m cleaning the stink of you off me myself. “
He’s shaking, spluttering broken sentences, showing a shocking lack of clarity of thought. I roll my eyes and push him to his knees. I’m already hard, already aching for the wet succulence of his mouth and the tight clench of his hole. He’ll scream for me, kneel to me, serve me.
And if he comes, he’ll lick up every drop.
When Matron lets him out of the San, I’ll break the good news he’s to be my new fag. I’m sure it’ll comfort him to know he has one friend in the school.
Because, there’s one compensation for belonging to me, body and soul. No one else gets to touch him.
Unless I permit it, of course. After all, a chap who doesn’t share with his chums isn’t the kind we want here at Heatherton Hall, is it?
Gorgeous prompt pic!
Schooling Him
“You’ve dishonored the house, Somerton.”
“I—I didn’t mean to cheat, but my father—If I failed this year—“
“Cheat?” I lean in close, every inch the Head Boy, eying his pale face and terror-glazed eyes with approval. “Everyone cheats. You got caught. And gave up the name of the boy you bought the crib from to escape a harsher punishment. Denville’s a particular friend of mine and I take his suspension personally.”
“I didn’t know. Please—I’m to be caned in front of the school tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?”
I’m looking forward to that. I’ll be on stage with the headmaster, handing him the heavy cane with another in reserve in case the first breaks, helping him draw down the trousers shielding shrinking flesh from the bite and sting of seasoned wood. I’d prefer to wield the cane, but the headmaster is an expert at placing precise, deep cuts and it’s educational to watch him work. After all, we are at school to learn.
“Not even a little. You’ll take my discipline first, my boy. Tomorrow you receive pain. Give me an antonym for pain.”
“Pleasure?”
“Why, that’s excellent. You paid attention to one lesson, at least. Yes. My pleasure, of course. On your knees, boy. You’ll apologize, then suck me until I tell you to stop. Then I’ll bugger your arse until you’re squealing as loudly as you did to the headmaster. And after that, well, it’s back to your mouth again. I’m damned if I’m cleaning the stink of you off me myself. “
He’s shaking, spluttering broken sentences, showing a shocking lack of clarity of thought. I roll my eyes and push him to his knees. I’m already hard, already aching for the wet succulence of his mouth and the tight clench of his hole. He’ll scream for me, kneel to me, serve me.
And if he comes, he’ll lick up every drop.
When Matron lets him out of the San, I’ll break the good news he’s to be my new fag. I’m sure it’ll comfort him to know he has one friend in the school.
Because, there’s one compensation for belonging to me, body and soul. No one else gets to touch him.
Unless I permit it, of course. After all, a chap who doesn’t share with his chums isn’t the kind we want here at Heatherton Hall, is it?
Day Thirteen of Advent
These two are new. Just a little snippet of original fic.
I Woke From my Dreams
The clatter and roar of a snowblower dragged me from my sleep. I forced my eyes open and squinted at the alarm. 7.03. Still dark outside. I did a sum in my head that added up to less than five hours sleep after pulling a double shift at the hospital, groaned, and rolled over. Sleep refused to return. After twenty minutes of trying, with the fucking snowblower providing background music, I gave up and got up.
I’d finished my shower when I heard blissful silence descend. Oh, now he’d stopped. My new neighbor was apparently obsessed with his garden. His house was on the corner, front door facing onto another street, so we hadn’t met yet, but I’d heard him cutting his grass often and seen him raking leaves off it as I drove by. Now it seemed I was doomed to a winter of being woken early as he dealt with each and every snowflake.
I pushed open the bathroom window when I heard the creak of a shed door. He was putting the instrument of torture away. I leaned out, towel around my waist, a sudden fury sweeping through me.
“Hey! Thanks a lot, asshole.”
He swung around, startled, and stared up at me. Too far to see much of his face, and a toque covered his hair, but I heard his reply.
“What did you say?”
I shot him the finger, slammed the window closed, and sank onto the edge of the bath, heart pounding with exhilaration and guilt. I barely did assertive, let alone aggressive, and I’d shocked myself. Eyes scratchy from lack of sleep, still resentful, I dressed and went downstairs for coffee in vast quantities.
I wandered into the front room with a brimming mug and glanced out to see how much digging I’d need to do.
None. My driveway and the sidewalk were clear.
Coffee slopped over my hand as I lurched forward to confirm what I already knew. He’d been clearing my drive when he woke me up. And, by the look of it, Susan’s too. She was a sweet elderly widow who’d lived next door to me for years.
I sipped what I hadn’t spilled, mind racing. I’d need to apologize. No. Grovel. Though he had woken me up…but he didn’t know I worked nights, and it was a weekday.
Knocking on his door took guts. I wanted to run away instead, plunge my face into a snowdrift until the scorch of embarrassment faded. No one came so I knocked again, over-compensating by pounding hard.
He answered the door in sweats hanging low on his hips, bare feet, and a damp T-shirt he’d clearly pulled on over wet skin. His hair was damp too, long, thick, and reddish-brown.
Great. I’d gotten him out of the shower.
“If you’re here to yell at me some more, save it.”
“I’m not! Really, I’m not.” I hesitated. The wind whipping at me had to feel icy to him. “Can I come in? To explain?”
“Not interested.”
“To apologize?”
“Marginally interested.”
“Grovel, beg, and plead for forgiveness?”
“Now, there’s an offer I could consider.” He jerked his head. “Come on in, neighbor.”
Something about the twinkle in his grey eyes told me I had a chance at making his good list when Christmas rolled around. Except by then we’d both discovered the pleasure of being naughty together.
Unless I fell asleep on his shoulder. That happened a lot and he was always careful not to wake me.
I Woke From my Dreams
The clatter and roar of a snowblower dragged me from my sleep. I forced my eyes open and squinted at the alarm. 7.03. Still dark outside. I did a sum in my head that added up to less than five hours sleep after pulling a double shift at the hospital, groaned, and rolled over. Sleep refused to return. After twenty minutes of trying, with the fucking snowblower providing background music, I gave up and got up.
I’d finished my shower when I heard blissful silence descend. Oh, now he’d stopped. My new neighbor was apparently obsessed with his garden. His house was on the corner, front door facing onto another street, so we hadn’t met yet, but I’d heard him cutting his grass often and seen him raking leaves off it as I drove by. Now it seemed I was doomed to a winter of being woken early as he dealt with each and every snowflake.
I pushed open the bathroom window when I heard the creak of a shed door. He was putting the instrument of torture away. I leaned out, towel around my waist, a sudden fury sweeping through me.
“Hey! Thanks a lot, asshole.”
He swung around, startled, and stared up at me. Too far to see much of his face, and a toque covered his hair, but I heard his reply.
“What did you say?”
I shot him the finger, slammed the window closed, and sank onto the edge of the bath, heart pounding with exhilaration and guilt. I barely did assertive, let alone aggressive, and I’d shocked myself. Eyes scratchy from lack of sleep, still resentful, I dressed and went downstairs for coffee in vast quantities.
I wandered into the front room with a brimming mug and glanced out to see how much digging I’d need to do.
None. My driveway and the sidewalk were clear.
Coffee slopped over my hand as I lurched forward to confirm what I already knew. He’d been clearing my drive when he woke me up. And, by the look of it, Susan’s too. She was a sweet elderly widow who’d lived next door to me for years.
I sipped what I hadn’t spilled, mind racing. I’d need to apologize. No. Grovel. Though he had woken me up…but he didn’t know I worked nights, and it was a weekday.
Knocking on his door took guts. I wanted to run away instead, plunge my face into a snowdrift until the scorch of embarrassment faded. No one came so I knocked again, over-compensating by pounding hard.
He answered the door in sweats hanging low on his hips, bare feet, and a damp T-shirt he’d clearly pulled on over wet skin. His hair was damp too, long, thick, and reddish-brown.
Great. I’d gotten him out of the shower.
“If you’re here to yell at me some more, save it.”
“I’m not! Really, I’m not.” I hesitated. The wind whipping at me had to feel icy to him. “Can I come in? To explain?”
“Not interested.”
“To apologize?”
“Marginally interested.”
“Grovel, beg, and plead for forgiveness?”
“Now, there’s an offer I could consider.” He jerked his head. “Come on in, neighbor.”
Something about the twinkle in his grey eyes told me I had a chance at making his good list when Christmas rolled around. Except by then we’d both discovered the pleasure of being naughty together.
Unless I fell asleep on his shoulder. That happened a lot and he was always careful not to wake me.
December 12, 2016
Day Twelve of Advent
Shoveled six inches of snow this morning. Oh yeah, it's feeling like Christmas...
So let's go to Hawaii today...
Work Text:
"Okay, we've done the easy ones. When was your first blow job?" Danny says, going for the personal stuff just to make Steve squirm. Call it payback for the last few months. He's earned every twitch after all those car chases, all those broken regs.
He's drunk enough --- hey, it's Christmas Eve, he's entitled -- to be mildly interested in the answer, but he's waiting impatiently for it to be his turn to spill. Candy-pink lips, those cute giggles when he asked Cindy to please spit out her gum first… Good times and if two years later he'd found out that it felt just as good when the mouth belonged to a guy, well, that was his business and it wasn't like Steve would ask what his eighth blow job was like, now was it?
"Locker room, senior year, after the game when the rest of the team was showering," Steve says after a pause, the words dragged out of him, choppy and succinct. His face warms, his eyes distant, then they sharpen and focus on Danny. "Had to be quick, but that wasn't a problem. I was pumped, man."
Danny frowns to hide the way his heart had thudded at the image of Steve, sweaty, flushed and intense, grinding out a curse, his voice shaky, as he shot deep and hard. He takes a long sip of something fruity and icy cold, with an astonishing amount of vodka lurking in each sip. "You smuggled a girl in there with the team a few yards away? Sounds risky. Fun, but risky."
The pause is even longer and Steve's looking at the table now, his lips pursed. They're not bright pink the way Cindy's were, but they look warm. Kissable. Kissable? Danny pushes his drink aside. Lusting after Steve is one thing, an occupational hazard like bullets in the air around his head on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean he has to get as mushy as an over-ripe pineapple over the guy's mouth.
"Yeah, it was," Steve says eventually, "but I didn't. Smuggle someone in, I mean. I wasn't the only player who waited for a shower."
It takes a while for Danny to get it -- totally the fault of the Slamma-Bamma-Mama he's been drinking -- but when he does, he smiles, slow and wide.
"Oh."
"Yeah," Steve says flatly, looking like a man with regrets and it's not even the morning after yet.
"Thanks," Danny adds, remembering his manners.
"What for?" Steve asks, a guarded wariness in his eyes.
"Are you kidding?" Danny holds up a hand that presumably still has four fingers and a thumb on it, though he's having difficulty in focusing. "One, you trusted me with a deep, dark secret."
"It's not actually a --"
"You shared, man. You shared," Danny says earnestly and pats Steve's arm. "That's good. Two, you dig guys. You do, right? I'm not gonna get to the end of this and you turn around and tell me you meant the cheerleader?"
Steve shakes his head. "It was a guy," he says. "Mostly, it's not, but sometimes, if it's the right time, the right mood, then…"
"I hear you." Danny tries to stop his head from nodding. Easy to start: difficult to stop. "So, three -- I was up to three, right?"
"I think so. Does it matter if you weren't?"
"Yes, because if I'm too drunk to count to three, I shouldn't be telling you that in between the long stretches when I want to punch you for being a reckless asshole, I kinda might have these moments, brief, fleeting moments, when I want to…"
"Yeah?" Steve says and he's all encouragement now, leaning forward so that the noise of the bar -- and it's all raucous carols and people singing who should stick to mouthing the words -- dims down to a fuzzy buzz.
"Be your cheerleader," Danny says and it makes perfect sense in his head, until he flashes on himself stark naked waving pompoms and cracks up.
Steve leans back, his mouth a grim line. Not a happy camper. "I get it. You were joking. You're so fucking funny."
"What?" Danny chokes back the next chuckle and wipes at his eyes. "No! I was picturing -- never mind. Not joking. You have sex with your team members. There's precedent. I'm all over the precedent. And I'm your partner. That's even better than being on the same team. We get to have epic sex. Epic! This is the best Christmas present ever."
Steve shakes his head. "When you sober up, you're gonna wish you'd asked for socks."
"No," Danny says and means it, even drunk, he means it. "And I thought we weren't doing the whole present-swapping thing?"
"We're not," Steve said, a note of alarm sounding. "Shit, you didn't get me something, did you?"
"No, but…" Danny feels his mouth droop sadly as he slides effortlessly into maudlin. Throwing up can't be far away. "So maybe I'm not your type, is that it?"
"Hell, no," Steve says emphatically. "Not that I've ever gone for anyone like you before because there isn't anyone like you. I think that's a good thing."
"I think that's an insult," Danny grumbles. Steve gets told he's lusted after and that's the best he can do?
"Wasn't meant to be." Steve eyes him. "Okay, suppose we were playing Santa with each other --"
"That is so sick," Danny murmurs, entranced. Steve in red velvet and white fur and black leather boots…he could pull it off. And if he couldn't, Danny would. Take all of it off, leaving nothing but naked Steve, all tanned skin against that pool of soft, deep red velvet…maybe he could keep the boots on… "Don't stop."
Steve takes a deep breath. "This is what I want," he says and bends down to take the straw poked into his own frothy, fruity, frou-frou drink between his lips, sucking it long and slow until his cheeks hollow and Danny's gripping the edge of the chair to stop himself from grabbing Steve right there and planting one on his sweet, sticky mouth.
"Well?" Steve says, after letting the straw slip free. He licks his lips. "Have I been naughty or nice?"
"I don't give a fuck," Danny says honestly. "I'm still gonna blow you." He burps and tastes pineapple. "After I throw up or you might take it the wrong way."
"Did I mention how it was your romantic side that first attracted me?"
"We both know it was my ass," Danny says and signals for the check. He's going to leave a big tip. Huge. He's feeling pretty fucking merry right now.
So let's go to Hawaii today...
Work Text:
"Okay, we've done the easy ones. When was your first blow job?" Danny says, going for the personal stuff just to make Steve squirm. Call it payback for the last few months. He's earned every twitch after all those car chases, all those broken regs.
He's drunk enough --- hey, it's Christmas Eve, he's entitled -- to be mildly interested in the answer, but he's waiting impatiently for it to be his turn to spill. Candy-pink lips, those cute giggles when he asked Cindy to please spit out her gum first… Good times and if two years later he'd found out that it felt just as good when the mouth belonged to a guy, well, that was his business and it wasn't like Steve would ask what his eighth blow job was like, now was it?
"Locker room, senior year, after the game when the rest of the team was showering," Steve says after a pause, the words dragged out of him, choppy and succinct. His face warms, his eyes distant, then they sharpen and focus on Danny. "Had to be quick, but that wasn't a problem. I was pumped, man."
Danny frowns to hide the way his heart had thudded at the image of Steve, sweaty, flushed and intense, grinding out a curse, his voice shaky, as he shot deep and hard. He takes a long sip of something fruity and icy cold, with an astonishing amount of vodka lurking in each sip. "You smuggled a girl in there with the team a few yards away? Sounds risky. Fun, but risky."
The pause is even longer and Steve's looking at the table now, his lips pursed. They're not bright pink the way Cindy's were, but they look warm. Kissable. Kissable? Danny pushes his drink aside. Lusting after Steve is one thing, an occupational hazard like bullets in the air around his head on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean he has to get as mushy as an over-ripe pineapple over the guy's mouth.
"Yeah, it was," Steve says eventually, "but I didn't. Smuggle someone in, I mean. I wasn't the only player who waited for a shower."
It takes a while for Danny to get it -- totally the fault of the Slamma-Bamma-Mama he's been drinking -- but when he does, he smiles, slow and wide.
"Oh."
"Yeah," Steve says flatly, looking like a man with regrets and it's not even the morning after yet.
"Thanks," Danny adds, remembering his manners.
"What for?" Steve asks, a guarded wariness in his eyes.
"Are you kidding?" Danny holds up a hand that presumably still has four fingers and a thumb on it, though he's having difficulty in focusing. "One, you trusted me with a deep, dark secret."
"It's not actually a --"
"You shared, man. You shared," Danny says earnestly and pats Steve's arm. "That's good. Two, you dig guys. You do, right? I'm not gonna get to the end of this and you turn around and tell me you meant the cheerleader?"
Steve shakes his head. "It was a guy," he says. "Mostly, it's not, but sometimes, if it's the right time, the right mood, then…"
"I hear you." Danny tries to stop his head from nodding. Easy to start: difficult to stop. "So, three -- I was up to three, right?"
"I think so. Does it matter if you weren't?"
"Yes, because if I'm too drunk to count to three, I shouldn't be telling you that in between the long stretches when I want to punch you for being a reckless asshole, I kinda might have these moments, brief, fleeting moments, when I want to…"
"Yeah?" Steve says and he's all encouragement now, leaning forward so that the noise of the bar -- and it's all raucous carols and people singing who should stick to mouthing the words -- dims down to a fuzzy buzz.
"Be your cheerleader," Danny says and it makes perfect sense in his head, until he flashes on himself stark naked waving pompoms and cracks up.
Steve leans back, his mouth a grim line. Not a happy camper. "I get it. You were joking. You're so fucking funny."
"What?" Danny chokes back the next chuckle and wipes at his eyes. "No! I was picturing -- never mind. Not joking. You have sex with your team members. There's precedent. I'm all over the precedent. And I'm your partner. That's even better than being on the same team. We get to have epic sex. Epic! This is the best Christmas present ever."
Steve shakes his head. "When you sober up, you're gonna wish you'd asked for socks."
"No," Danny says and means it, even drunk, he means it. "And I thought we weren't doing the whole present-swapping thing?"
"We're not," Steve said, a note of alarm sounding. "Shit, you didn't get me something, did you?"
"No, but…" Danny feels his mouth droop sadly as he slides effortlessly into maudlin. Throwing up can't be far away. "So maybe I'm not your type, is that it?"
"Hell, no," Steve says emphatically. "Not that I've ever gone for anyone like you before because there isn't anyone like you. I think that's a good thing."
"I think that's an insult," Danny grumbles. Steve gets told he's lusted after and that's the best he can do?
"Wasn't meant to be." Steve eyes him. "Okay, suppose we were playing Santa with each other --"
"That is so sick," Danny murmurs, entranced. Steve in red velvet and white fur and black leather boots…he could pull it off. And if he couldn't, Danny would. Take all of it off, leaving nothing but naked Steve, all tanned skin against that pool of soft, deep red velvet…maybe he could keep the boots on… "Don't stop."
Steve takes a deep breath. "This is what I want," he says and bends down to take the straw poked into his own frothy, fruity, frou-frou drink between his lips, sucking it long and slow until his cheeks hollow and Danny's gripping the edge of the chair to stop himself from grabbing Steve right there and planting one on his sweet, sticky mouth.
"Well?" Steve says, after letting the straw slip free. He licks his lips. "Have I been naughty or nice?"
"I don't give a fuck," Danny says honestly. "I'm still gonna blow you." He burps and tastes pineapple. "After I throw up or you might take it the wrong way."
"Did I mention how it was your romantic side that first attracted me?"
"We both know it was my ass," Danny says and signals for the check. He's going to leave a big tip. Huge. He's feeling pretty fucking merry right now.
December 11, 2016
Tentative release date for Turn Up the Heat
Is....
April 11 2017.
Meeting Rory’s needs got easier every time too. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he wanted the slow, sweet lovemaking he’d pictured. Not if it cost him Rory—wild, gasping, a writhing, needy mess of lust and passion, taking every thrust as if the hard fucking was air and water to him.
Watch this space :-))
April 11 2017.
Meeting Rory’s needs got easier every time too. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he wanted the slow, sweet lovemaking he’d pictured. Not if it cost him Rory—wild, gasping, a writhing, needy mess of lust and passion, taking every thrust as if the hard fucking was air and water to him.
Watch this space :-))
Day Eleven of Advent
Door Eleven is opened by Trio and Sunne who asked for Sterling and Owen from Bound and Determined
A Place in my Heart
“There! That one!” Sterling rushed over to a blue spruce Owen estimated to be two feet higher than the ceiling in any room of their house.
That wasn’t what made him frown. Sterling was under orders to stay within reach once they left the car and entered the Christmas tree lot. It was an order Owen gave from time to time when Sterling’s emotions were chaotic and his focus as scattered as a kaleidoscope.
Holidays were difficult times. Reconciled with his mother, but not his father, Sterling’s home was with Owen and likely to stay that way. It didn’t matter that Sterling was at the age where moving out and finding his own place was natural; he’d lost his childhood refuge and that had to hurt.
Sterling had been weirdly distracted the last week, humming songs, tweaking the decorations he’d put up until Owen had spanked him with one of them. He wasn’t sure what it was, but Sterling had hung it over the handle to the front door, a long piece of wood decorated with dancing reindeer and white glitter. Every time Owen opened the door it shed sparkles.
The reindeer looked considerably less perky when he’d finished turning Sterling’s ass Santa-red. And the glitter against all that bruised skin did lend a festive air, he supposed.
Owen understood and sympathized with Sterling’s feelings, but he had no intention of allowing him to get away with flagrant disobedience. The place was quiet, no one nearby. He whistled, a sharp sound that had Sterling jerking around, then slipped the glove from his hand. The snap of his fingers, the curl of his finger, hooked Sterling as surely as a fish taking the bait and Owen reeled in his wayward sub.
“Repeat your instructions,” he said when Sterling was beside him, head down, the picture of penitence.
“Stay within reach of your hand, but that one was per—ow!”
Owen smiled, noting that Sterling didn’t rub his stinging ass. Didn’t even seem too perturbed by the smack, judging by his grin. “See? Now you’re making life easy for me. Much better.”
“I didn’t mean to disobey you. It’s just…” Sterling waved his arms and gave the impression of jumping up and down, though his feet stayed grounded. “Christmas! I love Christmas. And last one was kinda mixed-up and weird, but this year it’s you and me and it’s going to be perfect.”
Stunned by the sheer joy in Sterling’s voice and the glow in his eyes, Owen swallowed back a question. Asking Sterling if he was sure he didn’t mind not going home would be cruel.
Besides, he had the feeling that once they’d chosen a tree and loaded it up, that’s exactly where Sterling thought he was going.
Home.
A Place in my Heart
“There! That one!” Sterling rushed over to a blue spruce Owen estimated to be two feet higher than the ceiling in any room of their house.
That wasn’t what made him frown. Sterling was under orders to stay within reach once they left the car and entered the Christmas tree lot. It was an order Owen gave from time to time when Sterling’s emotions were chaotic and his focus as scattered as a kaleidoscope.
Holidays were difficult times. Reconciled with his mother, but not his father, Sterling’s home was with Owen and likely to stay that way. It didn’t matter that Sterling was at the age where moving out and finding his own place was natural; he’d lost his childhood refuge and that had to hurt.
Sterling had been weirdly distracted the last week, humming songs, tweaking the decorations he’d put up until Owen had spanked him with one of them. He wasn’t sure what it was, but Sterling had hung it over the handle to the front door, a long piece of wood decorated with dancing reindeer and white glitter. Every time Owen opened the door it shed sparkles.
The reindeer looked considerably less perky when he’d finished turning Sterling’s ass Santa-red. And the glitter against all that bruised skin did lend a festive air, he supposed.
Owen understood and sympathized with Sterling’s feelings, but he had no intention of allowing him to get away with flagrant disobedience. The place was quiet, no one nearby. He whistled, a sharp sound that had Sterling jerking around, then slipped the glove from his hand. The snap of his fingers, the curl of his finger, hooked Sterling as surely as a fish taking the bait and Owen reeled in his wayward sub.
“Repeat your instructions,” he said when Sterling was beside him, head down, the picture of penitence.
“Stay within reach of your hand, but that one was per—ow!”
Owen smiled, noting that Sterling didn’t rub his stinging ass. Didn’t even seem too perturbed by the smack, judging by his grin. “See? Now you’re making life easy for me. Much better.”
“I didn’t mean to disobey you. It’s just…” Sterling waved his arms and gave the impression of jumping up and down, though his feet stayed grounded. “Christmas! I love Christmas. And last one was kinda mixed-up and weird, but this year it’s you and me and it’s going to be perfect.”
Stunned by the sheer joy in Sterling’s voice and the glow in his eyes, Owen swallowed back a question. Asking Sterling if he was sure he didn’t mind not going home would be cruel.
Besides, he had the feeling that once they’d chosen a tree and loaded it up, that’s exactly where Sterling thought he was going.
Home.
December 10, 2016
Day Ten of Advent
This isn't very old but I loved writing it so I'm reposting. Original characters.
Lighting Up My Life
Living out in the country meant no one but a wandering bear (not the sexy kind, but the real deal. Still hairy with a growl, but less likely to be in a leather bar) would see our Christmas lights, but I wanted them up anyway.
So I like a little twinkle with my season. It’s not a crime. And, yes, for a log cabin, the furnishings are less woodland rustic and more Parisian loft chic, but a space is a space and I could make a tent look ready for a photo-shoot in a décor mag.
Or if Kelly was lying on the sleeping bag naked, a few autumn leaves scattered across that gorgeous bod, berry juice drizzled across his nipples, cock as stiff as a tree trunk, an entirely different kind of publication.
Kelly’s the troll under the bridge to my goat. He’s big and gruff and I trip along happily, anyway, It was a goat in the story, right? My parents never read me stories – I know, sob, sob – and we lived too far from town to make the library an option. I missed out on huge chunks of stuff everyone else knows. If they didn’t make a movie of it, I’m lost. Kelly’s never without a book or three on the go and he reads to me when I ask, deep voice slow on the words, giving me time to put them into order in my head.
Love him. Love him so fucking much. Even if he took a box of battery operated diamond lights from me in the store last week and said we had enough, no more.
There’s always room for another book, but not my impulse buys. I’d pout over it if he didn’t have a teensy, tiny point. And he’s right; blowing a circuit and spending Christmas in the dark would suck.
It was snowing lightly this Christmas Eve, and we had one more string to put up. It was a special string, the one I save until last because Kelly got for me the day we met. I couldn’t get the box down from the shelf and no one would help me. Not out of meanness. Crater’s a nice country town in Southern Ontario. It’s big enough that we’re not the only gay guys or gals around, but people were super busy and I was ready to swarm up the fucking shelves and risk them tipping over if I could just get my hands on that box of candy red twinklers.
I started to climb, foot on the shelf, about to push off and up, when an arm snaked around my waist and hauled me back. I spun around, and trust me, a sassy pivot in snow boots isn’t easy to pull off, but I did it. Found myself looking at a plaid shirt and a wide chest. I tilted back and stared at into blue eyes and a frown.
“That’s dangerous.”
Stamping my foot was overkill but my toes twitched with the need to act out. My inner child’s a brat. “I want those lights. They’re worth the risk.”
He grinned, slow and hot, like soup simmering. “Ask nicely.”
I don’t bend that easily. “Point me at Mr. Nicely and I will.”
He hummed, the sound coming from deep in his chest. Be fun to feel it up close, let it tickle my ear. “Sassy mouth.”
I licked my lips. Bad idea in the winter, but I had lip balm in two pockets. Raspberry-lemon and choc-mint. I like a mixed message. “You have no idea how right you are.”
I expected it to scare him off or freak him out, but he tapped his finger on my lips as if he was testing them for something. Maybe just to see if I’d pooch them up automatically in a kiss, which I did. “Sassy’s good. Polite’s better.”
I widened my eyes, green contacts that day, nice and seasonal (red was too, but…yeah. No.) and addressed an empty piece of air. “Dear Santa, please send a sweet little elf to get me down that box of lights. I swear I’ve been good all year. And if I was naughty once or twice, well, it’s Christmas, so let me off with a warning.”
He snorted, amusement putting sparks in his eyes. “Don’t think it works that way, and I’m no elf, but if you want those lights that badly you’ll flirt with someone like me, I’ll reach them down.”
He handed them to me and nodded before walking away. Hell, yeah, I went after him. Someone like him? The hell? Whoever had done a number on his confidence I didn’t know (still don’t) but I was good at rebuilding a man’s ego. And the rest is history. Our history. So we live together in my granddaddy’s cabin and he rents snowmobiles to tourists in the winter and canoes in the summer and me, well, I do this, that, and the other to help out. We get by.
And now he was up on a stepladder with me holding on to keep the steps from spilling him into a drift.
Interesting view. My face was a few inches from an area I knew intimately. He reached up, grunting as he fought to hook the strand over the nails I’d hammered into wood in the shape of a star and his jacket rode up. Even better view now. Worn denim and a zipper over a shape I wanted defined, promising. In our bedroom, snuggled under a thick quilt, I could get his cock up and hard in a matter of seconds, but out here in the cold was more of a challenge.
Kelly’s shy behind the growl. Outdoor sex isn’t his thing, but it was close to dusk and the woods were silent. Okay, not totally silent. Woods never are. But there were no people noises, just the creak of snow-laden branches and the sigh of a breeze. We were invisible. Safe behind a curtain of falling flakes and darkness.
I breathed out. No way had he felt it through denim, but he jerked as if he had. “Stop that.”
“Too late for you to send my gifts back to the North Pole. Last time I checked, Santa was on his way.” I tugged his zipper down, the rasp of metal zinging over my nerves. I wasn’t hard, but I was turned on. Kind of weird, body and mind out of sync. It didn’t matter. I was doing this for him.
Well…maybe a little for me. Love getting my mouth filled and stretched by his cock. He’s always so fucking gentle until I push him to a rougher place. I hate myself afterward but never at the time.
“I’m busy. And on a ladder.”
I slipped off my gloves, then worked his cock through the gap, shivering reflexively. The only bare skin I was offering up to the air was on my hands and face and I planned to keep it that way. “You’re here and I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Physical impossibility, but he knew what I meant.
“I’m not doing this.” He sounded firm, but his cock was too. It uncurled, stiffening, straightening, and I grinned and listened to it, not him.
“You’ve got a job to do, mister. String those lights. Just ignore me.”
He muttered something under his breath I was intended to hear and I sniffed. For that, he was getting a BJ to leave his knees shaky and his heart pounding, helpless moans and whimpers pouring out with his spunk.
I’d teach him to liken me to a mosquito when he knows how much I hate those tiny bits of hell spawn.
Slow licks, hot puffs of breath… Like the organic version of wax and ice play, all natural and pure. The air around us, spangled with frozen snow, added light touches of cold with every flake settling on his cock. I held off from taking him deep, entranced by the way they held their shape for a split second, white on red, like the most lickable candy cane ever, then melted.
If they melted, his cock couldn’t be that cold, right?
I swirled the tip of my tongue here and there, darting licks, making it last. I got a hit of his taste, the warm aroma of his skin down there lost to me because the cold had shut down my nose. Shame. I adored breathing in his scent, earthy, trapped in the dense mass of dark hair clouding the shape of his balls.
He stopped moving. Were the lights in place? I didn’t look. Too busy concentrating. I’d dropped my gloves, slush had worked its way inside my boots and turned my socks to clammy heaviness and I didn’t care.
The act itself was familiar. I wasn’t doing anything I hadn’t done to him a hundred times before. My mouth on his cock. Sucking, tongue caressing hot stiffness, me trying to deep throat him and failing because the spirit’s willing and the gag reflex is really, really strong.
It was the setting making it magical. And, okay, Kelly on a ladder and me standing in a drift, head wedged against the metal rungs, was awkward as hell, but it didn’t matter. I could feel his silent laughter, the flex of his stomach as he kept that laughter from shattering the hush around us. Could tell when amusement faded and he surrendered, the string of lights hanging down, forgotten, as he reached to touch my cheek. Gentle fingers, soft as the whiteness and he came in a slow, sweet wave, spunk breaking over my tongue.
I pulled back, then nuzzled into the flesh I’d left wet and vulnerable, shielding it from the icy air. I was hard now, but it was a distant arousal, a comfortable ache I could wait for Kelly to soothe later.
Something in his front pocket, all straight lines and hard edges, dug into my cheek. I made a puzzled sound and he eased me off him and zipped up. With a grunt, he jumped off the ladder and came around it to hug me.
“You’re wicked.”
“If you’re waiting for an apology…”
“Nope. I like your brand of wicked.” He reached into his pocket and took out a jewelry box. “I like it this much.”
Sweet Saint Nick. A ring. It glittered from a cushion of pale satin, a circle of white gold set with tiny rubies. My lights in miniature.
“I should be on my knees for this.” He scratched his chin. “The hell. Why not?” He sank into the snow and looked up at me. “Marry me? Please? And if the answer’s ‘no’, wear the ring anyway because it’s as pretty as you.”
“I—” Speechless. My throat closed around the words I wanted to say to him, my beautiful giant, kneeling in front of me, every barrier down, letting me see into his heart. I’d never been loved before. Never known how it felt to be the needed one, the necessary one. He was offering me more than metal and stone, more than his name linked with mine.
He was giving me everything I’d ever wanted and I gave him a ‘yes’ he couldn’t have heard, it was so quiet.
I ended up on my back in the snow, the ring warm on my finger as he kissed me. Maybe he’d got really good hearing, because he grinned before his mouth met mine. When the kiss ended, I stared past his head and up, dizzy at the sight of the flakes spinning around, a wild cloud of them.
Best Christmas ever. Or it would be.
“Get off me. You need to finish the lights.” I fluttered snow-wet eyelashes when he frowned. Maybe a few tears in the mix, but I’d never tell. “Please?”
“This time, you hold the ladder, not my dick.”
I didn’t promise, so I wasn’t technically being naughty when my hand slipped and slid sideways. I was holding him steady, I swear.
Holding him close, always.
Lighting Up My Life
Living out in the country meant no one but a wandering bear (not the sexy kind, but the real deal. Still hairy with a growl, but less likely to be in a leather bar) would see our Christmas lights, but I wanted them up anyway.
So I like a little twinkle with my season. It’s not a crime. And, yes, for a log cabin, the furnishings are less woodland rustic and more Parisian loft chic, but a space is a space and I could make a tent look ready for a photo-shoot in a décor mag.
Or if Kelly was lying on the sleeping bag naked, a few autumn leaves scattered across that gorgeous bod, berry juice drizzled across his nipples, cock as stiff as a tree trunk, an entirely different kind of publication.
Kelly’s the troll under the bridge to my goat. He’s big and gruff and I trip along happily, anyway, It was a goat in the story, right? My parents never read me stories – I know, sob, sob – and we lived too far from town to make the library an option. I missed out on huge chunks of stuff everyone else knows. If they didn’t make a movie of it, I’m lost. Kelly’s never without a book or three on the go and he reads to me when I ask, deep voice slow on the words, giving me time to put them into order in my head.
Love him. Love him so fucking much. Even if he took a box of battery operated diamond lights from me in the store last week and said we had enough, no more.
There’s always room for another book, but not my impulse buys. I’d pout over it if he didn’t have a teensy, tiny point. And he’s right; blowing a circuit and spending Christmas in the dark would suck.
It was snowing lightly this Christmas Eve, and we had one more string to put up. It was a special string, the one I save until last because Kelly got for me the day we met. I couldn’t get the box down from the shelf and no one would help me. Not out of meanness. Crater’s a nice country town in Southern Ontario. It’s big enough that we’re not the only gay guys or gals around, but people were super busy and I was ready to swarm up the fucking shelves and risk them tipping over if I could just get my hands on that box of candy red twinklers.
I started to climb, foot on the shelf, about to push off and up, when an arm snaked around my waist and hauled me back. I spun around, and trust me, a sassy pivot in snow boots isn’t easy to pull off, but I did it. Found myself looking at a plaid shirt and a wide chest. I tilted back and stared at into blue eyes and a frown.
“That’s dangerous.”
Stamping my foot was overkill but my toes twitched with the need to act out. My inner child’s a brat. “I want those lights. They’re worth the risk.”
He grinned, slow and hot, like soup simmering. “Ask nicely.”
I don’t bend that easily. “Point me at Mr. Nicely and I will.”
He hummed, the sound coming from deep in his chest. Be fun to feel it up close, let it tickle my ear. “Sassy mouth.”
I licked my lips. Bad idea in the winter, but I had lip balm in two pockets. Raspberry-lemon and choc-mint. I like a mixed message. “You have no idea how right you are.”
I expected it to scare him off or freak him out, but he tapped his finger on my lips as if he was testing them for something. Maybe just to see if I’d pooch them up automatically in a kiss, which I did. “Sassy’s good. Polite’s better.”
I widened my eyes, green contacts that day, nice and seasonal (red was too, but…yeah. No.) and addressed an empty piece of air. “Dear Santa, please send a sweet little elf to get me down that box of lights. I swear I’ve been good all year. And if I was naughty once or twice, well, it’s Christmas, so let me off with a warning.”
He snorted, amusement putting sparks in his eyes. “Don’t think it works that way, and I’m no elf, but if you want those lights that badly you’ll flirt with someone like me, I’ll reach them down.”
He handed them to me and nodded before walking away. Hell, yeah, I went after him. Someone like him? The hell? Whoever had done a number on his confidence I didn’t know (still don’t) but I was good at rebuilding a man’s ego. And the rest is history. Our history. So we live together in my granddaddy’s cabin and he rents snowmobiles to tourists in the winter and canoes in the summer and me, well, I do this, that, and the other to help out. We get by.
And now he was up on a stepladder with me holding on to keep the steps from spilling him into a drift.
Interesting view. My face was a few inches from an area I knew intimately. He reached up, grunting as he fought to hook the strand over the nails I’d hammered into wood in the shape of a star and his jacket rode up. Even better view now. Worn denim and a zipper over a shape I wanted defined, promising. In our bedroom, snuggled under a thick quilt, I could get his cock up and hard in a matter of seconds, but out here in the cold was more of a challenge.
Kelly’s shy behind the growl. Outdoor sex isn’t his thing, but it was close to dusk and the woods were silent. Okay, not totally silent. Woods never are. But there were no people noises, just the creak of snow-laden branches and the sigh of a breeze. We were invisible. Safe behind a curtain of falling flakes and darkness.
I breathed out. No way had he felt it through denim, but he jerked as if he had. “Stop that.”
“Too late for you to send my gifts back to the North Pole. Last time I checked, Santa was on his way.” I tugged his zipper down, the rasp of metal zinging over my nerves. I wasn’t hard, but I was turned on. Kind of weird, body and mind out of sync. It didn’t matter. I was doing this for him.
Well…maybe a little for me. Love getting my mouth filled and stretched by his cock. He’s always so fucking gentle until I push him to a rougher place. I hate myself afterward but never at the time.
“I’m busy. And on a ladder.”
I slipped off my gloves, then worked his cock through the gap, shivering reflexively. The only bare skin I was offering up to the air was on my hands and face and I planned to keep it that way. “You’re here and I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Physical impossibility, but he knew what I meant.
“I’m not doing this.” He sounded firm, but his cock was too. It uncurled, stiffening, straightening, and I grinned and listened to it, not him.
“You’ve got a job to do, mister. String those lights. Just ignore me.”
He muttered something under his breath I was intended to hear and I sniffed. For that, he was getting a BJ to leave his knees shaky and his heart pounding, helpless moans and whimpers pouring out with his spunk.
I’d teach him to liken me to a mosquito when he knows how much I hate those tiny bits of hell spawn.
Slow licks, hot puffs of breath… Like the organic version of wax and ice play, all natural and pure. The air around us, spangled with frozen snow, added light touches of cold with every flake settling on his cock. I held off from taking him deep, entranced by the way they held their shape for a split second, white on red, like the most lickable candy cane ever, then melted.
If they melted, his cock couldn’t be that cold, right?
I swirled the tip of my tongue here and there, darting licks, making it last. I got a hit of his taste, the warm aroma of his skin down there lost to me because the cold had shut down my nose. Shame. I adored breathing in his scent, earthy, trapped in the dense mass of dark hair clouding the shape of his balls.
He stopped moving. Were the lights in place? I didn’t look. Too busy concentrating. I’d dropped my gloves, slush had worked its way inside my boots and turned my socks to clammy heaviness and I didn’t care.
The act itself was familiar. I wasn’t doing anything I hadn’t done to him a hundred times before. My mouth on his cock. Sucking, tongue caressing hot stiffness, me trying to deep throat him and failing because the spirit’s willing and the gag reflex is really, really strong.
It was the setting making it magical. And, okay, Kelly on a ladder and me standing in a drift, head wedged against the metal rungs, was awkward as hell, but it didn’t matter. I could feel his silent laughter, the flex of his stomach as he kept that laughter from shattering the hush around us. Could tell when amusement faded and he surrendered, the string of lights hanging down, forgotten, as he reached to touch my cheek. Gentle fingers, soft as the whiteness and he came in a slow, sweet wave, spunk breaking over my tongue.
I pulled back, then nuzzled into the flesh I’d left wet and vulnerable, shielding it from the icy air. I was hard now, but it was a distant arousal, a comfortable ache I could wait for Kelly to soothe later.
Something in his front pocket, all straight lines and hard edges, dug into my cheek. I made a puzzled sound and he eased me off him and zipped up. With a grunt, he jumped off the ladder and came around it to hug me.
“You’re wicked.”
“If you’re waiting for an apology…”
“Nope. I like your brand of wicked.” He reached into his pocket and took out a jewelry box. “I like it this much.”
Sweet Saint Nick. A ring. It glittered from a cushion of pale satin, a circle of white gold set with tiny rubies. My lights in miniature.
“I should be on my knees for this.” He scratched his chin. “The hell. Why not?” He sank into the snow and looked up at me. “Marry me? Please? And if the answer’s ‘no’, wear the ring anyway because it’s as pretty as you.”
“I—” Speechless. My throat closed around the words I wanted to say to him, my beautiful giant, kneeling in front of me, every barrier down, letting me see into his heart. I’d never been loved before. Never known how it felt to be the needed one, the necessary one. He was offering me more than metal and stone, more than his name linked with mine.
He was giving me everything I’d ever wanted and I gave him a ‘yes’ he couldn’t have heard, it was so quiet.
I ended up on my back in the snow, the ring warm on my finger as he kissed me. Maybe he’d got really good hearing, because he grinned before his mouth met mine. When the kiss ended, I stared past his head and up, dizzy at the sight of the flakes spinning around, a wild cloud of them.
Best Christmas ever. Or it would be.
“Get off me. You need to finish the lights.” I fluttered snow-wet eyelashes when he frowned. Maybe a few tears in the mix, but I’d never tell. “Please?”
“This time, you hold the ladder, not my dick.”
I didn’t promise, so I wasn’t technically being naughty when my hand slipped and slid sideways. I was holding him steady, I swear.
Holding him close, always.
December 9, 2016
Day Nine of Advent
Been shopping in Toronto all day so another oldie for today :-) Again, it's Jim/Blair from The Sentinel. I'm rewatching with my 16 yr old daughter and she's loving the slashiness.
Hunt
Jim smells the vodka from clear across the room and wrinkles his nose. It clashes with the mulled wine in a way he can't articulate but doesn't like.
Or maybe he's just pissed at someone's idea of a joke. A single drink probably wouldn't do much harm to someone driving; the glasses are small and the concoction's too sweet to be drunk in volume. Laced with vodka, though, a glass is enough to send someone out to their car just that little slow in reacting, and the roads are slick with ice.
A quiet word in the ear of the server, whose blouse is decorated with a Rudolph brooch, red nose flashing (a sartorial crime even at this time of the year, but not one Jim's interested in prosecuting) and the punchbowl is whisked away.
Time to hunt down the joker.
Jim takes a deep, satisfied breath, smiles, all teeth, and startles a passing professor into spilling her drink (luckily club soda). It's at times like this that he loves having enhanced senses. His steps quicken and he's breathing lightly, quickly, heart thudding with excitement.
The flat, empty bottle makes the student's jacket hang down on one side. Too stupid to ditch the evidence, or too arrogant to think that he'd be caught? Jim doesn't care. He hauls the boy into an empty hallway and scares the shit out of the punk without breaking a sweat, gets his name, and promises reprisals.
The boy scurries off, shoulders hunched.
"You enjoyed that way too much," Blair says in his ear.
Jim grins. Busted.
"And you were good. I watched you. You didn't hesitate; just homed in on him."
Jim shrugs. "It was easy."
"A thousand different scents to sort through? A year ago, you'd have told me it was impossible." Blair sounds regretful. "You don't need me now."
"Never going to be true, babe," Jim tells him sincerely. "Trust me, when you said a sentinel needs backup, you were right." He steps in close and guides Blair's hand to the strong, hard pulse of his erection for a fleeting moment, listening for approaching footsteps without taking his attention away from Blair. "God, you were so right…"
"That's not your back," Blair says, his lips twisting in a smile, "and anyone can take care of that little problem."
"You're wrong about that," Jim says, ignoring the 'little'. They both know it isn't. "And if you want to watch my back, take me home and bend me over something when you fuck me; you'll have a great view of it then."
Blair's breath catches and the look he gives Jim is fierce, hungry as his hand reaches out. "That hunt really got you going, didn't it?" Jim nods, too aroused to speak now that Blair's playing with him. "I guess you earned a reward," Blair muses and Jim nods again, wondering what he'll get from Blair.
Blair who guides the hunt, and holds his leash tightly, just the way he likes it.
Hunt
Jim smells the vodka from clear across the room and wrinkles his nose. It clashes with the mulled wine in a way he can't articulate but doesn't like.
Or maybe he's just pissed at someone's idea of a joke. A single drink probably wouldn't do much harm to someone driving; the glasses are small and the concoction's too sweet to be drunk in volume. Laced with vodka, though, a glass is enough to send someone out to their car just that little slow in reacting, and the roads are slick with ice.
A quiet word in the ear of the server, whose blouse is decorated with a Rudolph brooch, red nose flashing (a sartorial crime even at this time of the year, but not one Jim's interested in prosecuting) and the punchbowl is whisked away.
Time to hunt down the joker.
Jim takes a deep, satisfied breath, smiles, all teeth, and startles a passing professor into spilling her drink (luckily club soda). It's at times like this that he loves having enhanced senses. His steps quicken and he's breathing lightly, quickly, heart thudding with excitement.
The flat, empty bottle makes the student's jacket hang down on one side. Too stupid to ditch the evidence, or too arrogant to think that he'd be caught? Jim doesn't care. He hauls the boy into an empty hallway and scares the shit out of the punk without breaking a sweat, gets his name, and promises reprisals.
The boy scurries off, shoulders hunched.
"You enjoyed that way too much," Blair says in his ear.
Jim grins. Busted.
"And you were good. I watched you. You didn't hesitate; just homed in on him."
Jim shrugs. "It was easy."
"A thousand different scents to sort through? A year ago, you'd have told me it was impossible." Blair sounds regretful. "You don't need me now."
"Never going to be true, babe," Jim tells him sincerely. "Trust me, when you said a sentinel needs backup, you were right." He steps in close and guides Blair's hand to the strong, hard pulse of his erection for a fleeting moment, listening for approaching footsteps without taking his attention away from Blair. "God, you were so right…"
"That's not your back," Blair says, his lips twisting in a smile, "and anyone can take care of that little problem."
"You're wrong about that," Jim says, ignoring the 'little'. They both know it isn't. "And if you want to watch my back, take me home and bend me over something when you fuck me; you'll have a great view of it then."
Blair's breath catches and the look he gives Jim is fierce, hungry as his hand reaches out. "That hunt really got you going, didn't it?" Jim nods, too aroused to speak now that Blair's playing with him. "I guess you earned a reward," Blair muses and Jim nods again, wondering what he'll get from Blair.
Blair who guides the hunt, and holds his leash tightly, just the way he likes it.
December 8, 2016
Day Eight of Advent
Door Eight is opened by Michaella who asked for Daniel/Cameron.
Not in Kansas
The sheen of sweat across Cameron’s shoulders makes Daniel want to touch, to taste. Stupid, really. It’s sweat. It’ll leave his fingers damp and his tongue tasting salt. He knows this and he still wants to do it.
Curiosity is the besetting sin of an archeologist. Not that he thinks of himself in those terms these days. Too many Goa’uld kills under his belt, too many worlds saved, deaths died, resurrections managed. He’s not sure what he is, but archeologist is the least of it.
One certainty is that he’s Cameron’s lover. And isn’t that surprising? So easy to go there, so satisfying to discover how all that boyish enthusiasm translates in bed to a focused determination on getting Daniel to cry out, whimper (once) and beg (same time as the whimpering, never to be repeated while there’s breath in his body. If Jack found out, the teasing would be unbearable.)
He settles for stroking Cameron’s ass, tracing the curve with an appreciation for all that taut muscle and the welcoming space his cock fits into so snugly. Cameron’s asshole is conquered territory. Daniel’s put his fingers, tongue, and cock into it, not in that order, and if his curiosity’s long since appeased, his appetite isn’t.
Cameron murmurs, sleepy, sated, and rolls over. “What?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. If you were at home, what would you be doing now?”
“Not lying in bed naked with a guy, that’s for sure.” Cameron yawns, not troubling to cover his mouth. His breath smells of coffee and cum. “Kansas at Christmas… It’s quiet, you know? Lots of hot cocoa and cookies, meals that leave your stomach aching it’s so full, people singing carols like they’re on a damn commercial. Homey. Yeah. It’s homey."
It’s as alien as a distant planet (and he knows his distant planets.) “Do you wish you were there?”
Cameron wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Kinda. Glad I’m not if you’re staying the night.”
“I’m not.” Daniel doesn’t hide his regret, but he doesn’t apologize or make excuses. Cameron knows why he can’t, why they can never have more than an hour or two together. Unless a blizzard arrives, trapping him, he’s got to leave at a reasonable time after spending an innocent evening ostensibly watching movies with a team mate.
Sometimes he wants to take the regs and shove them into the nearest black hole. But they’re not an object to be destroyed; more a mass of prejudices and caution. Because, leaving their gender aside, this is still forbidden what he’s doing, and for good reason. He doesn’t care, though. He’s arrogant enough to trust himself to keep his feelings for Cameron separate from their interaction in the field.
Daniel Jackson. The Special One. That’s him. He spares a moment to laugh silently at himself, then tunes back into what Cameron’s saying and lets him spin a fantasy land of snow and silent woods, blazing fires and family. How much of it is true, he’s not sure. That picture-perfect scene in reality probably contains mushy vegetables, squabbles, hurt feelings, buried resentments flashing to life, rain instead of snow, and indigestion.
But he lets himself listen to the longing in Cameron’s voice and translate it to the loneliness Cameron keeps hidden.
Maybe he’ll stay a little longer, after all.
Not in Kansas
The sheen of sweat across Cameron’s shoulders makes Daniel want to touch, to taste. Stupid, really. It’s sweat. It’ll leave his fingers damp and his tongue tasting salt. He knows this and he still wants to do it.
Curiosity is the besetting sin of an archeologist. Not that he thinks of himself in those terms these days. Too many Goa’uld kills under his belt, too many worlds saved, deaths died, resurrections managed. He’s not sure what he is, but archeologist is the least of it.
One certainty is that he’s Cameron’s lover. And isn’t that surprising? So easy to go there, so satisfying to discover how all that boyish enthusiasm translates in bed to a focused determination on getting Daniel to cry out, whimper (once) and beg (same time as the whimpering, never to be repeated while there’s breath in his body. If Jack found out, the teasing would be unbearable.)
He settles for stroking Cameron’s ass, tracing the curve with an appreciation for all that taut muscle and the welcoming space his cock fits into so snugly. Cameron’s asshole is conquered territory. Daniel’s put his fingers, tongue, and cock into it, not in that order, and if his curiosity’s long since appeased, his appetite isn’t.
Cameron murmurs, sleepy, sated, and rolls over. “What?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. If you were at home, what would you be doing now?”
“Not lying in bed naked with a guy, that’s for sure.” Cameron yawns, not troubling to cover his mouth. His breath smells of coffee and cum. “Kansas at Christmas… It’s quiet, you know? Lots of hot cocoa and cookies, meals that leave your stomach aching it’s so full, people singing carols like they’re on a damn commercial. Homey. Yeah. It’s homey."
It’s as alien as a distant planet (and he knows his distant planets.) “Do you wish you were there?”
Cameron wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Kinda. Glad I’m not if you’re staying the night.”
“I’m not.” Daniel doesn’t hide his regret, but he doesn’t apologize or make excuses. Cameron knows why he can’t, why they can never have more than an hour or two together. Unless a blizzard arrives, trapping him, he’s got to leave at a reasonable time after spending an innocent evening ostensibly watching movies with a team mate.
Sometimes he wants to take the regs and shove them into the nearest black hole. But they’re not an object to be destroyed; more a mass of prejudices and caution. Because, leaving their gender aside, this is still forbidden what he’s doing, and for good reason. He doesn’t care, though. He’s arrogant enough to trust himself to keep his feelings for Cameron separate from their interaction in the field.
Daniel Jackson. The Special One. That’s him. He spares a moment to laugh silently at himself, then tunes back into what Cameron’s saying and lets him spin a fantasy land of snow and silent woods, blazing fires and family. How much of it is true, he’s not sure. That picture-perfect scene in reality probably contains mushy vegetables, squabbles, hurt feelings, buried resentments flashing to life, rain instead of snow, and indigestion.
But he lets himself listen to the longing in Cameron’s voice and translate it to the loneliness Cameron keeps hidden.
Maybe he’ll stay a little longer, after all.
December 7, 2016
Day Seven of Advent
Door Seven opened by Tully.
This is a sequel to my BDSM Kink in Ink story, A Lick and a Promise with Jeff and his pup getting a real dog.
Puppy Training 101
“What do you think?” Jeff scratched the puppy’s ear, reducing it to a wriggle and a whine. “Cute, huh?”
I did that when he petted me. Didn’t mean I wanted to see a real dog do it. “One of his ears is lopsided, he limps, and he’s got a mean look in his eyes.”
“What?” Jeff turned the pup, a mongrel if ever I saw one, and studied its face. In return, it licked his nose. Unhygienic and clearly badly trained. “No way. This pup’s made of candy canes and chocolate. And the limp…never mind.”
“Chocolate’s poisonous for dogs.” I edged toward the door of the pound. “Can we go? Because I’ve got masses of Christmas shopping to do and we agreed both of us had to like the dog or we wouldn’t adopt it.”
“Yeah, I know.” The pup barked and wriggled its butt again, but Jeff set it back in its cage, closing the door carefully. “Let’s head out.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, but he didn’t look back at the puppy when it barked either.
***
Jeff was out with friends, celebrating a birthday, but I’d begged off. Literally, on my knees, nuzzling his hand as he stroked my face, and he’d agreed to go alone.
After easing down his zipper and letting me suck him dry, that is. He tasted clean from his shower, his cock warm against my tongue, and I used every trick I knew to make the blowjob last, but eventually he cried out and shot, filling my mouth. I swallowed and he pulled out, wiping his cock against my cheek, leaving his scent on me.
“Be good,” he said, with a hint of sternness. “No alcohol or candy. There’s water in your bowl and you’re to stay down unless there’s an emergency. “
That was shorthand for staying in puppy mode, on my hands and knees, collar around my neck, naked, a butt plug and tail stretching my hole, mitts on my hands. I nodded, and turned, presenting my butt for the insertion of the plug. He took his own sweet time fetching it and the lube, but I didn’t move, quivering with arousal, knowing he’d enjoy picturing me hard and aching, waiting for him to come home. My erection would subside, but not the longing.
The burn of the plug told me he’d used a size up from the usual one. That could be to punish me or to reinforce the dynamic between us. I could’ve asked which it was, but I stayed silent, already deep in a mindset where spoken words didn’t belong.
“Sweet pup,” he told me, fastening the mitts on my hands. “Be good for me, you hear?”
I barked, a sharp sound he had no trouble interpreting as agreement.
The door closed behind him, I whined and crawled to my kennel in the den, a room only we used these days. My kennel had a padded floor and a hook set into the wall. I was put there after a spanking, leash attached to the hook, my ass burning, my face wet with tears, to think over what I’d done. Now I went there to think about what I’d done and not gotten punished for.
We’d discussed a dog and agreed to it in theory. In practice, jealousy and possessiveness I was ashamed of had made me veto every dog we’d seen. Jeff had been patient, even offering to table the adoption, but I’d continued to insist I wanted a pet while steadfastly blocking any progress toward that goal.
I know. Made no sense. But I didn’t want my Master to see my flaws. Bad enough that I knew they existed.
I turned around three times and settled into a comfortable position, but I was restless. The pup’s brown eyes haunted me. It’d been such a tiny scrap of a dog.
I left my kennel and went to the laptop on the kitchen table. Too high to reach without breaking the rules and standing, but I’d need to remove the mitts to use it anyway. I couldn’t fasten them myself, so Jeff would know I’d been disobedient. I got a not-so-secret thrill out of being punished, but disappointing my Master left me uneasy with guilt. Better to beg for a whipping than earn one.
Unavoidable tonight. I set the laptop on the carpet, sitting out of the question, and navigated to the pound’s site.
The pub, Jake, was still listed as available. I clicked on his history. Shit. Left by the side of a busy road, he’d fought free of the sack imprisoning him, and been hit a glancing blow by a car, driven, luckily, by a woman who’d stopped, rushed him to a vet, and paid for his treatment. But she was the mother of a child with severe allergies and Jake had ended up waiting for adoption. He’d been in that cage for three weeks now.
I was sobbing by the time I finished reading, messy, snotty tears, washing away the horrible emotions clogging my soul and leaving me with only one worry; that Jake wouldn’t be there when we went back to the pound.
He was. And the lick he gave my hand when I picked him up for my first cuddle was forgiving, loving, happy. Or maybe he was after the treat I held.
Training was important. I knew that. But a little spoiling and a lot of love were too.
I knew that from experience.
This is a sequel to my BDSM Kink in Ink story, A Lick and a Promise with Jeff and his pup getting a real dog.
Puppy Training 101
“What do you think?” Jeff scratched the puppy’s ear, reducing it to a wriggle and a whine. “Cute, huh?”
I did that when he petted me. Didn’t mean I wanted to see a real dog do it. “One of his ears is lopsided, he limps, and he’s got a mean look in his eyes.”
“What?” Jeff turned the pup, a mongrel if ever I saw one, and studied its face. In return, it licked his nose. Unhygienic and clearly badly trained. “No way. This pup’s made of candy canes and chocolate. And the limp…never mind.”
“Chocolate’s poisonous for dogs.” I edged toward the door of the pound. “Can we go? Because I’ve got masses of Christmas shopping to do and we agreed both of us had to like the dog or we wouldn’t adopt it.”
“Yeah, I know.” The pup barked and wriggled its butt again, but Jeff set it back in its cage, closing the door carefully. “Let’s head out.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, but he didn’t look back at the puppy when it barked either.
***
Jeff was out with friends, celebrating a birthday, but I’d begged off. Literally, on my knees, nuzzling his hand as he stroked my face, and he’d agreed to go alone.
After easing down his zipper and letting me suck him dry, that is. He tasted clean from his shower, his cock warm against my tongue, and I used every trick I knew to make the blowjob last, but eventually he cried out and shot, filling my mouth. I swallowed and he pulled out, wiping his cock against my cheek, leaving his scent on me.
“Be good,” he said, with a hint of sternness. “No alcohol or candy. There’s water in your bowl and you’re to stay down unless there’s an emergency. “
That was shorthand for staying in puppy mode, on my hands and knees, collar around my neck, naked, a butt plug and tail stretching my hole, mitts on my hands. I nodded, and turned, presenting my butt for the insertion of the plug. He took his own sweet time fetching it and the lube, but I didn’t move, quivering with arousal, knowing he’d enjoy picturing me hard and aching, waiting for him to come home. My erection would subside, but not the longing.
The burn of the plug told me he’d used a size up from the usual one. That could be to punish me or to reinforce the dynamic between us. I could’ve asked which it was, but I stayed silent, already deep in a mindset where spoken words didn’t belong.
“Sweet pup,” he told me, fastening the mitts on my hands. “Be good for me, you hear?”
I barked, a sharp sound he had no trouble interpreting as agreement.
The door closed behind him, I whined and crawled to my kennel in the den, a room only we used these days. My kennel had a padded floor and a hook set into the wall. I was put there after a spanking, leash attached to the hook, my ass burning, my face wet with tears, to think over what I’d done. Now I went there to think about what I’d done and not gotten punished for.
We’d discussed a dog and agreed to it in theory. In practice, jealousy and possessiveness I was ashamed of had made me veto every dog we’d seen. Jeff had been patient, even offering to table the adoption, but I’d continued to insist I wanted a pet while steadfastly blocking any progress toward that goal.
I know. Made no sense. But I didn’t want my Master to see my flaws. Bad enough that I knew they existed.
I turned around three times and settled into a comfortable position, but I was restless. The pup’s brown eyes haunted me. It’d been such a tiny scrap of a dog.
I left my kennel and went to the laptop on the kitchen table. Too high to reach without breaking the rules and standing, but I’d need to remove the mitts to use it anyway. I couldn’t fasten them myself, so Jeff would know I’d been disobedient. I got a not-so-secret thrill out of being punished, but disappointing my Master left me uneasy with guilt. Better to beg for a whipping than earn one.
Unavoidable tonight. I set the laptop on the carpet, sitting out of the question, and navigated to the pound’s site.
The pub, Jake, was still listed as available. I clicked on his history. Shit. Left by the side of a busy road, he’d fought free of the sack imprisoning him, and been hit a glancing blow by a car, driven, luckily, by a woman who’d stopped, rushed him to a vet, and paid for his treatment. But she was the mother of a child with severe allergies and Jake had ended up waiting for adoption. He’d been in that cage for three weeks now.
I was sobbing by the time I finished reading, messy, snotty tears, washing away the horrible emotions clogging my soul and leaving me with only one worry; that Jake wouldn’t be there when we went back to the pound.
He was. And the lick he gave my hand when I picked him up for my first cuddle was forgiving, loving, happy. Or maybe he was after the treat I held.
Training was important. I knew that. But a little spoiling and a lot of love were too.
I knew that from experience.
December 6, 2016
Day Six of Advent
Door Six opened by me (again :-))
Working on all the great prompts; just scattering them through the month. Busy day today, so I'm cheating slightly (naughty list for me!) and reposting a fanfic I wrote back in the day.
It's The Sentinel and all you need to know is that Jim's a cop, this is the Christmas party at the station, and Blair's the student living in his loft and observing Jim's super-senses.
Topping the List
Blair's weaving through the crowd like a pinball on speed. I watch him bounce off Rhonda as she nibbles fruitcake and turn, spinning, to grin up at her, sweetest smile you've ever seen, and brush crumbs off her blouse. Or cop a feel. Maybe both. Drunk (and he's sure lit up tonight) Blair likes to spread his charms around. Henderson from Vice doesn't know what to make of him, I can tell, but if he didn't want a sloppy, seventy-percent-proof smooch, he shouldn't have held that mistletoe over the kid's head and dared him. Not much of a dare. Blair's been laying kisses on everyone who stands still long enough since about ten seconds after his first drink kicked in.
Blair had told me he was going to make a list of everyone he kissed and rank them according to a system he'd worked out: minus points for bad breath and brownie points for not using tongue on the first lip-lock. There was more to it than that, but I tuned him out and he drifted over to Simon and grinned up at him engagingly for as long as it took for the message to get through that Simon would squish him like a bug if he puckered up. Blair wasn't drunk enough to have lost his sense of self-preservation, which was good, because I wouldn't have saved him. I told him to steer clear of the eggnog, damn it.
God knows what the winner of the game gets, but I'm not playing. Kiss Blair in public? Be just one of the crowd? I don't think so. And I'm not sure I could pretend that it was the first time and make it convincing.
See, I know just how he likes to be held, my hands sliding into his hair, my mouth as gentle as I can make it on his. I know how to flick my tongue and get a moan that makes me shiver, how to move one hand down to cup his ass and bring him in closer. I know how to reduce him to the state he is now, buzzed and babbling, eyes unfocused, voice slurred, without a drop of alcohol involved.
Let him kiss his way around the room and make his list. When we get home, I'll tear it into shreds and watch it flutter down like snow as he smiles up at me, swaying gently, telling me that none of them kissed him as well as I do, none, Jim, not even close, so I'm the winner, and I can claim my prize right the hell now.
Think I'll wait until you've stopped puking, Chief. Take a rain check until you're conscious.
And in the morning, when his hangover's making him wish that he was dead, I'll kiss his aching, clammy forehead and tell him what I want for my prize when he's feeling human again.
Winner takes all, and Blair's always at the top of my wish list.
Working on all the great prompts; just scattering them through the month. Busy day today, so I'm cheating slightly (naughty list for me!) and reposting a fanfic I wrote back in the day.
It's The Sentinel and all you need to know is that Jim's a cop, this is the Christmas party at the station, and Blair's the student living in his loft and observing Jim's super-senses.
Topping the List
Blair's weaving through the crowd like a pinball on speed. I watch him bounce off Rhonda as she nibbles fruitcake and turn, spinning, to grin up at her, sweetest smile you've ever seen, and brush crumbs off her blouse. Or cop a feel. Maybe both. Drunk (and he's sure lit up tonight) Blair likes to spread his charms around. Henderson from Vice doesn't know what to make of him, I can tell, but if he didn't want a sloppy, seventy-percent-proof smooch, he shouldn't have held that mistletoe over the kid's head and dared him. Not much of a dare. Blair's been laying kisses on everyone who stands still long enough since about ten seconds after his first drink kicked in.
Blair had told me he was going to make a list of everyone he kissed and rank them according to a system he'd worked out: minus points for bad breath and brownie points for not using tongue on the first lip-lock. There was more to it than that, but I tuned him out and he drifted over to Simon and grinned up at him engagingly for as long as it took for the message to get through that Simon would squish him like a bug if he puckered up. Blair wasn't drunk enough to have lost his sense of self-preservation, which was good, because I wouldn't have saved him. I told him to steer clear of the eggnog, damn it.
God knows what the winner of the game gets, but I'm not playing. Kiss Blair in public? Be just one of the crowd? I don't think so. And I'm not sure I could pretend that it was the first time and make it convincing.
See, I know just how he likes to be held, my hands sliding into his hair, my mouth as gentle as I can make it on his. I know how to flick my tongue and get a moan that makes me shiver, how to move one hand down to cup his ass and bring him in closer. I know how to reduce him to the state he is now, buzzed and babbling, eyes unfocused, voice slurred, without a drop of alcohol involved.
Let him kiss his way around the room and make his list. When we get home, I'll tear it into shreds and watch it flutter down like snow as he smiles up at me, swaying gently, telling me that none of them kissed him as well as I do, none, Jim, not even close, so I'm the winner, and I can claim my prize right the hell now.
Think I'll wait until you've stopped puking, Chief. Take a rain check until you're conscious.
And in the morning, when his hangover's making him wish that he was dead, I'll kiss his aching, clammy forehead and tell him what I want for my prize when he's feeling human again.
Winner takes all, and Blair's always at the top of my wish list.
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