WTF?

Hockey Asspirations Fest!

ficsoreal — Mon, 29 Jul 2013 14:58:24 GMT

Petra is having a comment!fest dedicated to hockey butts and thighs! Go leave prompts, contribute fic, meta, graphics.

Hockey Asspirations
Hockey Asspirations
Hockey Asspirations

Go have fun!

Fic: McDonaldland| multiple pairings| magical realism

ficsoreal — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 00:54:55 GMT

It's been a long time! Here have some unfinished crack!fic!

Title: McDonaldland
Author: Ficsoreal
Summary: The fast food chains are crime syndicates and Ronald McDonald runs the town with an iron fist.

Yellow, red and white compete for ocular dominance in the downstairs den; the three colors repeat endlessly on the walls, furnishings, throw pillows and carpet. Entirely too bright, displaying a decided lack of moderation and good taste, but Ronald has been living with them so long, he barely notices the garishness. He throws his stress ball into the air and watches as it fails to reach the white popcorn ceiling. Bass thumps out of the surround sound and fry guys, strange creatures who resemble nothing so much as vividly colored pom poms with huge eyes and stick legs, chase each other around the furniture. He throws the ball up again and it kisses the ceiling, a smattering of dust drifts downwards, dancing slowly through rays of artificial light.

"Ronny!" Footsteps and the distinctive sound of someone dragging a bag along the floor echo down the hall. Ronald tosses the ball again and casually sticks out his 29 triple E size foot just in time to send a purple fry guy crashing to the floor. The green fry chasing him nearly shakes apart giggling. "Ronny!" The voice calls again, impatient and familiar.

Hamburglar's hat is always the first thing Ronald notices about the man. Then the black mask across his beady eyes and the oddly wide mouth. Hamburglar leaves his bag bulging with who knows what, but most likely ill-gotten burgers next to the door and makes his way to the red couch Ronald's lounging on.

He plops down in the large arm chair across from Ronald, feet not quit touching the ground. "The new rankings are out." He pushes the brim of his hat back and sweaty red hair falls across his forehead. "Have you seen them?"

"No," Ronald says, squishing his ball in one hand. "Are we still first?"

"You know we are," Hamburglar replies, "but the gap is narrowing."

Ronald stops fidgeting with his stress ball and focuses on Hamburglar. "What do you suggest?"

Hamburglar leans forward. "We got to take those fuckers down like we did that meddling Burger King." He nods to the gold crown sitting on the mantle above the fireplace. Ronald still isn't sure what happened to the King, but he hasn't popped up lately offering anyone a knock off version of the McGriddle.

"What's the plan?" Ronald asks. He tugs irritably at the collar of his yellow jumpsuit. The material's hot and rough against his neck even with the central air going full blast. Ronald's always ran a bit hot. Fuck it, he thinks and stands up to strip off. Underneath the jumpsuit is a white t-shirt and red boxer briefs. He doesn't bother taking off his peppermint stripped knee socks.

"Nice." Hamburglar whistles. "I see you're still maintaining your girlish figure." He snaps his finger. "Which brings me neatly to my next point. Wendy."

Ronald scratches his thigh and repeats, "Wendy?" The fry guys have congregated in a far corner of the room, slumped together like piles of yarn.

"I know you don't follow the competition as closely as you should, Boss, but I'm not so far gone as to believe you don't know who Wendy is." Hamburglar's mouth is turned down at one edge.

Red headed girl with pale skin and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Growing up into a fine young lady. "What about Wendy?"

"She's the key, Ronny. Our opportunity to get inside of Dave Thomas's head."

"I need to get inside your head," Ronald slants Hamburglar a look. "Do you know how hard it is to get within twenty feet of that girl? Dave keeps his security tight."

Hamburglar points a finger. "There's a Make A Wish Ball next week. Dave and family will be there and we will too."

“And then what?” Ronald asks, because they got lucky with The King. The public was just as tired of him as they were, but if an apparently innocent, young girl went missing, people would start asking questions.

“Just be friendly. They’re planning something big and we’re going to figure out what it is.” Hamburglar smiles. “I know you can do friendly.”

Ronald smiles back.

**

Make A Wish Balls all look alike, blue and white with glittery accessories. Ronald tugs at his yellow suit jacket and looks around the room. Mickey and Minnie are already circulating and Ronald spares a glance at Minnie’s legs; the old girl still has it. Ronald has always been a fan of Disney World, the Princesses in particular. He thinks back on his time in Ariel’s grotto with the utmost fondness.

“Ronald! Nice to see you, old man.”

A hard slap on the back accompanies the words and Ronald turns around to face a giant bunny with a bowtie around his neck and a huge carrot dangling from his hand. “Bugs,” he says, “How’s Elmer?”

“Good, good.” Bugs Bunny looks around. “He’s around here somewhere. Just look for the glare off that dome. You here alone?”

Ronald shrugs. “You know how it is.”

Bugs looks about as sympathetic a nearly six feet tall rabbit can look. “Hang in there; it’ll work out. If push comes to shove, Henny Penny is still on the market.” He gives Ronald another pat on the shoulder and wanders off, no doubt, to find Elmer. Ronald had forgotten how insufferable Bugs could be at times.

Ronald actually finds Dave Thomas before he spots Wendy. Dave is standing beside one of the many punch tables, holding a glass and a conversation with a tidy, blond lady in a sequined sheath dress. Wendy is standing slightly behind him, ponytails curled into ringlets looking like every teenager forced to go to a fundraising event, petulant and bored. Ronald smiles. Easy.

Subtle is hard to do when you’re dressed in a canary yellow suit with a bright red tie, so Ronald doesn’t even try. When Wendy looks in his direction, he catches her eyes and raises an eyebrow. Her eyes widen and she glances first to Dave, but he’s still talking to the blond. Ronald tips his head back, beckoning, and he can see the indecision all over her face. She wants to see what he wants.

“What?” she says, abrupt, scared, after she’s fought her way through the crowd and to the corner Ronald has staked out.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met properly,” Ronald says and sticks out his hand. “Ronald McDonald.”

Wendy scoffs at him. “I know who you are.” Ronald keeps his hand out and she shakes it reluctantly, manners drilled deep by her Uncle, no doubt. “Real name Thomas,” she says and Ronald smiles.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

Yuletide Nominations!

ficsoreal — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 18:31:12 GMT

I nominated:

Lawless (2012): Maggie Beauford, Forrest Bondurant, Howard Bondurant; Special Deputy Rakes

Knight of a Trillion Stars - Dara Joy: Lorgin ta'al Krue, Rejar ta'a; Krue, Traed ta'al Theardar

Fast Food - commercials: Ronald McDonald, Burger King, Wendy, Hamburglar

I can not wait to write my 10,000 word gangster epic about fast food dynasties and forbidden love. :)

Teen Wolf: Derek/Stiles 2 Recs

ficsoreal — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 22:41:17 GMT

I literally can not remember the last time I posted a rec list, but werewolf porn apparently puts me in a sharing mood. On to the recs! Only 2 today, but quality.

Fuzzy Logic by Sparseparsley on AO3: The one where Derek and Stiles switch bodies because wizards suck and Stiles wants to know what smells so freaking delicious. :) There's also a wolfpile with accidental frottage and Stiles thinks Derek should use his powers for sexy evil more often. Read this and tell me how much you want a sequel with voyeurism and Stiles watching Derek "cuddle" his betas.

EXCERPT:

Not that Stiles isn’t having a rough time, too. All these fancy werewolf instincts are easy enough to learn about at a distance, researching for Scott and all, but actually having them? So. Shitty. The urge to run, the urge to fight, to howl and hunt and stalk and hump. He doesn’t know if that last one is mostly his teenage-boy mind on werewolf or if it’s more because of Derek’s body, but it is just every form of inconvenient either way.

He can’t even jerk off because it’s not his damn dick. An injustice so unfair that Stiles has given into the lesser sin of coveting just to try and balance out the universe. Coveting, in this case, means getting all the eyeful he can get his hands on whenever he has an excuse to get Derek’s body naked. He’s been taking a lot of showers, lately. Sometimes two in a row. One warm shower for the ogling of the abs and the, uh, goods (the very goods) and one cold one for the de-arousing afterward.

The Life of Stiles by Rispacooper on AO3: The one where Derek spends 10,000 words scenting Stiles inappropriately and dry humping him against walls. So much sexual tension.

EXCERPT:

Derek grunted and pushed forward again, so hard Stiles' head thunked against the wall, enough to make him dizzy thought not enough to make him stop. "Stiles," Derek was killing him, talking now, in between nips at his bottom lip, in between his tongue finally in Stiles' mouth. "Stiles." He growled and Stiles dropped his head to rub his face against Derek's jaw, gasping at the burn. He rocked up again and Derek's hand tightened on his thigh a second before Derek was pushing back between his legs, grinding down against Stiles' dick. He was gulping down air, Stiles could hear him, his heart, his breathing, was so much louder than Stiles', like Derek was the one about to cream his jeans.

Fic: Knot What I Expected| Charles/Erik| XMFC| AU

ficsoreal — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 01:01:46 GMT

Title: Knot What I Expected
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC17
Summary: I wanted to write a fic with soulmates, powers and knotting. This is what happened.
Disclaimer: I don't own much of anything.

“Dr. Johnson, I’m calling to remind you I’ll need the next two weeks off. I’ve already lined up a substitute for the freshmen courses and assigned papers to the upper levels.” Charles Xaivier shifts his weight from heel to toe, taps his finger along his kitchen counter. Irritation crawls along his shoulders; he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. The clock on the wall paces his heartbeat.

The sound of papers flipping echoes dimly over the phone before Dr. Johnson says, “Ah, that time of year is it?” His voice is just on the right side of proper. “Take all the time you need, Charles, and if you require assistance just let me know. As always, I’ll be happy to help.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Of course, Dr. Johnson, I’ll see you next month.” He hangs up the phone and grabs a pen; time to make his list.

The day is beautiful, wind crisp, but not too cold, as Charles walks down the block to pick up enough food to keep him for several weeks. The grocery store is a bit busy for Charles at the best of times and this isn’t one of those times. He projects a general sense of low level repulsiveness and most of the other customers leave him alone, some even going out of their way to avoid him as he stocks up on water and cold cuts and ready-made meals. A tiny red headed girl seated in the back of a half filled buggy stares at him curiously until her mother rolls her out of sight. Charles waves at her cheerily; she doesn’t wave back but a high pitched, “Hello,” whispers in his mind.

Check out proceeds without incident, a bored teenager bagging his goods carelessly and wishing him a good day. He gets a few looks from a group of men and women huddled together on the side walk, but he simply reinforces his projection and continues on his way.

Half a block from his condo, a sudden sensation of breathlessness stops Charles in his tracks. He hefts his food bags closer to his body and takes a deep breath, but if anything that seems to make his heart beat faster exacerbating the dizzy feeling.

The crowd is parting around him, people giving him vaguely irritated looks, several edged with concern. Charles struggles to pull himself together; surely he can make it back to his apartment without falling apart. The potential embarrassment alone drives him forward, arms tucked close to his body, head down.

Sweat dampens the hair at his temples in less than five minutes and he’s seriously beginning to doubt a successful end to his venture is possible when every muscle in his body locks up bringing him once more to a dead halt in the middle of the sidewalk.

A deep, lightly accented voice asks, “Are you fucking kidding me?” a short distance from Charles’s back.

Charles understands the sentiment completely. He bites into his lower lip and turns around slowly. A tall, broad shouldered man with chiseled features stares back at him, thin mouth set in a hard line. He has brown hair with faint auburn tones under the sunlight and light eyes; Charles can’t quite pin down the color. Heat instantly pools in his stomach. His bread bag slips from his fingers and hits the ground with a soft thud. The man doesn’t even glance down.

“Um, hello,” Charles says and he reaches out with his mind instinctively, wanting to know everything immediately. The man’s name is Erik Lehnsherr and he’s alone, new to the city. He hasn’t had an easy life but he’s strong, intelligent.

“What the hell?” Erik says. He’s scowling now and he stalks angrily toward Charles. Charles is caught between wanting the turn and run and wanting to meet him, so he stays still and waits. Running at this point would probably only be seen as enticement.

Erik grabs his shoulder and his mind becomes even clearer as if Charles can see right through him. Erik shakes him once hard, “Stop it.”

Charles reels his powers in and focuses on Erik. He’s overwhelming, standing so close; he smells like happiness and sex, sexy happiness and Charles wants to take him back to his place and lock the doors. He definitely needs more food than he bought.

“You’re not what I expected,” Erik says and the bottom drops out of Charles’s stomach. The hurt must have been splashed all over his face, because Erik says, “For the love of..” and lets go of Charles to grab his bread bag off the ground. He uses his grip on Charles shoulder to urge him back in the direction of his condo. “Let’s start over,” Erik says, “My name is Erik Lehnsherr which I’m sure you already know and I would very much prefer we not do this in the middle of the street. And you are?”

The rest of your life, Charles thinks, but out loud he says, “Charles Xavier. I think I need more food.”

Erik laughs, a short, aborted sound that nonetheless warms Charles right up. “Nice to meet you, Charles. Where exactly are we going?”

Charles somehow manages to get them up the stairs and into his condo without mishap. The locks click into place behind them without a key and Charles’s eyes go wide.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Erik says even though being hurt is the last thing on Charles’s mind and takes the bags out of Charles’s arms and plops them on the counter. For a moment they just stand there staring at each other, then Erik sighs and says, “Well, come here; let me look at you.”

Charles moves closer slowly, Erik’s words from earlier bouncing around in his mind. He knows intellectually that he’s quite attractive. He’s gotten numerous comments on his blue eyes, his mouth, his height even, but none of those people mattered in quite the way Erik matters.

Erik looks him over with critical eyes. Up and down and down again until Charles is sure he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin.

“So,” Charles breaks the silence snappishly. The whole situation is beginning to wear on his nerves. Really, if Erik was anyone else, Charles would have punched him in the face by now. As it is, he’s barely restraining himself from begging Erik to touch him.

“You’re beautiful,” Erik says but he doesn’t sound particularly happy about it. He reaches out and traces a finger along Charles’s eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Twenty six,” Charles says. The breathless feeling is back; the air thick between them. He can see the black of Erik’s pupils expanding and this has to be the craziest thing that has ever happened to him. Even trippier than when he first realized he was actually hearing other people’s thoughts.

The sound Erik makes is full of disbelief, but Charles is a little too preoccupied with the way Erik’s slowly but surely backing him into the corner by the fridge to be offended. “I want you,” Erik says. His hands slide down Charles’s shoulders, create a ring around his waist, fingers spreading out over the curve of his ass. “I want you,” Erik repeats and pulls Charles close enough to feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans, “but I’m extremely busy right now. I don’t have the time to spend breeding you properly. Can you take care of yourself for me?”

Breeding him properly. Images of Erik draped over his back, cock locked deep inside his body flash through Charles’s mind. God, he’s so wet for it. He leans up and into Erik, clutching at his shoulders. He needs to be kissed right now and he doesn’t know why Erik isn’t doing it. Keeping Charles’s satisfied is his job from now on.

“Charles,” Erik says sharply. “Can you take care of yourself for me?”

“What?” Charles asks, blinking. Oh, Erik’s not staying with him because he has work to do. “Yes,” he says tentative because he can take care of himself, he’s been doing it for years, but Erik’s here now.

“Good,” Erik says, gruff and drops his head down to Charles’s shoulder. He takes a deep breath in and shudders in Charles’s embrace. “You smell so good,” he mumbles into the curve of Charles’s neck and his tongue flicks out, wet heat against Charles’s skin.

The thin veneer of civilized behavior they’ve been maintaining cracks and shatters in the next instant. “Erik,” Charles gasps. He tugs, frantic, at Erik’s hair, dragging his mouth to Charles’s. Erik moans into his mouth and bites his bottom lip.

Erik grabs a handful of his ass, squeezes and Charles goes up on his tiptoes to help align their hips and holds on for dear life as Erik tries to fuck him through their respective slacks and the wall.

Devastation cannot even begin to describe the way Charles feels when Erik rips his mouth away and untangles them to take a step back.

“What are you doing?” Charles cries, reaching for Erik again. There should be fucking. Every book Charles has ever read promised him unbridled, uncontrollable fucking once he found his mate and it is not happening . Why?

Erik captures his wrists and holds them apart. “Give me two days, three and I’ll come back and we’ll spend the whole time in bed.”

Charles whines. “Three days?”

“Three days,” Erik says firmly. He leans in for another brief kiss and then scrambles for the door as if he’s afraid Charles is going to savage him on floor. Charles stares at the condo door in disbelief before retreating to his bedroom to spend some time with Dalton, his trusty knot.

When he’s coming, half on the bed, half off with his ass stuffed with plastic, Charles spares a thought for his grocery and hopes nothing has spoiled.

The next two days after meeting his mate and subsequently being abandoned by him, seriously what could be more important than having sex with Charles, are pretty grueling. Charles spends most of the time drinking water, eating finger foods and fucking himself with numerous toys.

On the third day, Erik shows up in his bedroom dressed in a battered leather jacket and ripped jeans with dark circles of exhaustion around his eyes. He looks like heaven. “Charles,” he says.

“Finally,” Charles says, tugs Dalton free of his ass. Erik toes off his shoes and socks. His jeans appear to be pushing themselves down and Charles pushes his jacket off his shoulders. The t-shirt underneath is smeared with ash, and there’s dark splotches in several places and Charles asks, “Is that blood?”

“Yes,” Erik says distracted, “it’s not important.” Charles runs his hands down Erik’s sides quickly, but nothing seems punctured or broken. He opens his mind, but quickly pulls back when Erik pinches his ass in warning. He files his curiosity under later and turns his mouth up for a kiss.

The bed squeaks beneath Erik’s weight as Charles urges him back against the headboard. Erik’s cock curves up thick and proud toward his stomach and Charles swallows against the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth. “You’re so big,” he says and red highlights Erik’s cheekbones. “Are you shy?” Charles smiles, laughs as Erik scowls at him.

Charles kisses his frowny mouth and whispers, “I like it. You should fuck me now with your enormous penis.” Erik scowls harder at him, but runs a large hand down Charles’s back and between his buttocks to finger his hole.

Erik has lovely long fingers and he pushes two of them into Charles easily. Charles arches and fucks back on them and Erik’s face lights up. “You’re so wet and open for me,” Erik says.

“Yes,” Charles says mindlessly, squirming. Erik’s fingers feel good, but he needs more. He wraps his hand around Erik’s cock and Erik’s hips jerk beneath him. Oh, it’s going to be so good. He swats at the hand Erik’s using to finger him and Erik moves out of his way so Charles can get everything lined up and sink down on Erik’s cock.

“Holy…”Erik says before all the sounds coming from his mouth devolve into hisses, gasps and curses. Charles works his hips back and forth, wrinkle between his brows; it’s slow going because Erik’s bigger than anyone, any toy Charles has taken in the past. Yet despite the stretch, the slight twinge of pain, Charles feels like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his entire life.

Erik has narrow hips and Charles pins them between his thighs once he’s fully seated. Erik stares up at him, mouth slightly open and Charles smiles down at him. “Ready?” he asks and doesn’t wait for an answer, just braces his hands against Erik’s chest and gets to work.

The urge to reach out to Erik with everything in him is too pressing to resist, so Charles lets his shields down, actively invites Erik to share his pleasure, his past, his future. Take me, take me, please, have me. Charles can feel the moment Erik accepts. He comes right then and there, shivering uncontrollably over Erik.

“Charles,” Erik says softly. Erik draws Charles down into his embrace and presses a tender kiss to his temple as if he isn’t still hard and needy beneath him. “I can’t wait to love you.”

“Mmmm,” Charles says, “I think you should finish fucking me first.” He laughs, giddy, when Erik rolls them over and picks up where Charles left off.

When Erik thrusts deep and stays, hips jerking, Charles hugs him close and tries to relax around the knot locking them together. Erik moans pitifully into Charles’s neck and rests his full weight on Charles until his hips start to protest. “Erik,” Charles says. Erik makes a faint noise. “My hips hurting.”

“Sorry,” Erik slurs and adjusts them so Charles is resting on top of him. He pets lazily at Charles’s hair and runs his hand down Charles’s back to brush curious fingers along the spot where they’re still joined together. Charles squirms which makes the ache worse and Erik asks, “Sore?”

“Yes,” Charles says and blushes fiercely when Erik replies, “I’ll kiss it better later.”

The steady rhythm of Erik’s heart is lulling; Charles’s eyes droop. “Are you going to tell me about the blood?” he asks, determined not to let the question get swept away in the tide of satisfaction ebbing and flowing over his body.

Erik shifts beneath him. “Accident in the shop.”

“Metal working?” Charles asks drowsily. “Do you have a lot of accidents?” Erik doesn’t seem like the careless type.

There’s silence for a long moment, then Erik says grudgingly, “I’ve been a bit distracted.”

Charles smiles, the thump thump of Erik’s heart strong and steady. “I wonder why.”

Happy Valentine's Day and Thanks!

ficsoreal — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 21:46:48 GMT

Someone got me a virtual gift and really brightened up my day!! Thank you! ♥

Fic: Bathroom Throat Fuck| Arthur/Eames| R

ficsoreal — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 00:55:32 GMT

Title: Bathroom Throat Fuck (not a title, so much as a description)
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC 17
Words: 1917
Warning: Rough sex.
Summary: See title. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own these fictional characters.
Note: I'm trying to get back in the swing of writing.

The sun is fat in the sky. Yellow light drenching the trees, the buildings lining the quiet street as Eames strolls down the cracked sidewalk toward his destination. The fifth house on the block is nearly identical to the houses on either side except for the large oak tree in the yard. An oversized tire, tractor Arthur told him, hangs from the sturdy branches. Eames walks up the path leading to the front door and takes out his key.

Music floats softly on the air as he steps into the house. He stuffs his keys back into his pants, toes off his shoes and pads towards the main bathroom. His bladder is full to the point of painful; he pisses without bothering to close the door. The music shuts off abruptly and the flush of the toilet seems louder than usual in the sudden silence. Eames doesn’t go to investigate. The day was hot, muggy and he wants nothing more than to wash the lingering sticky feel away.

Arthur is leaning in the doorway when Eames steps out the shower. Eames catches the towel Arthur throws at him with one hand. Arthur’s chest is bare and his hair soft, no product. Dark blue boxer briefs cling to his narrow hips. “You’re dripping on the floor,” Arthur says.
“Hello to you, too,” Eames says. He scrubs his hair briefly just to stop it from dripping before running the towel over his neck and chest. Arthur’s watching him with an upward curve to his mouth. His gaze almost palpable, a touch. Arthur steps fully into the bathroom and Eames raises an eyebrow. The smile he gets in return is filthy. Eames’s eyes drop from Arthur’s mouth to the push of his cock against his pants and back up again. He needn’t have bothered because Arthur’s not looking at his face at all.

“I was bored today,” Arthur says, eyes glued firmly to Eames’s cock. “The house is clean and it was too hot to cook anything.”

Eames pushes the towel down his stomach under the guise of drying off until it obscures his cock from view. Arthur’s gaze snaps back up to his. “You were lonely,” Eames says. Arthur steps closer, close enough for Eames to feel the heat coming off his body, and settles his hands on Eames’s hips. His long fingers spread out over the curve of Eames’s ass. Eames’s dick plumps between his thighs.

“I rolled around in bed all day, listening to music and thinking about your cock.” Arthur uses his grip on Eames’s hips to support his weight as he eases down to his knees. Eames sets his towel on the sink and braces his legs apart. Arthur on his knees always gives him a special thrill. For years the only times he’d seen Arthur kneeling was after he’d been shot or someone in their party had taken a grievous wound. Arthur didn’t lower himself lightly.

Arthur glances up at him and gets a hand around his cock. Eames mouth drops open a little at the firm grip and Arthur’s eyes gleam brighter.

His cock is interested, but not fully hard yet, foreskin still hugging the head. Eames shifts a bit when Arthur lips at the thin covering and Arthur hums deep in his throat. He slides his hand toward Eames stomach, pulling Eames’s foreskin back. Arthur touches his tongue to the bared pink head, kitten rough and Eames chokes back a sound. He’s so sensitive there and Arthur’s knows it, regularly takes advantage of it.

Obscene is the only way to describe Arthur as he tongues Eames’s piss hole, licks around the crown of his cock, slicks up the seam. “Yes`,” Eames says softly and Arthur coaxes Eames’s foreskin back over his cockhead and fucks his tongue into it. Wet, nasty-hot sounds fill the bathroom as Arthur thrusts his tongue in and out, in and out before catching the tender skin delicately between his teeth and tugging.

Eames’s knees buckle and he slaps his hands down on the sink counter hard enough to make his palms sting to keep from crumpling to the floor. Arthur stares up at him, smug, teeth still worrying at Eames’s foreskin. Eames gets a hand into the curls at the back of Arthur’s head and yanks. Arthur doesn’t let him go, keeps his teeth closed until Eames is forced to arch his hips to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

“You little fuck,” Eames says admiringly and uses his grip to muscle Arthur back against the sink. Arthur lets go of his dick with a gasp, fingers grasping at Eames’s hips as Arthur tries to maintain his balance. Eames doesn’t stop pulling and shoving until he has Arthur trapped between the sink and the bulk of his body. “Now, now,” Eames says as Arthur’s eyes go from startled wide to vicious little slits, “don’t make any rash decisions.” Or moves.

Arthur’s lips are pressed firmly together, a thin line designed to express his displeasure at Eames’s manhandling, but Arthur’s cock is still obviously hard behind his pants. Eames grins down at him, pushes his hips forward so his cock drags over Arthur’s mouth. He’s sloppy with it, one hand still clutched in Arthur’s curls and the other holding on to a slim wrist.
Precome smears, shiny, across Arthur’s mouth, along his cheekbone and mere seconds go by before Arthur gives. He opens his mouth to lick his lips clean, then to mouth hungrily at Eames cock. “Good boy,” Eames says and releases Arthur’s wrist.

Eames crowds forward until his knees hit the sink’s wooden front. “Open up for me,” he says, voice low. Arthur looks up at him from beneath his lashes and his mouth drops open. Eames places his cock on Arthur’s waiting tongue and hitches his hips to get the angle right. He’s going to fuck Arthur’s throat hoarse.

He starts out shallow because Arthur really does have a talented tongue. Soon, though, Eames is thrusting deep enough to feel the back of Arthur’s throat grasping at his cock. Spit is escaping from the corners of Arthur’s mouth; there’s a small trail down his neck, pooled in the hollow above his collarbone. He’s moaning almost constantly, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering.
On the next stroke in, Eames pushes until the fluttering of Arthur’s eyelashes is matched by the fluttering of his throat around Eames’s cock. Arthur’s hands curve over Eames’s hipbones, but he doesn’t try to push Eames away, simply works on controlling his breathing. Eames can hear him taking deep, ragged breaths through his nose.

“So good for me,” Eames croons and pets the top of Arthur’s head. He pulls back just to press forward again and he’s about to lavish some more praise on the way Arthur’s taking his cock when his reflection in the sink mirror snags his attention.

The edges of the mirror are still fogged up from his shower, but Eames can see his face, chest, stomach, clearly. Eames can’t see Arthur at all; Arthur’s hidden from few on the floor, bracketed by his lower body. His pupils are huge and his bottom lip is red from where he’s been biting down as Arthur tried to destroy him.

Eames jerks his hips and Arthur’s head hits the sink with a crack. Arthur kicks out, surprised, fingers biting into Eames’s skin. “Fuck,” Eames says, staring into his own face. “Fuck,” he says again and goes to fucking town on Arthur’s throat.

Every smack of Arthur’s head against the sink sounds off like a gunshot in the bathroom and the echo of it, the nasty, dirty wrongness of selfishly pushing past all of Arthur’s defenses all but yanks the come right out of him.

He savors the moment, eyes squinched tight, abdominal muscles contracting as he pumps spunk directly down Arthur’s lovely throat. Then, Eames pulls out, muscles Arthur, flailing and gasping for air, up onto the sink top.

Arthur’s perch is precarious; especially, since he continues to writhe about even as Eames tries to situate him as he likes. Eames presses his hand to the middle of Arthur’s chest to keep him from falling off the counter and snarls, “Be the fuck still.” He follows this up with a sharp slap to Arthur’s thigh and Arthur jerks and gasps before settling.

“Thank you,” Eames says, short. Arthur stares up at him with wide eyes. There’s a smear of pink at the corner of his mouth; his bottom lip is bleeding. Eames leans down to lick at the small wound and Arthur grabs at his shoulders.

“Please,” Arthur says. His voice is shot, rough and barely audible. Eames loves it.
“You sound like a well-used whore.” Eames licks his way down Arthur’s neck, smoothes his hand down Arthur’s chest until he’s cupping the heat between Arthur’s thighs. He squeezes short of gently and Arthur’s knees come up, trapping his hand. Eames bites down on his shoulder and Arthur clamps down harder. He’s making loud, pained noises in Eames’s ear. “Stop,” Eames says, and after a moment, Arthur relaxes his legs, lets them fall open until one knee is resting against the mirror and his other leg is dangling off the sink. “You’re so good,” Eames praises him and Arthur bites down on his bottom lip again.

“Let’s get these pants off, shall we?” Eames pulls down the scrap of blue cotton holding Arthur’s cock hostage and makes an appreciative sound when it springs free, curving up toward Arthur’s stomach. “Look at you,” Eames says, “Does it hurt? Are you aching for me?”

Arthur’s cock is flushed, swollen and leaking at the head. Delicious. Eames licks his lips and takes the slick head into his mouth. Arthur shouts, hoarse, and Eames imagines the sound scrapping out of his throat, raw. The image makes him suck harder, pinning Arthur down about the waist, ruthless in his desire to make Arthur come.

The warm rush of fluid coating his tongue and the spastic contractions of Arthur’s muscles beneath Eames’s hands sends a fresh wave of heat through his body. He swallows and keeps licking at Arthur’s cock until Arthur is pushing at his forehead, gearing up to fight his way free of Eames.

Eames lets Arthur’s cock go with one last suck and Arthur releases an exhausted sigh of relief. He hangs limp, half off the sink with only the bulk of Eames’s body keeping him from tumbling to the floor. His hair is sweat and curling around his temple and his mouth is red. The dark fans of Arthur’s eyelashes rest against his flush cheeks and his chest heaves.

He’s beautiful. Eames’s sets Arthur on his feet carefully, steading him as he sways drunkenly. “Arthur,” Eames says, “do you want to take a shower?”

Arthur simply curls his arms around Eames’s shoulder and rests his head against Eames’s collarbone. Eames says, “Well then,” and gets rid of Arthur’s soggy pants and holds him up so Arthur can step free. Eames grabs the towel he used to dry off and pats them both down quickly before swinging Arthur up into his arms.

“You are so ridiculous,” Arthur slurs, but he obligingly tightens his hold around Eames’s neck. Eames makes an indulgent sound and Arthur yawns widely. When they get to the bedroom, Arthur asks,”Stay?” Eames kisses Arthur’s forehead as he settles him on the bed and climbs in behind him, wrapping Arthur up in his arms. Arthur murmurs, “Ridiculous,” again and drifts off to sleep.

Question.

ficsoreal — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 01:16:16 GMT

View Poll: Seriously

Abandoned Story Theater : Inception Zombies

ficsoreal — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 22:50:13 GMT

The Inception Crew and Zombies

“A missing girl? Are we working for The Man now, Cobb?” Eames glances around as if to ascertain he’s in the right place before looking back at Cobb. Arthur had much the same reaction when Cobb called him, but Eames is definitely in the right place; an open studio apartment Ariadne found after Cobb enlisted her services. A business expense she said, because she wasn’t going to spend another week in a drafty warehouse sleeping on lawn chairs. She was definitely too good for that sort of thing even if they weren’t. Cobb had rolled his eyes at Arthur and caved to her demands with a helpless shrug.

Ariadne grins at the incredulousness in Eames’ voice (she grins a lot at Eames) and says, “Not quite. Her parents are the ones financing us.”

“Filthy rich, then, are they?” Eames’ eyebrows lower just a bit, money makes everything more understandable, and turns to look at Arthur, expectant.

He shuffles the stack of papers in his hand. “Jessica Winthrob. She went missing two years ago, one of several elementary children to disappear over the span of six months. The police had a suspect, but never managed to get any hard evidence.”

“Let me guess,” Eames says, “the suspect just happens to be in this area.”

Cobb says, “They just want to know where he hid the body. Closure.”

Arthur knows Eames is going to say yes. The money is more than good; Ariadne looks at him with sad eyes and Eames is a sucker for a pretty face, but neither is the deciding factor. It’s something new and interesting, diving into the mind of a potential serial killer. He smirks when Eames glances his way and holds out the file with his name on it. Eames takes it from him slowly, eyes locked with Arthur’s. He could never resist a challenge.

**

“The mark used to have a sister,” Eames tells Arthur needlessly the next day. Needless, because Arthur is the one who told Eames about the mark’s sister.

Arthur says, “She died young,” not lifting his head from his notebook. He’s grown used to the way Eames’ operates. Sure enough, Eames goes on.

“She was murdered in a particularly gruesome fashion while the mark watched.” There’s a flutter of papers and Eames says, “Arthur.”

It’s the tone that makes Arthur look up; that tone usually precedes balls of paper hitting him in the head or feet nudging at his chair. For some reason, he doesn’t feel like going through the motions today. Eames is staring at him, face close to blank except for the slight tilt to his mouth and the intensity of his eyes. Arthur waits, but Eames seems content to stare at him silently.

“Did you want something?” Arthur asks finally and the upward curve of Eames’ lips becomes more apparent.

“I want so many things,” Eames says and the smooth warmth of his voice washes over Arthur like sun baked water.

He resists the urge to ask Eames what exactly he wants from him, because Arthur’s certain of one thing: he’s not ready for the answer. He looks back down at his work to break the moment.

Eames follows suit after a handful of minutes.

**

The mark is a neatly dressed gentleman in his older years. He looks, Arthur reflects, nothing at all like the mental image of a serial killer Arthur carries around in his mind. He owns three pairs of khakis; he wears them to work and threadbare jeans on the weekend. He’s not in terrific shape, but there’s the memory of strength in his upper body.

He volunteers at the local homeless shelter and tutors athletes in math. They take turns trailing him and Ariadne becomes less and less convinced of his guilt with each passing day.

Eames says, “Very rarely does the inner workings of man match the outside,” and Ariadne’s gaze slides over Cobb before dancing away.

Arthur says, “He wears the same pair of khakis two days out of the week.”

“That settles it, then,” Eames says. “I don’t know why he isn’t serving a life term as we speak.” The amusement in his eyes easily predicted.

**

The potential for evil lurks in every person. This is something Arthur has known and accepted for many years, but some people’s monsters are more real than others.

**

“Tell me a story,” Eames says.

Arthur blinks, surfacing slowly from his research. The room has been mostly quiet except for the scratching of Eames’ pencil and the soft sound of breathing. Cobb and Ariadne called it quits hours ago, heading their separate ways or maybe not. Arthur tries not to watch them too closely, because the thought of Cobb moving on makes something inside his chest clench.

“What?” he asks.

Eames eyes are more red than white this late at night, but the amusement shines through clearly. He repeats, “Tell me a story.”

Arthur glances back down at the picture in his hand. Lindsey Miller. Nine years old. Small for her age with two missing front teeth. She disappeared three years ago and when they found her bones, there were teeth marks on the bones of her wrists.

Compelled, he opens his mouth. “Once upon a time…”

“Oh, a fairytale,” Eames says and Arthur glares at him. He mimes zipping his lips and Arthur tries again.

“Once upon a time, in a quiet, country town, a fawn happened upon a hunter’s son playing by the river.

‘Mother,’ she said, ‘what is that?’ Out of all the creatures in the forest, she’d never seen one quite like it.

‘Danger,’ her mother said, stepping closer, white tail on high alert. ‘We should keep moving.’

The fawn followed in her mother’s footsteps, wide eyes looking back over her thin shoulder. The creature playing in the mud by the river certainly didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed soft and clumsy, but she took her mother’s words to heart or tried to.”

The second time, she ran into the hunter’s son, he spied her first. ‘A doe,’ he said, “and it took her a moment to recognize him, because he’d grown tall and lean. Left behind his apple cheeks and mud pies. In that split second, she forgot to run, to play it safe.

It was hard to tell whose eyes were the widest, hers or his, staring across the wild grass, but in that instant a connection was made.”

Arthur pauses and licks his suddenly dry lips. Real fairytales never end happily. Eames is watching him, lips slightly parted and eyes thoughtful. Arthur clears his throat. Nothing good ever comes of indulging Eames; he doesn’t know what he was thinking. “We should get back to work,” he says.

Eames doesn’t protest.

**

When they’re ready, the mark’s schedule makes it easy.

**

The sky is a dull blue grey, pieces of the horizon flickering dark, then bright again as if the world can’t decide if it has enough strength to support color. Arthur’s hand tightens around his gun. The sun started sinking hours ago, but the day has only just given way to this sickly dusk.

“A fan of old movies,” Eames mutters behind Arthur. His voice is smoker rough and Arthur knows if he turns his head he would see blood smeared across Eames’ eyebrow, painted down the side of Eames’ chest. He doesn’t turn around.

Cobb is beside him, a steady, calming presence, only the tightness at the corners of his mouth giving any hint of turmoil. Arthur wonders what Cobb’s thinking; if there’s one thing Arthur’s learned, it’s to never take Cobb at face value. Never to take any of them at face value.

“We can’t stay here,” Ariadne says, words hushed and Arthur turns to look at her. She’s wearing a miniature backpack and her hand is curved pale over Cobb’s bicep, bright against the sleeve of his jacket; the skin beneath her fingernails is blanched, proof of how hard she’s holding on. The curls have fallen out of her hair and her eyes are shock wide, but beyond that, she’s blood and gore free.

Protect the dreamer, protect the world.

“This building wasn’t made to be a fortress,” she says.

Arthur looks away and back out the large windows. Ariadne’s right; they’ll have to move sooner rather than later. This place has too many windows, too many doors to defend. The buildings around them are mostly dark, one or two lights on an upper floor. There’s a two story Victorian mansion little more than a block away, out of place among the rest of the steel and glass structures. Arthur stares at it thoughtfully and a curtain moves behind one of the upstairs windows. He frowns, but before he can puzzle out whether there’s someone there or simply his imagination running wild, a movement out the corner of his eye drags his attention away.

Something’s crawling along the ground toward them, a slow, painful shuffle. “Cobb,” Arthur says and points. Both Cobb and Eames lean over his shoulder for a better look.

“Fuck,” Eames says. He’s resting his hand at the small of Arthur’s back and his fingers dig in briefly. Arthur twists away from the touch and Eames’ hand falls.

“What?” Ariadne asks. “What is it?” When no one answers, she elbows her way between Arthur and Cobb, sticks her nose against the window. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Cobb says grimly. “We need to move. Where are the exits?”

“Two doors in the front and the back,” Ariadne says. She sounds like she’s reciting a poem she memorized in grade school. “One door on each side. The door on the left opens into a blind alley, the one on the right into the forest.”

“Left,” Arthur says. The house with the curtain is to the left.

Eames makes a harsh noise. “Did you miss the part about the blind alley?”

“There’s a house,” Arthur says. “About two blocks up on the left. Someone’s in there; I saw a curtain move.” He looks down at Ariadne. “What’s in the alley?

“Garbage containers, old Chinese food, used condoms,” Ariadne says. She probably pimped Eames on the contents of back alleys.

Arthur sighs. “Is there a ladder, a fire escape?”

“Yes,” she says.

“To the roof, then.” Eames checks his gun, reloading. A few more bumbling shapes have joined the first one past the window. It seems as if they’re picking up speed.

Cobb is moving before Arthur can take the lead and disgruntled is the only way to describe the feeling washing over him. He’s too used to being the protector, the one tense and one edge.

Now, though, somehow he’s become regulated to the middle. Sandwiched with Ariadne in the middle with Eames in the back. It rubs Arthur the wrong way, but there isn’t any time to squabble over pricked pride; he makes a note for when they’re safe.

The building they’re in is empty, but they still step lightly, balancing their body weight on the balls of their feet. The exit sign is jarring. The glowing red too close to the blood spilled on the ground earlier.

Arthur sees Cobb’s back expand as he takes a deep breath, hand resting on the door knob. Cobb looks back at them and Arthur nods. He knows Ariadne and Eames are doing the same. They’re prepared.

Rank air rushes up Arthur’s nostrils. The alley smells like rotten flesh in the summer time, but for the moment, at least, it appears to be empty of everything except mangy cats and trash. He steps carefully over a used condom and an amused huff comes from behind him.

The dim light fades to pure blackness at the back of the alley making it seem as if it goes on forever. The ladder is toward the street; Cobb moves toward the rusted rungs and they all follow cautiously behind him.

A low, tremulous moan floats on the air and Arthur tilts his head to hear it better. The sound is closer than it should be if originating from the shuffling figure from the window.

Eames says, “They’re converging.”

“How are they tracking us?” Ariadne whispers.

Cobb says, “Zombies have an excellent sense of smell. They can discern the location of prey from up to a mile away.”

“I wish I’d never asked,” Ariadne says.

“I’ve seen some unique projections,” Arthur says, “but this is something else entirely.”

“A man with a vivid imagination,” Eames says and it doesn’t sound anything like a sly taunt.

Arthur says, “A man with a sick mind.”

“Come on,” Cobb says and he motions for Ariadne to step in front of him. The ladder stops a good three feet above the ground and it creaks tiredly when Ariadne grabs on to it. Cobb gives her a boost up to get her going and waits to start his own climb.

Eames leans in and whispers in Arthur’s ear. “Do you need me to give you a hand up?” He slides his hand slowly down Arthur’s side to his waist and lingers there.

Arthur jabs him in the stomach with his elbow. “Will you please focus?”

“What is there to focus on besides the delightful image of your—“ Eames cuts off abruptly as a shadow falls across the mouth of the alley a second before a figure appears around the corner.

It only takes a moment to realize the man isn’t alive. The eyeball dangling from his eye socket is the first clue, the awkward angle of his knee, the second. Instinctively, Arthur turns to shoot, but Eames is already pulling the trigger, hitting the man’s forehead dead center.

The corpse hits the ground with a dull thud and another shadow falls across the mouth of the alley.

“Fuck,” Eames says. “It appears we’ve been scented.” He tucks his gun into the back of his pants and places his hands at Arthur’s waist to urge him up the ladder. “Up you go, darling,” he says and there’s no time to argue.

Eames doesn’t wait until Arthur’s several steps ahead before climbing up; they don’t have the luxury of time Cobb and Ariadne did. His body is a wall of heat against Arthur’s back, one step below him the entire climb up.

The ladder jerks alarmingly and Arthur looks down to see a rotted hand mindlessly jerking at the bottom rung. Cobb picks the rotting body off with a steady hand while Ariadne surveys the growing undead mob with horror.

Fic: Hospital Holidays| Arthur/Eames| PG 13

ficsoreal — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 01:02:36 GMT

Fic: Hospital Holidays
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG 13
Words: 1379
Summary: AU. Arthur and Eames are fellows covering their respective services on Christmas Eve, because every holiday story should include praying your pager doesn't go off in the middle of the night.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

The pediatric dialysis unit is purple. There are multicolored balloons bordering the walls and a flat screen television plays Sponge Bob, Dora the Explorer and Hannah Montana all day.

Arthur hates the pediatric dialysis unit.

He hates the plastic blue pull out chairs. He hates the constant hum of the blood circulators and the way the candy bowl never runs out of candy because the children are all too nauseated from dialysis to be tempted by sugary treats. He hates knowing Lindsey Wilcomb will never have to learn to pee in the potty, because her kidneys don’t make urine.

He hates having to walk past the pediatric unit to get to the adult side.

One of the dialysis machines beeps, sharp and jarring, designed to attract attention, and Arthur looks away from his computer screen towards the purple room, but the nurse practitioner is already there, shifting a slight boy in teddy bear pajamas back into the proper position. He’s holding a stuffed giraffe. The fur is matted in some spots and missing in others; Arthur’s seen that giraffe entirely too often.

“You have to stay like this, Cody, or the line will clot and your blood won’t get cleaned,” the nurse says. Cody stares back at her listlessly, thumb in his mouth.

The night can’t be over soon enough.

Nephrology fellows don’t have their own lounge. The hospital deemed it an unnecessary expense because most of their time is spent supervising the dialysis unit, rounding on patients or in clinic. So once the last patient has been transported back to the ward, Arthur logs off the computer and makes his way to the internal medicine lounge. He’s hoping to catch Ariadne, another soul unfortunate enough to be on call Christmas Eve. Maybe she’ll want to get a cup of coffee and pet his head and say, “Oh, Arthur,” when he questions his career path.

The lounge is pretty full for holiday hours; it seems as if all the medicine residents and fellows have congregated there to pass the time by bitching and stuffing their faces. Sugar cookies are piled on a gold platter in the center of the kitchen table and a ridiculous Christmas movie is playing on the television. A Santa tracker is scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Santa’s flying over Arizona according to channel 12.

Also, there’s Eames seated around one of the wobbly old tables spotted around the room, playing cards with one of the GI fellows. Eames has no place in the medicine lounge. His long coat is thrown over the back of his chair, pocket contents on the verge of spilling to the floor.

Arthur's surprised Eames is even in the hospital. What are the chances a patient will need emergency plastic surgery on Christmas Eve, anyway? He turns on his heel to walk back out. Ariadne's clearly not present or she would be in the thick of Eames' card game. Eames spots him before he makes it out of the door, making a clean escape just one more unrealized Christmas miracle.

“Dr. Darling,” Eames says, stopping Arthur in his tracks. “I’m out, guys,” he says as he stands up, waving away the roar of protests his statement hails. “The stakes were getting too rich for my blood anyway.” He pushes his pile of chocolates to the center of the table and makes his way over to Arthur.

Arthur's mouth turns down; he isn’t in the mood for much of anything at the moment, but the easiest thing to do is to wait and see what Eames wants with him. Eames ushers Arthur out into the hallway and once the door shuts behind them, he closes his hand gentle, but firm, around Arthur’s wrist and guides him through the twists and turns of the empty hospital hallways until they reach the plastics lounge. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, but Eames only smiles. “Tell me you aren’t curious,” he dares.

Everyone is curious about the plastic surgery lounge. When Arthur was a fourth year medical student, he heard from another boy who heard from the class bicycle that the surgery lounge was outfitted like a four star hotel, but very few people besides plastic surgery fellows and significant others were allowed inside. Something about not rubbing the completely unfair, blatant favoritism of the hospital in the other residents’ faces.

Arthur follows Eames inside because he is curious and the opportunity to look around without Eames’s friends smirking knowingly at him might not come around again. The quarters aren’t quite a four star hotel but the lounge is open and clean with stainless steel appliances and a flat screen television dominates the far wall of the room with black leather couches situated for optimal viewing.

There’s a hall off to the side where Arthur imagines the call rooms are and then he doesn’t have to imagine because Eames captures his wrist again and tugs him down the hall. The call rooms have name plates hung on the doors and when they stop in front of the one labeled Eames, he turns to Arthur and says, “I thought you might appreciate a place a little more peaceful.” He raises his hand and touches the space between Arthur’s eyebrows. “You look like you’re having a rough night.”

Eames is rarely serious unless he’s working, but his face is solemn as he looks at Arthur, his eyes more grey than blue in the dim light of the hallway. It’s stupid to feel as if all the teasing, the careful distance when Arthur was still a third year medical student and Eames was already a second year surgery resident was leading to this moment, but Arthur feels that way regardless. He leans into Eames’s touch and Eames curves his hand around Arthur’s cheek.

“Darling,” Eames says and Arthur can tell with a hundred percent certainty Eames isn’t just calling him by his last name.

In the call room, before and after shots of boob jobs share wall space with humanitarian pictures featuring Eames and beaming children with freshly fixed cleft lips and palates. A little girl with black hair and brown eyes sits on Eames’s lap in one glossy print. Sutures run up the side of her nose and along her top lip, tiny and evenly spaced. Even Arthur, as much as he abhorred his mandatory three months of surgery, can tell the incisions are going to heal well. He stops in front of the picture, touches the girl’s smiling face with careful fingers and wonders why it’s taken them so long to get to this point; he hasn’t been a student in going on four years.

“That was from the first mission I ever went on,” Eames says. He’s standing close behind Arthur and his voice is soft. “She changed my life.”

Eames runs his hands up Arthur’s arms and Arthur shivers. “Only you would have little children and boob jobs on the same wall,” Arthur says.

“At the most basic level, they’re about the same thing,” Eames says, “changing people’s lives by making them more confident and comfortable in their skin.”

Arthur reaches up and back to push his fingers into Eames’ hair and Eames drops his head down to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur says, “There’s a little boy in the pediatric dialysis unit. He’s getting four hours of emergent hemodialysis on Christmas Eve.”

The sigh Eames releases gusts warm against Arthur’s neck. “What have I told you?”

“Stop skulking around the pediatric unit,” Arthur repeats dutifully. “But I don’t do it on purpose. I have to walk past the peds side to get to the adult side.”

Eames hugs Arthur tight briefly before saying, “You want to try to catch a couple of hours of sleep before the ER consults you about the next end stage patient who rolls in?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. An orange and purple comforter is scrunched up at the end of the twin bed in the middle of Eame’s room and the sheets are already rumpled. It’s not the most comfortable bed Arthur has ever been in, but at the moment with Eames snugged up behind him, both of them with their shoes still on, there’s no other place Arthur would rather be.

DADT

ficsoreal — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 21:11:56 GMT

I WANT TO SEE SOME NEW DADT repealed!fic. Fandoms, you know who you are. ♥

Fic: Stories From the Back Shelf| Arthur/Eames| NC 17

ficsoreal — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 03:47:52 GMT

Fic: Stories From the Back Shelf
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: NC 17
Words: 1000+
Summary: Eames has a filthy mouth.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Arthur nudges an elbow into the solid wall of Eames’ stomach, because Eames’ dick is hard and smearing wet along the back of his thigh and Arthur’s barely had five full hours of sleep in the last week.

The punched noise Eames’ makes is grossly exaggerated and causes a burst of warm air to rush over Arthur’s ear. He shivers and Eames presses closer. “I’ve missed you,” he says into the hair at Arthur’s nape.

“You mean you want to fuck me,” Arthur says, voice slurred into his pillow.

Eames presses a kiss behind his ear. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, I’m perfectly willing to let you fuck me.” His dick is bumping up against Arthur’s thigh again.

“Such a sacrifice, I’m sure,” Arthur says. He shrugs, dislodging Eames’ hold on him. “I’m sleeping.”

The warm slide of Eames’ hand over his hip warns him about what’s to come, yet Eames cupping his cock still makes Arthur twitch. His cock isn’t hard just swollen with delight to see another morning, but Eames’ makes filthy, appreciative noises into his shoulder.

“I think you’ve missed me too,” he says.

“I think I have to piss,” Arthur returns and Eames’ shakes behind him, mirth momentarily overpowering seduction. It makes Arthur smile too and he decides not to employ his elbow with more force.

Like he has a direct line to Arthur’s thoughts, Eames snugs closer, tilts his hips and now his dick is up close and personal with Arthur’s ass. He sighs wistfully. “I just want to make you feel good. I’ve missed the feel of you," Eames drops his voice, "the taste of you.”

Arthur makes a grumpy sound even though they both know the battle is all but lost. He remains quiet, waits to see what Eames will bring to the table.

Eames doesn’t disappoint. He says, voice still pitched deep, “I jerked off while you were gone. Played with myself for hours, slathered myself with slick, tugged at my hood and tried to think about anyone but you.” Eames pauses, waiting for a reaction, but Arthur holds his peace. He’s not going to be antagonized into cracking.

“I thought about the first girl I fucked, the way I spent almost an hour between her legs, licking, sucking, eating away her objections and the way her legs trembled around my waist when I pushed in, cracked her wide open.”

Images dance behind Arthur’s eyelids, a much younger Eames, no ink scrawled up and down his body, lips swollen from overuse.

Eames says, “I stroked her hair when she whimpered, kissed her, my mouth still wet,and told her it wouldn’t hurt so much if she relaxed.” He squeezes Arthur’s cock. “I felt bad about it later…until the first time someone did the same to me.”

“Fuck, Eames.” Arthur bites his bottom lip to stop more words from escaping, but the damage is done.

“Then I was a slut for it.” Eames sucks a bruise into Arthur’s shoulder. “The words must have been written all over me, because men came from all corners offering to tongue fuck my ass loose for their dicks. There was rarely an offer I didn’t accept, I’m not exactly ashamed to say.”

Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ wrist. Eames is a slut for his tongue, all arched back and curled toes when Arthur has him on his stomach. It’s not like Arthur thought he was the first person to rim Eames, but it’s disconcerting, annoying and hot as hell to hear Eames talk about all the people he’s let ride his ass in exchange for some tongue action.

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Eames says, “I can remember a line of five lads lining up for a shot at me one night. I could barely walk the next day.”

“You’re lying,” Arthur says, voice gritty. He tugs Eames hand away and turns in his arms. Eames gaze immediately drops to Arthur’s mouth.

Eames kisses him. His teeth nip sharp at the fullest part of Arthur’s bottom lip and his tongue tickles along the roof of Arthur’s mouth. “Why would I lie to you? Do you think I make up outlandish stories just to get your dick hard?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. He believes Eames does just that. Eames’ mouth runs incessantly while they fuck, spinning tales that make Arthur’s hips jerk and his asshole spasm. He hooks his leg over Eames’ hips and grinds against him.

“Are you saying you don’t believe I sucked and fucked my way through university?"

“No,” Arthur says and gasps, because Eames pushes a slick finger into him. Obviously, he took the time to find the lube before harassing Arthur for sex. “I believe that.”

“You don’t believe I spent six months in a desert sheik’s harem?” Eames asks distracted. “I’m wounded.”

Arthur pulls his leg up higher. “You will be wounded if you don’t hurry up.”

Eames chuckles and hitches Arthur closer. Eames isn’t the longest, but he’s definitely the thickest Arthur’s ever had and it stings a little every time, the stretch of him. “Shh,” Eames croons and kisses his hair, “I’ve got you, just relax.”

Arthur pinches his nipple, vicious, but Eames just moans into his neck. “Yes,” he says, voice pained as he jacks his hips, pushes into Arthur, quick, shallow. “I love the way you hurt me.”

Fuck, the things that spill out of Eames’ mouth. Arthur shoves at his shoulder until Eames rolls to his back taking Arthur with him. His eyes feel gritty and there’s sleep sticking to his eyelashes and crunchy in the corners and Eames is still staring up at Arthur as if he’s some kind of centerfold.

He scrubs a hand through his tangled hair and works his hips harder. Eames braces his feet wide and pushes up hard enough to nearly topple him. Arthur snarls and slams his hips back down.

Eames’ mouth drops open; Arthur can see the glint of the silver filling in his back tooth in the low light of the bedroom and he shakes his head, amazed that this is his life.

“Arthur,” Eames says and he stops kneading Arthur’s ass long enough to jerk him off, hard and sure.

Orgasm steals Arthur’s breath and makes him go boneless; he collapses down onto Eames’ chest and rocks obligingly into his last thrusts. He murmurs nonsense into Eames’ skin and doesn’t try very hard to keep his eyes open.

Right before darkness takes Arthur completely under, Eames says, “I really did spend a month in a harem.”

Arthur would roll his eyes, but he doesn’t have the energy.

Yuletide TREATS

ficsoreal — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 18:12:36 GMT

If you are participating in yuletide and you have written a letter, feel free to leave me a link in the comments. If you have friends who have letters, you can leave their links in the comments (if it's okay with them). I've scrolled through the list of eligible fandoms and found several I'm interested in writing. YOU/YOUR FRIEND MIGHT GET LUCKY!!! (Or unlucky! D:)

I'm also stalking the Dear Yule Writer post in the community. I've never participated in yuletide and don't want to officially, because pressure is for work, but I wrote 2 treats last year and had a great time.

Fic: Dining In| Pooch/Jensen/Jolene| NC 17

ficsoreal — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 01:45:06 GMT

Fic: Dining In
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Pooch/Jensen/Jolene
Rating: NC 17
Words: 3246
Summary: There's nothing suspicious about dinner. At least, that's what Jensen keeps repeating under his breath.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Jake Jensen isn’t afraid of Jolene Porteous. He’s been through too much shit to be afraid of anything that doesn’t involve being permanently maimed, burned alive or watching one of his teammates die. So, yeah, he’s not scared of Jolene, but he is wary.

And aware. Fuck, is he aware of her. Notices Jolene in ways someone claiming to be her husband’s best friend definitely shouldn’t. Today, she’s wearing a dark green dress, the kind with the straps that tie over the shoulders. Easy access. For the baby, of course. Jensen sends out a quick apology to Pooch wherever he is at the moment for having impure thoughts about his wife. He snaps to attention when Jolene comes back out of the kitchen carrying a glass of water.

There’s condensation on the outside of the glass, little beads of water running down the sides and over the back of Jolene’s hands. The ice cubes clink together softly as she hands the water over and it’s like Jensen’s developed some sort of boner for ice cold water after hiding out in sweltering jungles for months on end.

Jolene looks amused as he gulps down half the glass in one swallow. Jensen wipes the back of his mouth awkwardly and asks, “Did Pooch say where he was going or when he’d be back?” Maybe, he should have called ahead.

She tilts her head and looks at him from beneath her eyelashes. “No,” she says. “He took Junior out for some daddy time.”

“Uh,” Jensen says, fidgeting a bit with his glass. “I should probably go, then.”

“I’m going to sit on the couch and watch mindless tv until Pooch gets back with the baby, because by then he’ll be fed up with bottles and wanting mommy,” Jolene says.

Jensen’s eyes drop to her breasts automatically and Jolene makes an amused sound, jerking his gaze back up to her face. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid or asking something wildly inappropriate like does Pooch drink what the baby leaves behind.

“Sit with me, Jensen. Pooch’ll be back soon.” She sinks down onto the couch and grabs the remote.

He sits.

Jolene flips through the channels until she settles on some reality cooking show. Jensen pretends to be interested as ten self involved people try to make an appetizing dish out of an ostrich egg and caramel, but Jolene takes the opportunity to watch him.

“Pooch told me about you saving his life,” she says during a commercial break.

“Huh,” Jensen says. He’s saved Pooch’s life any number of times in the past, but Jolene seems like she’s talking about a particular incident.

She smiles at his confusion. “When he was shot, you carried him.”

Jensen nods. Yeah, he remembers that Max lackey pumping two bullets into Pooch’s thighs, Pooch hitting his knees, face screwed up in pain. He shrugs. “You know he’d do the same for me.”

Jolene laughs, bright and happy and completely at odds with the slow once over she gives Jensen. “I don’t know; you’re a big boy, Jensen, but I’m sure he would have tried.”

He blinks. Prickly heat sweeps over his skin and he shifts his weight, spreads his legs a little. A woman’s cursing on the tv in the background. Jensen licks his lips. “I think I should get going.”

Jolene talks over him. “You’ve always been Pooch’s favorite. He talks about you all the time.”

“That’s great,” Jensen says. “I can’t say I’m really surprised, because I’m awesome and it’s hard not to notice my numerous outstanding qualities. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m everyone’s favorite.” Jensen takes a breath and thinks about it. “Except Aisha’s and maybe, Clay’s. Oh, and Cougar can be hard to read sometimes, but Pooch, definitely. I am definitely Pooch’s favorite.”

“You are.” Jolene laughs and reaches out to squeeze Jensen’s bicep. He flexes involuntarily and her laugh dies away. “Jensen,” she says and there’s an intent look in her brown eyes.

The front door opens sending sunlight streaming into the living room and Pooch says, “Jensen, my man,” happily. Jensen sends up a silent thank you to the benevolent voyeur in the sky.

Jolene sits back and leans up to accept Pooch’s kiss when he bends to her. Pooch has Junior strapped to the front of his chest and the baby is wide eyed and content until Jolene coos at him. Then, his face scrunches up and his arms flail before he starts to whimper for his mother.

“Traitor,” Pooch says, hands already working to unbuckle the baby. “What’s up? You two looked pretty intense when I came in.”

“Oh, I was just telling Jensen about how he’s your favorite,” Jolene says. She’s making faces at the baby as if she hadn’t been making Jensen fear for his dick and his life just moments before.

“Jensen is my favorite,” Pooch says. The statement rolls off his tongue, matter of fact and easy; Jensen blushes.

His embarrassment doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you blushing?” Pooch asks, delighted. “You are.” He peers at Jensen from the other side of Jolene and Jolene laughs at his antics. “That’s cute, man, real cute. Did you need something or were you just hanging out, flirting with my wife?”

Jensen shrugs awkwardly. “I wanted you to test the new game I’m building.”

Glee lights up Pooch’s face. “Team play?” he asks and Jolene rolls her eyes.

“You know it,” Jensen says.

“If I find a character that resembles me in any way standing on a street corner, I’ll strangle both of you.” Jolene gives Jensen a significant look.

He holds his hands out. “How was I supposed to know you’d end up married?”

Pooch wrinkles his nose at Jensen over her shoulder. “I didn’t know anything about that until the game was finished.”

Sometimes, Jensen forgets the number of blatant lies Pooch will tell to avoid Jolene’s wrath. He widens his eyes and says, “Sure, sure. Pooch totally didn’t tell me about the mole on your inner thigh in the pursuit of realism.” He grins when Jolene gasps and swings around to glare at Pooch.

“I didn’t,” Pooch says, “lucky guess, that was a lucky guess, honey.”

Jensen makes a face at Junior while Jolene fusses at Pooch and he smiles at Jensen, the wet, open mouth smile that’s so cute on babies and creepy on dentureless grandmothers trying to grab his ass.

“He’s trying to distract you,” Pooch insists and Jolene turns back to Jensen.

Jensen freezes under her gaze. “What?”

Pooch nods knowingly and edges out of Jolene’s strike zone. Bastard.

“Distract you from what?” Jensen quirks an eyebrow at her, innocence shining out of every pore.

Pooch nudges her with his shoe. “You were going to invite Jensen to dinner Wednesday.”

“Oh,” Jolene says, “oh,” drawing it out the second time.

She sounds entirely too surprised and excited about a simple dinner invitation.

“Really?” She asks Pooch and he nods and says, “Really.”

Jensen is at a loss. He likes food and company as much as the next person, but this is ridiculous. “Are you going to actually invite me to dinner or keep talking about inviting me to dinner in front of me?”

Pooch snorts and Jolene tucks the baby closer against her side. “Would you like to come to dinner Wednesday?”

“I’d be delighted,” Jensen says and Jolene beams at him.

She stands up taking Junior with her. “Great. I’m going to find a babysitter.”

“Babysitter,” Jensen repeats. “I don’t mind the baby.

Pooch says, “It’s been a long time since we’ve had an adults only evening.”

Jensen frowns. “And you’re inviting me?”

“Adorable,” Pooch says, “Completely adorable,” and rubs Jensen’s head before getting up to follow Jolene to the back of the house.

“I’ll see myself out, then,” Jensen shouts and Jolene yells back, “We’ll see you Wednesday at seven.”

Pooch adds, “Bring the new game.”

“Okay, then,” Jensen says to himself and makes sure to lock the door as he leaves.

He tries to describe the weirdness of the entire visit to Cougar later, but Cougar doesn’t seem to want to listen until Jensen gets to the part about dinner being adults only. Then, Cougar looks up and focuses on Jensen’s face.

“See,” Jensen says with satisfaction. “I told you it was weird.”

Cougar grunts and leaves the room abruptly, but Jensen’s not too worried; Cougar’s been doing that a lot lately like whenever Jensen does sit ups or spills coke on his t-shirt.

They’re all a little crazy and Jensen’s not one to judge.

He spends the time until Wednesday altering any characters that might resemble Jolene in a completely superficial manner and he does the same to the ones who look like Aisha just to be extra careful. Being shot by Aisha hurt more than enough the first time; Jensen doesn’t need a repeat performance.

The handful of flowers Jensen presents to Jolene with a flourish at the door gets him a delighted smile from Jolene and eye roll from Pooch. “Nothing for me?” Pooch asks and Jensen shoves a bottle of wine at him.

“Nice,” Pooch says and takes it from him. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt that hugs his chest. Not that Jensen notices or anything.

Jolene steps in close to plant a kiss on Jensen’s cheek and her breasts brush against his chest briefly before she steps back to let him in the door. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

At the table, Jensen ends up drinking most of the wine, because Jolene’s still breastfeeding and Pooch spends most of the time looking back and forth between them with a gleeful expression.

The plates rattle when Jolene kicks Pooch beneath the table and he jumps, caught off guard. “Stop it,” she says and Pooch gives her a wounded look.

“I’m not doing anything,” Pooch says, but Jolene looks unimpressed and Jensen is sure he looks mystified, because he is.

“Um,” He says and puts his fork down reluctantly, because whatever else is going on here, the food is fucking delicious. “Am I missing something?”

Pooch frowns at Jolene. “See, you made him uncomfortable.”

Jolene pushes back from the table and points a finger at Pooch. “Keep it up and you’re not going to get any dessert.”

“Dessert?” Jensen perks up.

No one answers him, but the dishes disappear in short order when Pooch stands up to help Jolene clear the table. Jensen watches and feels like a horrible guest, but he knows trying to help would only interrupt their flow.

Jensen startles a bit when Jolene wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind and tucks her forehead against his neck. He shoots Pooch a wary look and Pooch smiles at him without comment.

“Thanks for coming,” Jolene says and Jensen can feel her lips moving against his skin, soft and warm.

He flushes. “Umm,” he says, “thanks for inviting me.” Jolene has hugged him a thousand times before, but this embrace feels decidedly different.

Jolene nods against his shoulder and obviously mistakes Jensen’s politeness for an invitation to run her hands down his chest. He jerks, head tilting back, as she rubs over his nipples curiously.

“Sensitive,” Pooch says as Jensen grabs Jolene’s wrists and pulls her hands away from his chest. Her wrists are tiny in Jensen’s hands.

“I don’t think,” he says and Jolene bites the rim of his ear. “You don’t have to think,” she says, “Pooch is standing right over there. Ask him.”

Jensen looks at Pooch; Pooch looks at Jensen and Jensen says, “Well, okay, then.”

“Bedroom,” Pooch says and Jolene steps back to give Jensen space to stand.

He’s been in their bedroom a dozen times before, waiting on Pooch, changing Junior or borrowing clothes, but now the space feels brand new. The bed dominates the room and Jensen’s never seen that sheet set before. They bought new linens for this, new sheets to fuck him on.

The enormity of the situation hits Jensen, but he trusts Pooch with his life. Jolene steps close to him again and smiles up at him before pulling him down into a kiss. And, apparently, Pooch trusts him with his.

Kissing Jolene isn’t just different, it’s bordering on terrifying, because Jensen had lumped any idle thoughts of Jolene into the “death imminent” category a long time ago and it’s hard to change his thought process.

Change becomes easier when Jolene pinches the tender skin just above his hip and nips his bottom lip. “Concentrate, Jensen,” she says and he slides his hands down to cup her hips.

“Yeah,” Pooch says, “like that,” and the heat of his body is suddenly plastered to Jensen’s back.

Pooch rubs his hands down Jensen’s forearms until his hands are moving over Jensen’s to grip the soft curves of his wife’s ass and use his hold to pull her tighter against Jensen.

Jensen inhales sharply as Jolene grinds against his cock. “Oh, sweetie,” she says and shoves her hands beneath his t-shirt, pushing it up to his shoulders, but she’s too short in her bare feet to wrestle it over his head. Pooch laughs at her and finishes the job.

She directs a mock glare at Pooch that quickly melts into appreciation as she takes in Jensen’s bared chest. She presses an open mouthed kiss to the center of his chest and Jensen shivers.

Jensen reaches back, tangles a hand in Pooch’s shirt and pulls. He gets a low laugh and Pooch nosing along the curve of his shoulder.

He lets his head roll to the side to give Pooch more room to work. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asks by which he means, “Please, fuck me.”

“Absolutely,” Pooch says and his hands are tangling with Jolene’s to open Jensen’s jeans, push them down along with his underwear. “Step out of your shoes.”

By the time Jensen’s feet are bare and his jeans are kicked to the side, Jolene’s naked in front of him. He reaches out to touch, but she takes a step back and turns to climb on the bed.

Her ass is ridiculous. Jensen follows automatically and Pooch mutters, “Now, you know how I feel.”

Jolene’s thighs press soft and giving against the outside of his shoulders, but Jensen can readily feel the strength of her muscles when he leans down to put his mouth on her and her legs clench around him.

Slick, already so wet for him. It makes Jensen wonder if she was soaking her panties during dinner watching him eat the meal she made. Noise rumbles low in his throat, he’s helpless against the thought, and Jolene gasps, lifts for his mouth.

A million ridiculous thoughts run through Jensen’s head in a day and sometimes, he’s even aware of the fact they’re ridiculous, but as he curls his tongue around Jolene’s clit and listens to the breathy little sounds she’s making, he wants to let some of them escape his mouth. He wants to pet her inner thighs and press kisses to where she’s most sensitive and promise to make every thing better. Promise to make sure Pooch comes home to her by boat, ship, plane or car. Maybe his thoughts aren’t so ridiculous after all.

The touch of Pooch’s naked skin along his side is startling, because Jensen’s been lost in Jolene. He missed Pooch shedding his clothes. He’s seen Pooch naked plenty of times before but never for him. Jensen turns his head to peek over Jolene’s knee at him.

Pooch grins back at him, reaches out to run a finger over Jensen’s wet mouth. His finger slides slickly over Jensen’s bottom lip and Jensen watches as Pooch licks the shine away from his fingertip.

“Fuck,” he says and Jolene makes an unhappy sound and tugs on his hair.

“Is he ignoring you?” Pooch asks her. He puts his hand on the back of Jensen’s head and urges him back down. “We can’t have that, can we?”

Jensen doesn’t play around this time. He focuses on her reactions the same way he focuses on cracking code. When Jolene’s hips jerk and her fingers tighten in his hair, he gives her more, backs off when she flinches and gasps, too tender for direct contact.

Steady, filthy encouragement streams from Pooch’s mouth. His word’s settle, heavy, low in Jensen’s stomach and make his dick ache. He rubs against the bed, a little, desperate for something and Pooch laughs at him again.

It’s a good thing Jensen’s use to Pooch laughing at him or he’d be mighty insulted right about now. As it is, he’s only horribly turned on.

“Oh,” Jolene moans and Jensen can feel her peak against his mouth; he quickly pushes his tongue inside to experience it better.

Pooch says, “Good boy,” and runs his hand down Jensen’s back. Jensen follows his touch greedily, shivering and hungry for it.

He’s pushed and pulled until Pooch is looming over him, wrapping a hand around Jensen’s cock and swallowing the desperate sounds from his mouth. Pooch’s hands are sure, strong as he jacks Jensen.

Jensen’s abs are burning from the way his hips are working up into Pooch’s hand. Jolene places a hand low on his stomach like she can feel the strain and Jensen reaches for her, half blind with the need to come.

“Please,” he manages to get out between gasps and Pooch talks back to him, words Jensen has difficulty understanding over the roaring in his ears. Pooch twists his hand sharply and they both make approving noises at Jensen as his back locks up and come spills onto his stomach, the back of Pooch’s hand.

“He’s so pretty,” Jolene tells Pooch before bending down to whisper the words against Jensen’s open mouth. Jensen makes a half hearted attempt to kiss her back between trying to get oxygen into his burning lungs.

The squeak of the bedsprings brings Jensen’s attention back to the fact Pooch hasn’t gotten off yet. He makes a protesting noise at the sight of Pooch jerking himself off and makes grabby hands at him, trying to get Pooch to climb up the bed to him, because his muscles are still in the liquefied stage of post orgasmic bliss.

Pooch doesn’t laugh at him this time, just knee crawls within range of Jensen’s mouth and stares down at him through heavy eyelids as Jensen lips clumsily at the head of his cock. The sound Pooch makes when he comes sounds disturbingly similar to the grunts of pain he made when Jensen had jostled his wounds carrying him. It makes Jensen’s chest ache and he pulls Pooch down against him, smearing come, sweat and spit between them.

When Pooch stops kissing him to kiss Jolene, Jensen takes a moment to look at both of them and appreciate his good fortune, fleeting though it may be. Pooch settles warm against his back and Jolene curls up against his chest and he’s thinking about falling asleep when a thought hits him.

“Hey, guys,” Jensen says, slurring slightly, “if I happened to make a totally innocent comment about being the creamy filling between two particularly delicious cookies, would you make me sleep on the couch?”

“Absolutely,” Pooch says and Jensen can feel Jolene shaking with laughter against him.

The corners of Jensen’s mouth tip up drunkenly; he’s pretty damn happy at the moment. “I guess I’ll keep it to myself then.”

Dirty Words

ficsoreal — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 21:27:38 GMT

This is about science. Please, take a moment out of your busy fandom lives to complete this poll.

View Poll: Dirty Words, Common

Fic: The Exception| Jensen/Cougar, Pooch/Jolene, Clay/Aisha| NC 17

ficsoreal — Tue, 18 May 2010 23:12:58 GMT

Title: The Exception
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Jensen/Cougar, Pooch/Jolene, Clay/Aisha
Rating: NC 17
Words: 5883
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for The Losers (movie).
Summary: Jensen's always chasing the wrong person.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Jensen rambles. He keeps up a steady stream of commentary about any and everything as he goes about his day. The team indulges him, Pooch, in particular, because Jensen is a genius at his job and always comes through in a pinch. Plus, He's a genuinely good guy, few dark shadows, easy to please, loves his niece and his computer.

Cougar shifts his weight slightly, the counter he’s leaning against is digging into the small of his back. Jensen is sprawled over the couch. He’s wearing jeans and another ridiculous t-shirt in an endless collection of ridiculous t-shirts. He has one leg planted on the floor and the other stretched out with his foot on the couch’s arm rest. The blond tips of his hair are peeking over the edge of the opposite arm rest.

Of course, Jensen’s babbling. “It’s unfair, Coug. I mean, I’m not hideous or anything. I keep in shape, I’m brilliant, funny and still, nothing.” He turns his head to the side as if he’s trying to see Cougar, but gives up the effort in favor of staring up at the ceiling again. “Is it the blond hair and blue eyes? You know, I thought people liked blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe it only works on women.”

Cougar notes Jensen says "people liked" and not "women", specifically.

“Tall, dark and handsome.” Jensen’s hands wave in the air. “That’s what all the romance novels say, right? What about two out of three? I’m tall, handsome,” Jensen says, but he sounds unsure.

Definitely not dark. Jensen is like the sunrise when all you want to do is pull the covers back over your head and sleep three more hours.

The prattle dies off, Jensen lapsing into silence and Cougar stands up straight. This feels different. Jensen bitches about his lack of play all the time, but his complaints fall out of a smiling mouth.

“Cougar?” Jensen asks. Maybe trying to see if he’s still in the room. They do tend to drift in and out as Jensen’s talking.

He grunts to let Jensen know he’s still there, but Jensen doesn’t start up again. The silence lingers on until Jensen sighs and swings upright on the couch. He stands up fluidly and stretches with his arms above his head. His shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above the waistband of his jeans.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Jensen says and eases by Cougar to disappear in the dimness of the hallway.

Cougar spends some time contemplating the wall before he retires to his own room. Things have changed since the run in with Max and Rogue’s defection. Pooch spends his nights at home with his family and Clay and Aisha fight between the sheets.

That usually leaves him and Jensen to entertain themselves. Jensen doesn’t do well when left to his own devices.

**

“What do you know about this woman Jensen’s hanging out with?” Pooch asks. He’s talking to Cougar but his attention is focused on his son, Junior. Pooch bounces him on his lap and the baby grins wetly at him. Jolene gives them both an indulgent look.

“He met her at a soccer game,” Clay says. He bats at Aisha’s ponytail and she glares at him before going back to sharpening one of her knives. Clay smiles at the back of her head.

They’re all hanging out at Jensen and Cougar’s place waiting on Jensen to come back with his new girlfriend.

“Coug?” Pooch says, frowning at him. The baby’s fist is stuffed in his mouth, drool running down his arm. He really does look like Pooch.

He shrugs. There isn’t really anything he can add to the conversation. Kelly is a platinum blonde with pussy pink fake fingernails and an expensive boob job. Cougar doesn’t have an opinion of her exactly.

Aisha says, “Skank city.” After a moment, she adds, “She doesn’t know how to take care of herself in a fight.” She shakes her head sadly.

Pooch is staring at Cougar like he expects some sort of response, but Cougar isn’t going to rise to the bait. He stares back at him without blinking. Pooch looks away first. He disguises it by blowing a raspberry on his baby’s stomach, but Cougar’s satisfied.

“Be nice, guys,” Clay says just as Jensen bops through the door with Kelly trailing behind him.

The only one who greets them with a real smile is Jolene. Pooch isn’t smiling at all and Aisha’s smile resembles broken glass. Cougar pulls his hat down lower over his forehead.

“Hello,” Kelly sings out. Jensen doesn’t bother to make introductions; he knows they all already know everything there is to know about her. She wiggles her fingers obnoxiously and pops bubble gum. Aisha groans and Clay elbows her in the side. Kelly doesn’t notice.

Jolene says, “Hello,” and Pooch grunts.

Cougar stares at the floor.

Jensen’s smile falters for a moment before he visibly bucks up. He plops down on the sectional between Jolene and Pouch and Clay and Aisha. Kelly sits in his lap and leans back when Jensen wraps his arms around her tiny waist. The tan skin of Jensen’s forearms stands out nicely against her white tank top.

Aisha’s lip curls up, but she doesn’t say anything. Clay’s been trying to teach her manners; he's failing miserably.

Kelly blows a bubble and says, “This is a really nice house.” She’s looking around, mentally pricing the gadgets and aggressively expensive décor Cougar could care less about.

This is the first time Jensen’s brought her over. Didn’t want her to take one look at Cougar and change her mind, he’d said jokingly, but Cougar had heard the very real insecurity in his voice.

A movie’s playing on the flat screen and Kelly seems content to watch it between watching the rest of them curiously. Her eyes are green and lined with thick eyelashes. She watches Jolene coo at Junior with a smile on her face.

“What a cute baby,” Kelly says. “What’s his name?”

“Junior,” Jolene says. The bridge of Pooch’s nose is wrinkled.

“Can I hold him?” Kelly asks and Jolene shoots Pooch a sidelong glance before she says, “Sure.”

All eyes are focused on Kelly as she takes Junior from Jolene. She supports his head deftly and makes soft noises at him while he stares up into her face stonily. Junior doesn’t like strangers. Jensen peers over her shoulder with soft blue eyes and Cougar can practically see him building a white picket fence around his toy filled lair. Even Pooch’s grimace of dislike has eased.

Clay and Aisha are staring at him and Cougar shrugs his shoulders. So she knows how to hold a baby. And? Can she shoot a man in the heart from over a mile away? No.

Aisha balls up her mouth at Cougar and says, “What do you do, Kelly?”

“I’m a model,” she says absently.

Kelly has modeled for Juggs and Maxim.

“That’s nice,” Clay says, voice whiskey rough, and Aisha glares at him. The corners of Clay’s mouth turn upwards.

Aisha excuses herself with a headache half an hour later and Clay goes with her. Junior gets fussy fifteen minutes after that and Pooch and Jolene escape gladly.

Cougar is left alone with Jensen and Kelly. He tilts his head to the side; Jensen’s pretty when he’s happy, but his joy will be short lived. Kelly’s throwing glances his way, green eyes lingering on the seams of his jeans, his hair.

“Does he ever talk?” she asks Jensen and Jensen laughs.

“Yes,” he says and his lips are very close to Kelly’s ear. Jensen’s mouth is the same pink as her fingernail polish; his bottom lip is fat and slick from where he licked it nervously earlier.

Cougar tips his hat and leaves them to entertain each other.

**

Kelly comes to his room later that night and Cougar almost snaps her neck by pure reflex. Heat flares in her eyes when he grabs her roughly by the upper arms and she smells like Jensen.

Cougar sends her away.

Jensen breaks up with her in the morning. He’s always been a light sleeper.

**

Jensen doesn’t bring Kelly up and Cougar doesn’t either; her memory fades and dulls like any number of girls who’ve made a play for him when they could have had Jensen.

Cougar doesn’t understand it.

**

A week goes by and Pooch calls Cougar out of the blue to say, “You know Jensen is on my exceptions list.”

Cougar hangs up the phone and doesn’t answer when Pooch calls back.

**

In general, it’s kind of hard to get angry when you’re holding an adorable, sweet-natured baby on your lap, but Cougar is nearly to that point. Junior pats his face and makes a grab for his hat; he tips the brim up and out of reach.

Pooch is sitting next to Jensen on the couch, holding his hand and laughing at his jokes. Jolene is curled up against Jensen’s other side, head resting on his chest and hand spread out on his stomach.

Not surprisingly, Jensen isn’t finding anything odd about the situation at all. Probably, because Pooch has a habit of holding Jensen’s hand and finishing his sentences and Jolene is just a more attractive, perhaps deadlier, extension of Pooch.

When Jensen isn’t actively trying to flirt, he’s a natural at it. He’s adjusted his body for Jolene’s maximum comfort and he keeps sending Pooch sly glances as he spins stories.

Cougar bounces Junior on his knee.

“Have you been working out more?” Jolene asks and Cougar looks up to find her rubbing her hand up and down the middle of Jensen’s chest.

Jensen’s cheeks color and he says, “A little,” modestly.

“I like it,” Jolene says and Pooch says, “Jensen takes good care of himself.” Cougar’s sure he’s not imagining the purr in Pooch’s tone.

Pooch lets go of Jensen’s hand to rest his on Jensen’s upper thigh and Cougar watches Jensen tense before forcibly relaxing. Pooch squeezes the muscle beneath his hand and says, “Added a few more squats to the regimen?”

Jensen’s eyes go wide and dart over to Jolene before he wets his lips and says, “Not really.” The urge to squirm is written all over him.

“You haven’t been to our house in a while,” Jolene says. She’s stopped stroking Jensen like a pet in favor of resting her hand just under his pectoral muscle. Her thumb rubs over his nipple absently and Jensen gasps.

He shoots Cougar a pleading look and says, “I didn’t want to be a bother with Junior and all.”

Pooch looks at Cougar too, smile playing around his mouth. “I’m sure, Coug, woudn’t mind babysitting for an hour or three. It’s been so long since we’ve had adult company.”

Cougar stands up abruptly, Junior held close to his chest, and turns on his heel. He hears Pooch scrambling off the couch to follow him, saying, “Hey, where’re you going with the baby? Coug, where you going?” and smiles.

**

A floor board creaks and Cougar’s eyes snap open. They’re going to need to get that fixed, because nothing should give away their position in the house. He waits; there’re more than six guns within easy reach. The door opens a crack and light streams through, backlighting the spikes of Jensen’s hair.

Jensen’s steps are unsteady as he makes his way to Cougar’s bed. The smell of alcohol hits Cougar before Jensen climbs into bed with him. He frowns. Jensen isn’t a fan of getting drunk without due cause, because alcohol kills brain cells.

“Cougar,” Jensen whispers. He’s on his hands and knees leaning over Cougar. Jensen’s wearing a wife beater and a pair of blue basketball shorts. His glasses are missing.

“What?” Cougar asks since Jensen seems to be waiting for an answer.

Jensen smiles dopily at him. “Nightmares.”

Usually, Pooch is the one Jensen turns to in the middle of the night, but Pooch isn’t here. Silently, Cougar pushes the covers back and Jensen collapses against him. “Thanks,” he murmurs into Cougar’s shoulder.

Cougar stares up at the dark ceiling and wonders when this became his life.

He wakes up with his hands down the back of Jensen’s shorts, Jensen’s thigh between his own and Jensen making soft whimpering sounds into his throat.

Jensen’s not even awake, but his cock definitely is. Jensen’s cock is a hard line of heat pressing into Cougar’s and this is temptation. He adjusts his grip on Jensen’s ass and rocks closer. Cougar’s cock is thick and sensitive behind his boxer briefs and the hint of friction is delicious.

A soft puff of air escapes Jensen’s mouth, moist warmth against Cougar’s skin. Cougar thinks about, really thinks about his next move. Fuck it, he decides, and rolls over onto his back taking Jensen with him.

He holds on while Jensen starts awake and blocks an instinctive strike to the throat before Jensen’s eyes clear and focus. He goes limp on top of Cougar, then immediately tenses again as he realizes the position they’re in. Jensen’s straddling Cougar’s hips with one hand caught firmly in Cougar’s.

“I-“ Jensen starts and Cougar puts his free hand over Jensen’s mouth. He likes to listen to Jensen talk, but this is not the time.

Jensen’s staring down at Cougar with wide blue eyes, but he’s doesn’t make any sudden movements or try to escape when Cougar releases his hand.

He rolls his hips up, lets Jensen feel how hard his dick is and Jensen’s fingers curl into the flesh of his chest. Jensen’s eyelashes flutter rapidly and his mouth drops open against the palm Cougar’s hand.

The pink of Jensen’s bottom lip is calling to Cougar and he says, “Kiss me,” voice rusty from disuse and sleep. Jensen’s tongue flicks out to wet his mouth and Cougar rubs his dick against Jensen’s ass in reaction.

He waits to see what Jensen decides and smiles slowly as he leans down to kiss him. The first taste is gentle, easy, because Jensen might still freak out and Cougar doesn’t want that. What he wants is to put Jensen on his back and fuck him open, but that will have to wait, because the moment the kiss deepens, Jensen pulls back, fixing his mouth to spout something ridiculous.

Jensen’s obviously over thinking this. Cougar drags Jensen back down and tries to find out if Jensen still has his tonsils with his tongue. When Jensen grinding down against Cougar’s dick gets too distracting, Cougar holds him still and sucks on his bottom lip, pulling blood to the surface, bruising it. Jensen makes soft, hurt noises into his mouth and squirms fitfully.

There needs to be less clothing. Cougar lets go of Jensen’s lip with a wet pop and yanks Jensen’s shirt over his head. He strokes greedy hands over Jensen’s chest and thumbs his nipples.

Cougar needs more leverage; he flips them over and Jensen flails wildly for a second before he folds neatly beneath Cougar, thighs bracketing his hips. Cougar thrusts downward a few times just to see Jensen’s head snap back.

The exposed expanse of Jensen’s neck is inviting, so Cougar accepts the invitation. He bites Jensen’s neck lightly and Jensen moans and finds his voice. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know you felt this way, Coug. I mean, I know my sexiness can be overwhelming at times, but usually those times are not first thing in the morning before I’ve washed my face or brushed my teeth.” Cougar growls against Jensen and Jensen’s thighs tighten around his hips.

“Are you going to do anal things to me?” Jensen asks. “Because I haven’t, I mean I have, but I haven’t.” His cheeks flush red.

Heat spreads through Cougar and it’s ridiculous, because the things coming out of Jensen’s mouth are not sexy at all, except they are.

Jensen pushes long fingers into Cougar’s hair and drags his head back up, takes a kiss. Cougar’s all for kissing Jensen. He wants to kiss him all over, spread him open and tongue fuck his ass. Wants to know how many times he can make Jensen cry with his fingers, his dick, his tongue.

“Yes, please,” Jensen mumbles when Cougar strips his underwear and shorts off and Cougar is definitely enjoying the angle. Jensen’s cock is as pretty as the rest of him and begging for attention.

Cougar wraps a hand around Jensen’s cock and Jensen’s body curls up around him, shoulders leaving the bed and hips tipping forward. The potential for sluttiness has always been written all over Jensen and Cougar is determined to find the key.

The key right now seems to involve keeping his hand on Jensen’s dick. Jensen’s babbling again, praise, broken words and moans falling out his kiss swollen mouth. Cougar needs to get his dick in that mouth, feed it into Jensen’s mouth while Jensen tries to breathe and talk around him.

He tightens his grip on Jensen’s cock and Jensen says, “Shit,” high pitched and startled. Sweat is glistening in the hollow above Jensen’s collarbones and Cougar licks the salt away. He remembers Jensen’s reaction to Jolene stroking over his nipple and he leans down to suck one into his mouth.

Jensen keens, back bowing, pushing up against Cougar’s mouth. “Yes,” Jensen says. “I like that.” Cougar bites him to check his reaction and Jensen yelps, but his grip on Cougar’s hair never lessens.

“Are you ever going to get naked?” Jensen asks in a rush and his hands slide down Cougar’s back to grope his ass over his underwear.

He kneels up to remove his boxers and as soon as Cougar’s free of them, Jensen pulls him back down and rubs against him, all slick skin and heat. “I didn’t even know you fucked men,” Jensen says breathlessly.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Cougar tells him hoarsely and Jensen comes all over his stomach with a shocked sound.

Cougar gentles Jensen through his orgasm, mouthing along his neck, stroking his sides and listening to Jensen breathe raggedly.

Jensen covers his face with his hands. “I am so embarrassed right now.”

This isn’t the time. Cougar tugs Jensen’s hands away from his face and shoves them between their bodies. Jensen looks at him wide eyed and Cougar pushes his hips forward helpfully.

The tiny “o” Jensen’s mouth forms is adorable and Cougar would shoot someone before he said that out loud. Air hisses out his mouth as Jensen takes the hint and wraps his hand around Cougar’s cock.

He says, “Foreskin, huh,” and moves his hand experimentally.

Jensen’s first few strokes are awkward, but Cougar doesn’t help him or adjust his grip. He lets Jensen work it out on his own until Jensen’s pulling on his cock in a way that makes Cougar’s hips buck and his breath come short.

“Talk,” Cougar grits out and Jensen’s eyes dart back and forth between his hand on Cougar’s cock and Cougar’s face. He licks his lips.

“I’ve thought about this,” Jensen says. “You fucking me. Usually, you were the one drunk or hung over with no other options.” His gaze drops and Cougar tips Jensen’s chin back up, forcing eye contact.

“Jensen,” Cougar says. He doesn’t say, “Baby,” even though the urge is there.

Jensen smiles softly like he can hear Cougar calling him pet names anyway and tightens his grip on Cougar’s cock. “I used to think about you backing me into some dark corner and staring down at me from beneath your hat, dick hard against me.”

Cougar shivers and fucks up into Jensen’s hand.

“I thought about riding you while wearing your hat,” Jensen says and it’s like an unexpected punch to the gut.

“Fuck.” His back bows and Jensen watches in fascination as Cougar comes all over his hand.

“So, that happened,” Jensen says and he sounds smug, thoroughly satisfied with himself.

Cougar kisses Jensen, strands of hair clinging to his face, and contemplates Jensen riding him wearing his hat. His dick throbs at the image, aftershocks making his hips jerk. He drops down and Jensen takes his weight with an oof sound.

He wants to spend the day in bed exploring Jensen’s body until he knows it as well as he knows his rifle, but Aisha has a lead on Max and Clay wants to meet to talk about it.

“Shower,” Cougar says against Jensen’s mouth and Jensen nods, but makes no move to stop kissing him.

**

“I’m glad to see you finally manned up,” Pooch tells him about fifteen minutes into their meeting. Clay and Aisha are leaning over Jensen’s shoulder while he tracks money and weapons.

Cougar ignores him in favor of watching Jensen. Jensen’s mouth is still swollen, a bruised pink color. There’s several hickies spotting Jensen’s neck and at least one visible set of teeth marks at the curve of his shoulder.

“Was he wild?” Pooch asks. “Jensen has always reminded me of the really smart girl in class who dressed in ugly, drab layers, but as soon as you managed to get her naked, she transformed into a super freak with a boss ass body.”

He turns to look at Pooch and Pooch grins at him. “Jolene is going to be disappointed. She was looking forward to me teaching Jensen how to really eat a woman out.” Pooch looks at Jensen. “She thinks Jensen’s mouth is pretty.”

Cougar leans back and pulls his hat down over his face, ending the conversation. Pooch laughs softly.

The shower they’d shared this morning had been interesting. Jensen had been more invested in continued making out than getting clean, but Cougar’d managed to resist the temptation to follow the trails of water flowing over Jensen’s muscles.

He shifts in his chair and spreads his legs a little. Pooch had been talking about Jensen on his knees for Jolene and that’s understandable, because Jensen’s going to look so good sucking his cock.

There’s no certain style of blowjob Cougar prefers as long as his dick’s wet and he gets to come at the end, all blowjobs are good. He bets Jensen turns out to be a headlicker, because Jensen will want to watch his face, take notes, and he wouldn’t be able to do that if his nose was buried in Cougar’s pubic hair.

“Cougar,” Clay’s voice snaps in a way that suggests he’s been trying to get Cougar’s attention for some time.

He stiffens but doesn’t jerk to attention. Instead, he pushes his hat up and looks at Clay blandly.

Clay is irritated. “Thank you for joining us, Cougar.” Aisha’s eyes are shining with laughter.

Jensen’s staring at his crotch, mouth slightly open and eyes hazy. Pooch leans over to whisper, “Hungry.”

“What?” Cougar asks and Clay rolls his eyes. “Can you make the shot?”

“Of course,” he says even though he still has no idea what Clay’s talking about. If a shot can be made, Cougar can make it.

“Good,” Clay says and stands up. Aisha stands with him, but Pooch remains seated, amusement written all over his face. Clay gives Cougar a pointed look on the way out. “Jensen will bring you up to speed.” Aisha winks at him before the door closes.

The baleful look Cougar casts at Pooch has absolutely no effect besides making him grin harder. Pooch says, “Jensen, come walk with me.”

Jensen’s panic is so readily apparent that Cougar is forced to shake his head in amazement at the fact Jensen has survived so long in the field. Then, he realizes he’s a big part of the reason Jensen is still alive.

He watches Jensen trail Pooch toward the back of the house and gets up to go jerk off in the bathroom.

**

Jensen avoids him for the rest of the day under the pretense of doing research. Cougar lets Jensen have his space, biding his time and deciding on the best approach to take.

Cougar decides the best approach is naked. He waits until Jensen goes into his room and listens for the shower to start. Then, he goes in, strips off all his clothes except his hat and waits.

“What the hell?” Jensen yelps when Cougar pounces on him, because despite everything, Rogue betraying them and Aisha shooting him, Jensen has yet to become a paranoid bastard. Cougar’s going to have to train him up now that Jensen’s his.

Jensen’s towel is barely hanging on, but Cougar ignores its precarious position in favor of frowning at Jensen. “You need to be more careful.”

“Well, I’m not expecting to be ambushed by naked assassins in my own house every second of the day,” Jensen huffs. He’s squinting, glasses on the bedside table.

He should be. Well, not the naked part, but a person’s home is a stationary point, making it easier to plan an attack or assassination.

Cougar asks, “What did Pooch say?” His arms are bracketing Jensen’s head, hands braced against the bedroom wall.

Jensen looks at him. His blue eyes are smooth like glass, reflective and revealing nothing about what Jensen’s thinking. “He told me to have fun,” Jensen says finally.

And not to expect anything serious, Cougar adds mentally. He’s not going to argue or scoff; he’s just going to show Jensen a good time.

There’s water dripping from the ends of Jensen’s hair and he smells faintly of vanilla. Cougar leans in and licks a stripe up the side of Jensen’s neck. “Are you having fun?”

“Ugh,” Jensen says. He goes to pull Cougar closer, but Cougar tugs Jensen away from the wall. Wall sex would be fun, but it’s not what Cougar wants right now.

Jensen’s towel falls on the floor and Cougar pushes him to the front, guiding him to the bed with a hand to the small of Jensen’s back. Jensen has a tiny waist and two deep dimples above a high, round ass. Cougar wants to bite him.

“Get on the bed,” Cougar says. “Face down,” he adds when Jensen tries to look at him.

Jensen arranges his body on the bed, legs slightly spread and hands by his head, six feet plus of nakedness on display for Cougar.

Fuck. He wants to bury his face in that ass. He jacks his cock with one hand before climbing on the bed to straddle Jensen’s hips. Cougar bends down to nuzzle into the side of Jensen’s neck and Jensen turns his head toward him.

“Are you still wearing your hat?” Jensen asks and puts up a hand and brushes against the brim. “You are,” he breathes and shifts under Cougar’s weight.

Cougar places a string of kisses down the middle of Jensen’s back, the brim of his hat dragging along Jensen’s skin until he gets to those two dimples. He licks one dimple and then the other and Jensen’s hips cant up and back. So good. Cougar gets comfortable on his belly; he’s going to be there for a while.

Jensen’s breathing through his mouth; Cougar can hear the air whistling in and out. He says, “I’m going to taste you.” He watches as Jensen’s hands clench in the bed sheets. The curve of Jensen’s ass is tempting and Cougar nips it.

“Cougar,” Jensen says, pleading.

He spreads Jensen open, thumbs digging into the meat of Jensen’s ass. Pale skin, a smattering of blond hairs and in the center of it all, a deep pink, tightly furled center. Cougar groans softly and Jensen takes a deep breath.

“I’m sort of uncomfortable,” Jensen says and squirms a little.

Cougar shushes him and looks his fill before wetting his mouth and licking a line straight up Jensen’s crack.

Jensen jerks forward, a shocked sound bursting out of his mouth, and that amuses Cougar to no end. What did Jensen think Cougar was going to do with Jensen spread open in front of him, little hole all tight and shy? He eases Jensen back and gets his mouth on him again.

He stabs at the center of Jensen with his tongue, gets no penetration for his efforts, but a high whine from the back of Jensen’s throat. Jensen’s as tight as he appears to be and Cougar knows Jensen’s not a fan of pain; he’s going to need to be coaxed open, petted and soothed. Cougar grinds his aching dick against the bed.

Cougar pulls back a little and licks around the rim, gets Jensen sloppy wet so that Jensen can hear the sounds he’s making.

“This in no way resembles tossing salad,” Jensen says, words breaking over gasps and Cougar smiles against him.

Jensen pushes back, greedy for his mouth as Cougar laps at him.

“Vegetables have never been this good to me,” Jensen mumbles into the sheets.

He’s softened, arching back for Cougar’s tongue, body letting him in deeper. Cougar presses his thumb to the edge of Jensen’s hole and Jensen opens up just enough for Cougar to fuck his tongue into him good.

His hat bumps up against the curve of Jensen’s ass and Cougar tips it up a little, out of the way.

“Jesus,” Jensen says and reaches a hand down to grab at his cock. Cougar pulls back and Jensen whines. “Don’t stop.”

Cougar squeezes one pretty ass cheek and kneels up. He urges Jensen to get up on his knees too.

Jensen moans as he struggles upright; his dick hangs low between his legs, the tip is shiny wet with precome. Cougar pats his own dick. Patience.

He wraps his hand around Jensen’s dick and Jensen almost collapses back down on the bed, but Cougar steadies him and asks, “You want me to finish you off like this? With my tongue in your ass and my hand on your cock?”

Objectively, the jumble of words that fall from Jensen’s mouth make no sense at all, but to Cougar they sound like “Yes” and “Please.”

Hitching moans and pleas fill the air as Cougar fucks Jensen pliant with his tongue. Jensen’s cock is dripping on the sheets and Cougar uses the slick to jerk him off. It’s still a little dry and Jensen’s moans become hurt, little sounds, but he doesn’t stop rocking between Cougar’s hand and his mouth.

Jensen’s whole body clenches when he comes and Cougar feels it against his mouth, around his tongue.

“Oh,” Jensen says and falls forward on the bed into the mess he’s made.

He looks good spread out there and Cougar considers jerking off over the fan of his back muscles, but Jensen says, “I’m totally going to suck your dick as soon as I regain control over my muscles.”

That’s…one of the better suggestions Jensen’s ever had. Cougar jacks his cock slowly, waiting on Jensen to gather himself.

“Stop touching yourself,” Jensen says and flips over onto his back. There’s come smeared across his lower belly and his cock. He pats the bed and Cougar sits with his back against the headboard and watches as Jensen arranges himself between his legs.

“I’ve only done this twice and the first time wasn’t really,” Jensen trails off and shakes his head. He smiles crookedly up at Cougar. “I used to be pretty, you know, “he shrugs, “before the growth spurt.” Cougar tenses as Jensen’s words filter through the lust clouding his brain, muscles bunching with anger, potential violence and Jensen smoothes his hands up Cougar’s thighs. “Shh,” he says, “don’t spoil the mood.”

Jensen’s doing a good enough job of that himself, Cougar thinks, but he relaxes back down at Jensen’s insistence.

“I’m a really quick learner, though,” Jensen says. He’s not staring up into Cougar’s face anymore, Jensen’s looking at his cock. “You’ll tell me if I’m doing it wrong?” he asks but doesn’t wait for Cougar to answer.

The first touch of Jensen’s tongue to the head of Cougar’s cock is tentative; Jensen makes a considering sound and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”

Cougar wonders how it can be possible to simultaneously want to laugh and cry from frustration at the same time. He touches the tips of his fingers to Jensen’s lips and Jensen’s eyelashes flutter. His eyes close and his mouth opens, tongue just peeking out.

“You want me to feed it to you?” Cougar asks, voice gritty like a dirt road. Jensen makes a wanting sound and licks his lips.

Jensen’s bottom lip has always been a source of distraction for Cougar. Cougar takes his cock in hand and strokes the head over Jensen’s lip. The slide of friction makes Cougar’s abs clench. A rush of warm air exits Jensen’s mouth.

“Open,” Cougar says and Jensen opens his mouth wider. Cougar feeds the head of his cock into Jensen’s mouth. His own mouth drops open when Jensen sucks softly and licks up the slit.

So indecent. Jensen’s mouth is stretched around his dick, shaft pillowed on Jensen’s plump bottom lip. Cougar thrusts a little and Jensen moans. He shivers at the vibrations and Jensen’s eyes open; they’re soft, unfocused.

He touches the corners of Jensen’s mouth where they’re stressed white and Jensen takes him a little deeper. Jensen’s moving slowly, not exactly trying to take all of him, more interested in Cougar’s expression.

Cougar smiles at him, but it probably looks more like a grimace, a primal baring of teeth. He says, “Your mouth feels so sweet. I knew it would.” Cougar cups the back of Jensen’s head and wraps his other hand around the shaft of his cock to hold it steady for Jensen.

“Lick the head,” he says and on a whim adds, “baby.” Jensen’s cheeks flush red and he swallows hard around Cougar before easing off to lap at him with the flat of his tongue.

He’s been close to the edge since Jensen started fucking back against his mouth, so he’s not surprised when the pleasure boils over.

Jensen’s surprised. He jerks and closes his eyes when the first spurt of come hits his face, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets Cougar smear come across his mouth, his chin.

“Fuck,” Cougar manages to grit out. He slowly releases his grip on Jensen’s head and Jensen glances up at him, looking like something out of a fuck flick.

“You’re so dirty,” Jensen says, awed, which is hilarious to hear from someone with come in his beard and clinging to his bottom lip.

Cougar swipes his thumb across Jensen’s mouth, gathering up the slick there and popping it into his mouth. Jensen’s eyes get even wider and Cougar laughs.

Jensen pinches his thigh in retribution and wipes his face off with the sheet. He clambers up next to Cougar and rests along his side as if he’s some petite, soft thing instead of being taller and broader than Cougar. Cougar puts his arm around Jensen and lets him pretend.

He’s thinking about the best place to stash extra guns in Jensen’s room when Jensen falls asleep, going limp against him. Cougar reaches up to remove his hat; he puts it on the bedside table and turns the lights off. He dreams about shooting Max, picket fences and Jensen, the Petunias winning it all.

In the morning, Cougar feels more rested than he has in years, despite the fact that his arm is asleep and Jensen's plastered, too hot, along his side. He pulls Jensen closer and waits patiently for him to wake up.

****

Fic Snippets: 5 AUs| White Collar| Combinations of Neal/Peter/Elizabeth

ficsoreal — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 14:15:33 GMT

Fic: 5 AUs
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Neal/Elizabeth, Neal/Peter/Elizabeth, Neal/Peter
Rating: R
Words: 4400
Summary: A selection of AU scenarios: vampires, werewolves, wings, steampunk, warrior/village society
Notes/Warnings: In the last snippet Neal is 17, but there isn’t any cross generational sexual contact. Also, LOL, I'm a big supporter of personal freedom for everyone, I just find the thought of Robamas amusing.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Vampires

Elizabeth can sense him before she ever opens the door, a low hum behind her right ear. The frequency is as familiar as the floor beneath her feet. The rhythmic knock is a throwback to an older time, half joke, half necessity.

She smiles when their eyes meet and the warmth is genuine. “Neal Caffrey. What happened to Victor?”

Neal’s beautiful mouth turns up at the corners, ruefully, before the full strength of his grin escapes. “Lisabell,” he says fondly. “The memories attached to Victor finally became too heavy.”

“Elizabeth Burke.” She reminds him pointedly. It’s hard to resist the urge to check him for injuries, but on the surface, at least, he looks exactly the same, young, handsome and vibrant. Intelligence, natural and stoked by an abundance of free time, shine out of his blue eyes.

“Are you going to invite me in? The sun is bright today.”

She rolls her eyes. “Still perpetuating stereotypes, Neal.” She steps back to let him into the house and he walks closer to her than necessary, arm brushing the side of her breast.

He smiles. “The myths are so much fun, though. You’d think people would realize that given an eternity and a near endless supply of money, we’d eventually figure out a way around that pesky sun allergy.” His eyes dart around the house, searching.

“Peter’s upstairs getting ready for work.” She leads the way to the couch and curls her legs up on the cushions.

Neal sits down beside her. “I never would have imagined you for the type to play house.”

“Who’s playing?” She’s watching him carefully. Their interactions have always been pleasant, beneficial, but there’s always danger when dealing with someone with a fluid sense of morality.

“He is special,” Neal muses. “Did you lure him or was it natural?”

“Natural.”

Neal gives her a knowing look. “Feeling a bit territorial, Ella?”

“El,” she says. “Peter’s not a toy.”

“But he’s so fun to play with.”

Her eyes narrow, but before she can say anything in response. Peter bounds downstairs, “El! Honey, Neal’s outside of his radius and I have to—“ Peter cuts off when he sees Neal sitting on the couch beside her. She smiles automatically at the look on Peter’s face. Neal’s smiling too, settling into his role.

“Good morning, honey.” She watches Peter circle around to face the couch, suspicion all over his face. He has more wrinkles in his forehead than when they first met.

“Peter,” Neal says.

She leans back to watch the byplay, interjecting before Peter can really get upset. “We were just chatting.”

“Chatting?”

Neal says, “Frankly, Peter, I am surprised. You have such an amazing wife.”

She takes a sip of her coffee to stop from braining Neal with the mug.

**

Somehow, time and distance had made Elizabeth forget what a nuisance Neal could be. He makes himself at home in her space, in Peter’s space, and he watches, waits for a crack to show.

She keeps smiling, cheerful, helpful and perfect in Peter’s eyes.

Neal’s curiosity grows in time with his fascination with Peter and her smugness is only slightly tinged with worry.

“Have you bitten him?”

She takes a sip of wine and licks her lips after. Neal’s gaze drops to her mouth. “It’s been ten years, of course, I have.”

“What does he taste like?”

Elizabeth considers Neal. His grip on his wineglass is firm, verging on tight and his pupils are just beginning to dilate. She’s sure if he opened his mouth, his canines would be sharper than they were a moment before. She says slowly, “Rich, aroused.”

She can see Neal’s pupils’ enlarging. “Peter doesn’t even know, does he?”

“He’s usually very distracted and I know what I’m doing.”

Neal’s tongue flicks out and the light bounces off the tip of one fang. He takes a deep breath. “Remember the shop we opened in Paris?”

“I remember when they hung us side by side.”

She tilts her head back when Neal stands up; her eyes close when he stops behind her and noses into her hair. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“It was your idea to pretend to be siblings.” She gasps as Neal nips her earlobe.

“You’re irresistible.”

Elizabeth turns into Neal’s kiss. “You’ve always been fascinated by breaking the rules.”

“You smell like him all the time.”

She smiles against his mouth. “You want him.”

Neal slides his hands upwards, brushes her nipples with his thumbs. “We’ve shared before.”

“I’ll think about it.” Elizabeth seals her promise with a kiss.

**

Peter says, “You seem very at ease with Neal.” He doesn’t look suspicious exactly, more like suspicion is just out of sight, around the corner.

Elizabeth climbs into his lap and says, “Ah, honey, are you jealous?” She whispers against his mouth, “You have no reason to be jealous.” If anything, she’s the one that should be posturing possessively.

The sweet throb of Peter’s pulse just beneath the skin tempts her as always and she licks a stripe up to his ear. Peter moves beneath her, legs spreading, hips pushing up. She settles down, making sure he’s pressing against her in just the right spot.

She rocks and Peter’s hands wrap around her waist, stabilizing her. “Peter,” she says and he kisses her.

Hundreds of men have kissed her and Elizabeth’s kissed hundreds of men, but Peter’s kisses hold a special place in her heart. She sucks on his tongue and Peter groans.

**

“Are you,” Neal sniffs the air around Elizabeth and says, “are you doing this on purpose?”

She shrugs. “We’re married,” she says slowly. “And you’re frustrating him at work.”

Neal looks effortless sitting across from her sipping his glass of wine, but she can tell the wheels are spinning behind his easy smile. “Have you thought about it?” he asks, seemingly nonchalant.

“I have.” She tilts her head to the side. “Tell me about Kate.”

Neal’s eyes narrow, but he says without hesitation, “She looks like you.

He’s telling the truth just not all of it. Elizabeth nods. “Peter wants proof you’re over her. If that proof happens to be a heartfelt confession about your growing feelings for the both of us, then all the better.”

“I can do that,” Neal says.

Elizabeth smiles.

**

Werewolves

Mozzie pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I would just like to point out that Peter already has a mate.”

“I know that.” Neal rolls the dice and moves his top hat 4 spots forward on the game board. He’s even sure that Peter and Elizabeth’s relationship isn’t a false mating.

“Also I’m almost certain that El could take you in a fair fight.”

Neal huffs. “Thanks.” Not that it would ever come down to a fight; Peter guards Elizabeth like she’s a precious jewel. He’d rip Neal’s throat out before he had a chance to think about challenging Elizabeth.

Moz says, “Although,” he lifts his shoulders, “there’s nothing in the rules that says Peter can’t take two mates.”

Neal blinks. “What?”

“I’m just saying. It’s not like it’s a secret. If I can see the attraction sitting right here, I’m sure Peter and El have already sniffed it out.”

Neal shakes his head. “I don’t want to upset the balance.”

The next day, Neal nearly trips and falls down a flight of stairs, because he’s walking too close on Peter’s heels. Peter grabs Neal’s arm and steadies him on his feet. Neal stands frozen in front of Peter as brown eyes sweep over him.

“You need to be more careful,” Peter says.

Neal nods, heart rate starting to pick up speed as Peter continues to stare at him.

Peter’s hand is still wrapped around Neal’s upper arm and his grip tightens as he leans in and sniffs along the curve of Neal’s neck.

His mouth is slightly open when he pulls back and says, “The full moon is next weekend. Do you have plans?”

Neal shakes his head.

“You should come over.”

“Elizabeth –“

“I’ll talk to her. Show up.” Peter takes a step down, continues on his way, and Neal follows at a careful distance.

Saturday, under the light of the full moon, Elizabeth stands between Neal and Peter and snarls at Neal, low in her throat with her teeth on full display. Her coat is nearly identical to Neal’s, shot through with silver, gray and black; she’s maybe half his size.

Regardless, Neal drops his chest low to the ground and whines pitifully, pleading. Peter watches over Elizabeth’s shoulder, bigger than both of them, as Elizabeth pounces on Neal happily.

She’s decided he’s not a threat to her position as alpha.

Neal rolls over onto his back when Peter trots over to join them, baring his belly to Peter’s huge teeth. Peter snaps at his neck and Neal shivers.

**

Wings

Peter starts to suspect that something is up the day he claps Neal on the shoulder and Neal flinches away with a barely stifled yep. Peter’s aware of his own strength, the awareness comes from the time he spends handling delicate artifacts and priceless art, so he knows he didn’t hit Neal any harder than he usually does. Yes, Neal’s reaction was completely out of proportion to his touch.

He frowns, but doesn’t waste his time asking Neal what’s wrong. He can already see Neal gearing up to lie to him and he’d rather avoid high blood pressure this morning. Besides, knowing Neal, he probably just got carried away with some kinky model.

Several days later, when he goes to rib Neal about a dark stain on the back of his light blue shirt and discovers the stain is blood, Peter’s less willing to let the issue rest.

“What the hell, Neal?” He crowds Neal into a corner in the room and waits.

Neal stands his ground just before his back hits the wall. “Peter, Peter,” he says, “it’s nothing, barely a scratch.”

“Nothing,” Peter says flatly. “Funny how ‘nothing’ is enough to soak your shirt with blood. What happened and why haven’t you been to the hospital to get it checked out?”

Neal waggles his eyebrows and says, “Kinky sex games,” but Peter refuses to be distracted beyond the fact that Neal knows him entirely too well.

He crosses his arms. “Take your shirt off.”

“I think this is going a little too far, don’t you?” Neal holds his hands out. “I mean, I know you own me for the next few years, but I never thought you would take it this far, Peter. Does Elizabeth know about this side of you?”

“Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

Neal drops his hands and tugs his shirt free of his pants. He unbuttons and turns his back to Peter before letting the shirt fall to the floor.

Peter hisses. Neal’s back is mottled purple, brown and green over his shoulder blades, deep, painful looking bruising. There’s dried blood smear over the edge of the left one and the skin is gapped open in a jagged slit.

“What happened?” He can hear how rough his voice is, anger creeping in.

Neal lets his head fall forward against the wall. “Nothing. I couldn’t sleep one night because my back was sore and aching and that became this.”

Peter reaches out to lightly touch the unmarred skin beneath the bruises. “Did you really go to the doctor?”

“Yes,” Neal says, shivering. “I thought I had leukemia or something.”

He traces along Neal’s spine, down to the waistband of his trousers and up again to his nape. “What did he say?”

“My blood count was fine, red blood cells a bit elevated. Asked me some pointed questions about my significant other.” Neal sounds breathless. “I assured them, you weren’t beating me.”

Peter takes his hand away and Neal turns back around. His face is flushed. “You should go back.”

Neal shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m going to find answers in the hospital.”

“You can’t run around with your back splitting open, Neal.”

“I’m okay. It barely even hurts.”

Peter gives him a disbelieving look.

“After I take the pain meds the doctor gave me.”

Peter looks at the bloody shirt at their feet. “At least, let me clean it.”

Neal hesitates a moment, but agrees.

In the bathroom, Peter takes a warm towel and starts on the right side, seeking to soothe before he moves on to the bloody left side. Neal twitches under his touch and Peter settles his free hand at his waist to still him.

The cut doesn’t appear to be very deep, yet, as the blood washes away, the muted white of bone is clearly visible. “Neal,” Peter says and meets Neal’s gaze in the mirror.

“What?” Neal asks and Peter has no idea what to tell him.

**

Steampunk

The sidewalks are mostly empty; the hour early or late depending on whom you ask. There’s a flurry of activity within the shops lining the street, shop owners tidying stock and pulling up their blinds. A young girl with a blonde ponytail skips past Neal walking a mechanical puppy on a glittery purple leash. The puppy yaps, high pitched and happy, tugging at the restraint. The little girl’s mother trails behind them, her eyes glued to a translucent holoscreen. Stocks scroll by with winking green and red arrows. Neal shakes his head.

A faint whirring sound catches Neal’s attention and he tips his hat at the bot approaching him at a fast clip. The sun has barely crowned and the Robamas are already out in force protecting civil liberties. The bot, #2794, nods at him, hope sigil glowing in its silver chest, and continues on its way to one of the shops.

Neal watches as #2794 stops in front of a quaint little store with a sign proclaiming Humans Only. There are flowers blooming cheerfully in pots along the cobblestone pathway leading to the red door and #2794’s wheel bumps along the uneven surface.

#2794 knocks on the door politely and waits until a man with no visible augmentations opens the door. “Ahhhh,” #2794 says, “your shop is in violation of the Discrimination Proclamation of 2013. Would you like to refute this charge, sir?”

The man says, “I remember when this country was free.”

A blue light flashes and the man falls unconscious on the front steps of his shop. The bot takes down the sign and Neal walks on.

He halts in front of a peach colored shop with a mint green striped awning and a series of chimes go off as he opens the door. A dark haired lady with striking blue eyes stands at the front counter and beams when she recognizes him. There’s silver plating over her temple and a diamond stud winks in the lobe of a completely metal ear. She says, “Good morning, Mr. Caffrey.” There are colorful banners and rows of fabric gracing the wall behind her.

“Ms. Elizabeth,” Neal says and leans across the counter.

Elizabeth tsks at him, smiling. “That’s Mrs. Burke to you, sir.” She’s wearing an empire waist dress with shifting swirls of color.

Neal looks at her from beneath his eyelashes. “You keep insisting there’s a Mr. Burke somewhere, but I have yet to see him.”

“Peter’s deployed,” Elizabeth says. Her hands are whole. Half of Neal’s desire to see Elizabeth naked stems from his curiosity to learn precisely how far down her left side the gleaming silver extends.

“When the cat is away, Ms. Elizabeth,” Neal says. Elizabeth has proven to be largely immune to his charms. Her Peter must be a very special man.

“How can I help you, Mr. Caffrey?” Elizabeth pulls her professionalism around her like a cloak.

“I am throwing a party,” Neal says. “And there is no one else I would trust with such an important event.”

Elizabeth’s face lights up. She spins around and grabs a flat pad that lights up when she pushes a button. “Please, tell me all about it.” She comes from around the counter and points Neal to a small table in the corner.

World building Exercise

“Peter!” Neal pushed Tyler’s blond head out of his lap, barely even noticing the wet pop as his cock slid free of Tyler’s swollen mouth. He hastily stuffed his cock back into his drawstring pants and loped over to Peter. Peter had stopped in the middle of the mid-morning village traffic at the sound of Neal shouting his name.

Neal’s smile faltered at the disapproving look on Peter’s face. “You’re back,” he said, enthusiasm damped a bit, but it revived when Peter’s gaze swept over his body, lingering on the prominence in his loose pants.

“Don’t you have chores to be doing, Neal?” Peter had a bag slung over one broad shoulder and his pants fit very nicely. The straps of his sandals were covered in dust and dark brown speckles.

“My chores are done,” Neal said. He laid a hand on the bulge of Peter’s bicep. Peter’s arms were darkly tanned across his hands and forearms, but the tan started to fade as at inched up Peter’s biceps. Almost everyone else in the village had even tans, but Peter was notoriously body shy.

Peter said, “I find that hard to believe.” He looked over to where Tyler was pouting and Neal moved to block his line of vision.

“I paid Tyler to do them for me,” he said and Peter’s eyes narrowed.

“What payment?”

Neal squirmed under Peter’s scrutiny. “I offered to let him blow me.”

Peter’s face settled into lines of disappointment and Neal winced as Peter shrugged Neal’s hand off his bicep. “Neal,” Peter said and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m at the top of my class, my instructors all say I have unlimited potential and I won the ingenuity challenge,” Neal listed off before Peter could start on his favorite rant about how Neal was squandering his life.

The line of Peter’s mouth softened; he set his bag on the ground and pulled Neal into his arms. Neal took a deep breath. Peter smelled like hard work and freshly cut grass. He snuggled even closer and Peter said, “I’m glad to see you.”

Neal curled his fingers into the back of Peter’s shirt as warmth swept through him. “You’re safe.”

Peter laughed softly, “I told you I would be. It was a simple march.”

“I worry,” Neal said and purposely didn’t cling when Peter pulled back. He smiled up at Peter coyly. “I turned seventeen while you were gone.”

“Oh, really,” Peter’s mouth quirked to the side. His eyes said he was well aware of Neal’s age.

Neal nodded. “Did you get me anything?” He was aware peripherally of people slowing down to stare at them before continuing on their way. He ignored them.

Peter tilted his head to the side. “Let me see, did I remember to get you something while I was marching through bug infested swamp lands carrying my weight in gear?”

Well, he’d only been joking. Neal opened his mouth to say just that, but Peter cut him off.

“I might have remembered.”

Neal might have squealed. He waited impatiently as Peter searched through his bag.

“Aha,” Peter said. In his hand was a slim, ornately decorated box. He handed it to Neal.

The box was made of swirled blue stone with silver workings. There was a tiny set of keys clipped to one side and Neal unhooked one. There was a tiny click when he unlocked it and opened the lid.

His cheeks hurt from the force of his grin. A set of finely crafted paintbrushes rested in the bottom of the box. Neal said, “Peter,” the delight evident in his voice.

Peter ducked his head slightly. “You’re always rambling on about your art classes.”

Neal closed the set carefully. “I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Peter said. Neal wanted to kiss him.

“Neal!”

They both turned at the shout and Neal wrinkled his nose. It was Mr. Pearson, one of the school masters.

Peter smiled. “You’d better go see what he wants.”

“He doesn’t want anything,” Neal grumbled, but he grudgingly told Peter goodbye and trudged across the yard.

**

“I take it you haven’t heard the news.”

Neal looked up from his easel briefly. Tyler was leaning against the wall with a smirk planted firmly on his handsome face. “What news?” Neal asked and added another swirl of color.

“Peter’s looking for a primary,” Tyler said.

Neal’s hand slipped, smearing paint across the paper. He couldn’t be bothered to care. “What?”

There was a look of pure glee on Tyler’s face. “You haven’t even heard the best part. My sister told me he has his eye on Elizabeth.”

“You’re lying,” Neal said calmly. “Peter would have told me.”

Tyler snorted. “Chose you, you mean. Maybe he got tired of waiting on you to grow up. He’s already past the age when most soldiers on the command track would have married.”

Neal turned back to his easel. The picture was ruined; he tore down the paper and crumpled it up. “Please, leave.”

“Peter is a pipe dream, Neal. You need to get over him,” Tyler said.

“Leave.” Neal rinsed his brushes quickly. Tyler stood watching him for a few more minutes before he made a sound of disgust and turned on his heel.

The angry tears Neal had been blinking back threatened to escape as soon as Tyler disappeared, but he knuckled them away angrily. It wasn’t true. Peter knew Neal was still a full year away from eligibility and he would never do something like this.

He stashed his gear in his room and took a thorough bath, washed his hair. Neal stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was handsome, big blue eyes and dark brown hair. He was smart and witty. He made Peter laugh all the time.

Neal was young. He bit his bottom lip and turned away from the glass to get dressed.

The walk to the soldiers’ dorm seemed unnaturally long and if Neal wasn’t mistaken, there were people staring at him. He held his head higher and entered the main lobby.

A dark skinned man with an easy grin stopped him before he could figure out which hall to turn down to start his search for Peter’s room. “Can I help you?”

Neal said, “Peter’s expecting me.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” The man smiled. “Then why don’t you know where his room is?” He paused, then, looked Neal up and down. “Hold on a minute, are you Neal?”

A flush of warmth stole over Neal. Peter talked about him. He nodded.

The man thrust his hand out. “Jones.”

Neal shook it. “Neal Caffrey.”

Jones nodded. “Nice to meet you.” He looked around quickly. “I might be able to point you in the right direction. Second floor, right hall, fourth door on the left. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The dorm was unremarkable. Plain, white walls, undecorated except for some explicit gossip scribbled on the walls. He met several more men in various states of undress in the halls, but no one tried to stop him again. He knocked on the designated door.

“I swear if you fools don’t let me get some sleep, I’m going to castrate the lot of you.”

Neal said, “Peter, it’s me.”

There was a flurry of sound from behind the door. Peter was shirtless when the door opened. His hair was smashed to one side of his head and there were red pillow creases across his cheek, but Peter was shirtless. He had dark, flat nipples. Neal swallowed.

“Neal,” Peter said. He looked puzzled, but stepped back to let Neal into his room.

The room was sparse. Twin bed, wooden shutters, woven rug on the floor. There was a purple ribbon tied around his bedpost.

“Who let you in?” Peter asked.

“Jones,” Neal said. Peter nodded as if he was making a note and Neal wondered if he should have lied.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “What are you doing here, Neal?”

“I heard you were looking for a primary.” He watched Peter’s face carefully.

Peter froze. “Who told you that?”

Neal’s shoulders curved in. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Peter just looked at him silently. Neal said, voice rising, “Tell me it isn’t true.”

“I,” Peter said, voice weak, but then his stance hardened. “It’s true.”

“Why?” Neal wailed. His nails were biting into the palms of his hand.

Peter said, “The time has come.”

Neal shook his head. “No. You’ve waited this long.”

“I wasn’t waiting on you, Neal,” Peter said. He was staring over Neal’s shoulder at some spot on the wall, but his aim was true. Neal flinched.

“Look at me.” Neal waited until Peter focused on him. “Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Peter said simply.

The tears were back. Neal started to tremble as he said, “I won’t be your secondary. I wasn’t meant to be anyone’s second.”

Peter’s mouth was turned down at the edges. “I know,” he said, “I would never ask you to be.”

Neal nodded jerkily. “So, this is it, then?”

He stepped back as Peter reached for him. Peter frowned. “It doesn’t have to be like this between us.”

“I don’t want to see your face knowing you’re with her,” Neal said, derisively. Now, that he’d started, the words burst forth like water through a weakened dam. “I was saving myself for you, Peter, but I guess I can let that go like every other impossible dream. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” He laughed hysterically. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

Peter grabbed Neal’s upper arms and shook him. “Neal, stop it.” He shook him again until Neal looked at him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Neal looked at Peter without seeing him and Peter sighed.

He found himself folded into Peter’s arms. Peter was sleep-warm against him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Neal,” Peter whispered fiercely into Neal’s hair. He hugged Neal closer. “Don’t make me worry about you.”

Neal held onto Peter. “Will you worry about me?”

“Of course,” Peter said.

**

Neal went and did something stupid.

**

Fic: The Dangers of Friendship| Neal/Peter/Elizabeth| NC 17

ficsoreal — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 16:43:56 GMT

Fic: The Dangers of Friendship
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Neal/Peter/Elizabeth
Rating: NC 17
Words: 4429
Summary: Neal decides to become Elizabeth's best friend and gets more than he bargained for.
Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for season 1.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

At the AO3

In the end, Neal decided to blame Peter. Oh, he could have blamed Elizabeth or even taken the blame himself, but all in all, it was just easier to blame Peter.

The whole thing started the day after he met Elizabeth in person the first time. After he got over how much she resembled Kate, Neal quickly realized how useful she could be in his plot to stay out of jail. Elizabeth was not only beautiful, she was smart, funny, sympathetic to his plight and most importantly, she had Peter wrapped around her little finger.

"Mozzie," he said after that first meeting, "I am going to become Elizabeth Burke's best friend. She's the key to making sure Peter doesn't kill me or worse, send me back to jail." They were seated on the couch watching an old movie. Well, Moz was watching it.

"Not a good idea," Moz said, distractedly. "All your girl friends end up in bed with you."

"That is a gross exaggeration."

Moz looked at him. "Give me one friend, one name."

Neal thought about it. "Okay, but there's a first time for everything and Elizabeth's married." At Moz's skeptical look, he added, "To Peter." For some reason, he couldn't imagine anyone cheating on Peter, especially not Elizabeth.

Moz patted Neal's shoulder patronizingly, but despite Moz's reservations, Elizabeth proved to be invaluable. She smoothed over all the rough patches he ran into with Peter and even went as far as to hide him from the FBI when Neal escaped their badly dressed clutches. Elizabeth also baked fabulous cookies.

All Neal had to do in return was go on shopping trips, help secure outlandish venues for Burke Premiere Events and listen to Elizabeth talk about her sex life in excruciating detail. Excruciating, because her sex life was Peter's sex life and the last thing Neal needed was wood for the fire of his ridiculous crush on Peter Burke.

Maybe, he should have listed to Moz, because he was either in hell or on the way in an incredibly expensive hand basket. Sometimes, he couldn't tell the difference.

**

"Neal," Elizabeth said, leaning forward across the café table, "I was thinking about getting Peter something nice for his birthday. Want to help me pick something out?"

"Sure," he said, already thinking about ways to upgrade Peter's wardrobe. Peter could definitely use a new suit or twelve or maybe some a pair of good shoes or a couple of ties that cost more than ten dollars.

"Great," she said and took a sip of her strawberry milkshake.

The moment Elizabeth led him to the front door of La Perla, Neal should have faked a headache, an asthma attack or something and bailed like his life raft was sinking. Instead, he said, "Umm, I didn't know you meant this kind of gift," and dug his heels in.

Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and tugged excitedly. "I try to make Peter's birthdays special."

So much for Neal's birthday cards. "Peter is not going to like me helping you pick out lingerie."

"Don't be silly, Neal. Peter knows we're friends and friends help each other shop." She tugged again and Neal gave in, because they were starting to attract attention.

At first, he tried to maintain a respectable distance, but his love of shopping and Elizabeth's enthusiasm soon overcame his reticence. Before he knew it, he was making suggestions and helping Elizabeth carry panties into the dressing room.

It wasn't until Elizabeth was twirling in front of him, barely covered in purple trimmed black lace, that Neal thought what the hell am I doing?

He went home and jerked off furiously, caught between fear and desire.

After Neal dropped the third file on the floor at the office the next day, Peter frowned at him and said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he said, "nothing's wrong and I haven't done anything that might result in you killing me…slowly." He tried a smile.

Peter frowned harder. "Whatever it is, get over it. There's work that needs to be done and I can't concentrate with you about to fidget out of your skin."

Neal opened the file in front of him and tried to be useful.

**

"He loved his present," Elizabeth said and Neal almost stabbed himself in the eye with a paintbrush.

She continued talking, oblivious to his distress, "He ruined it, of course."

He put the paint brush down for his safety. Against his better judgment, he said, "Ruined it?"

"Oh, yeah. You would think that someone who worked with delicate artifacts half the time would learn not to be so rough on clothing." Elizabeth popped a handful of peanuts into her mouth and kept flipping through the book she'd liberated from June's shelf.

Rough. Peter was rough with her. Neal had always suspected, because Peter was definitely not a romantic and was the epitome of no nonsense, but to have his suspensions so artlessly confirmed.

Neal cleared his throat. "I guess he didn't realize how much it cost."

Elizabeth hummed noncommittally. She pushed off the couch and padded over to where he was sitting in front of the easel. He stiffened as she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and propped her chin over his shoulder looking at the half finished painting. "He really liked your card too," she said, mouth turned to his ear and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop from making noise as her breath rushed over his skin.

**

"After that, she started talking about how much Peter likes her underarms and how she's horribly ticklish." Neal threw his hands in the air.

"Uh, huh," Moz said.

Neal looked at him, willing him to understand. "Then, she asked me if I shave my underarms. What am I supposed to do?"

"Catch a clue." Moz turned the volume back up on the television.

**

Neal started having extremely explicit dreams. He'd jerk awake, gasping and hard beneath the covers, remembering images of Peter fucking Elizabeth against the front door of their house. Watching him use his big hands to hold her up and hold her open for his dick at the same time.

Often in the dreams, Elizabeth would be watching Neal. Like she wanted Neal to see Peter pounding into her and she wanted to see him taking it for Peter.

After the haze of lust faded and Neal was able to think again, he'd shake his head to clear the fanciful thoughts and try to get some sleep for another day at work.

**

"What do you think?" Elizabeth peered at him with wide blue eyes.

Neal shifted in his chair, cock hard against the zipper in his slacks. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't think we should spend so much time discussing your sex life with Peter. I mean, I have to go to work with him every day."

She looked at him, mouth turned down at the corners for a long moment, before reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "You're absolutely right, Neal. I've been selfish, taking up all our time together talking about my relationship. Let's talk about you."

"What?" This was so not wanted he wanted.

Elizabeth had a pensive expression on her lovely face. "I was just worried that it was too soon after Kate for you to be comfortable, but I should have asked about your feelings."

"What?"

"Tell me what you like? Do you date women exclusively? Peter said, but you don't want to hear about what Peter said. He was just trying to distract me from the article about pegging."

"Peter said what? Pegging?" Neal wondered if he looked as lost as he felt.

She nodded earnestly. "Peter didn't want to try pegging, because he's definitely more enthusiastic about fucking than getting fucked, but he said that you were probably into it and I should ask, but I thought it was too soon after you know."

Neal opened his mouth and nothing came out. Apparently, he'd used up his quota of whats for the afternoon. "I-I don't even know."

"I know," Elizabeth said. "He likes fingers when I go down on him, but he said he tried getting fucked when he was younger and didn't like it."

"I like it," Neal burst out in a fit of desperation to stop Elizabeth from talking about sucking Peter's cock and fingering his ass.

Her eyes lit up like stars. "Really?"

He snapped his mouth shut and tried not to die on the spot.

"Let's go back to June's," she said and signaled the waitress for their check.

**

The office was dark and empty except for the two of them when Peter finished the last page of paperwork in front of him and looked at Neal steadily. "So, you and El have been hanging out a lot lately."

Fear shot through Neal, quickening his heartbeat. "Yeah," he tried and moved his hands from the top of the desk to his lap.

"That's nice," Peter said and stared at him like he could see every filthy fantasy Neal had shared with Elizabeth about his cock which according to Elizabeth was thick and curved just a bit to the side. Neal squirmed.

"Look, it wasn't my fault; I just wanted to be her friend so you wouldn't try to kill me without thinking about her feelings on the matter. I only wanted to go shoe shopping and drink fruity drinks with umbrellas in them, but then she started talking about you fucking her up against walls and sucking your cock and what was I supposed to do?" Neal held his hands up imploringly.

Peter leaned back in his chair and Neal's eyes dropped automatically even though he couldn't see anything with the desk in the way. When he looked back up, Peter was smirking at him. "So, your solution was to get drunk and confess every dirty thought that's ever rattled around that head of yours to my wife."

"Well, to be fair, I only told her about the ones pertaining to you," Neal said, face burning. He'd very prudently decided against detailing the ones that involved him eating her out while Peter fucked him or sucking Peter's dick while she sat on Peter's face. Friends didn't talk about fucking each other.

"Uh huh," Peter said. "I still don't understand why you thought that was a good idea." He stood up, walked around to lean against the desk in front of Neal.

Neal rolled back in his chair a little so that he could look at Peter's face. Peter's brown eyes were sharp, brilliant with knowledge.

Peter loosened his tie and said, "You know she came home and told me everything you said, right? I had to spend an hour on my knees eating her out because of you?"

"What?" Neal was having a hard time following the conversation, especially since Peter was slowly unbuckling his belt and popping the button on his slacks. He rolled closer as if drawn on a string.

"She told me the day after meeting you that you wanted my cock and I laughed, didn't believe her." Peter put his hands on the desk. His cock was a thick curve pressing against his zipper. "Was she right? Or are you playing some sort of game? Do you want my cock, Neal?"

Neal wanted to ask if this whole thing was some kind of practical joke, if Peter and Elizabeth got off on playing with his head. Truthfully, they might get off on playing with him, but it was hard for him to believe this was a practical joke with Peter's hard on straining against his cheap pants. He reached out slowly and traced the bulge of Peter's cock, his eyes flitting between Peter's face and his lap.

"Elizabeth," Neal started and Peter finished roughly, "wants you to suck my dick."

He licked his lips and Peter's eyes narrowed; Neal looked down as he slowly pulled Peter's zipper down. He didn't bother with trying to get rid of the boxers, just liberated Peter's dick through the front of his boxers.

A soft sound escaped from above him, but Neal didn't look up. Peter's cock was every bit as great as Elizabeth made it sound, thick in his hand with a cut head. He leaned forward and pressed an open mouthed kiss to Peter's cockhead, dipped his tongue into the slit.

Neal drew back and said, "There are more than six cameras in your office alone."

Peter laughed, rough and low. "And you're worried about that now?"

"Right," Neal said and bent back down. His mouth was wet the instant he sucked Peter in and it made him squirm to think of Peter seeing him like this, sloppy.

"Yeah," Peter said and slid his fingers into Neal's hair. He cupped the back the Neal's head and held him still as his hips twitched upward.

A fresh burst of heat shot through Neal and he had to pull back, had to catch his breath and lick up the little dribbles of spit sliding down Peter's cock before they got to his pants even though Neal hated Peter's pants.

"I changed my mind," Peter said and Neal would have jerked away if Peter's hand wasn't clenched in his hair. "We should go home." He eased up on his grip so Neal could sit up.

"What?" Neal asked. His mouth was tingling.

Peter rubbed his thumb over Neal's bottom lip. "I want to fuck you in my bed." He stood up, forcing Neal to roll back and Neal watched as he stuffed his dick back into his slacks roughly.

"I don't think I can walk," Neal said as Peter grabbed his coat and hat and shoved them into his arms.

He stumbled as Peter yanked him up out of the chair. "You're going to say that again at the end of the night and it'll be true," Peter said into Neal's ear. His knees almost buckled.

The ride to Peter's house was excruciating, not only because Neal was still hard to the point of aching, but because the ride gave him time to think about what he was doing. He couldn't fuck Elizabeth's husband in her bed; they were friends.

"Peter," he said as Peter dragged him to the door, "I can't do this. What about Elizabeth?"

"What?" Peter said, not really listening to him. "What about El?" He was trying to unlock the door and failing in his haste.

"Well, I –" Neal said, but then Peter said, "Stop talking," and the door popped open.

"El," Peter shouted and El came around the corner with a confused expression that quickly cleared up as she took in the redness of Neal's mouth and the state of their clothes.

"Really?" She asked and Peter nodded. She clapped her hands in glee.

Apparently, he'd been worried for nothing. "I need to know the plan here, guys," Neal said, but he didn't get an answer because Peter was oh, so, helpfully stripping him out of his clothes and Elizabeth was standing on her tiptoes to tug him down into a kiss.

Elizabeth was a demanding kisser, exploring his mouth curiously one moment, then sucking his tongue the next. Neal shrugged free of his shirt and wrapped his arms around her waist bringing her in closer.

Peter made an approving sound behind him, a bass rumble, hands at Neal's waist, getting rid of his belt, undoing his zipper. Elizabeth's hands followed Peter's, touching the skin he bared.

"Whoa," Neal said, shocked, as Elizabeth dropped to her knees in front of him.

She pulled back with a frown and asked, "What?"

"You caught him off guard," Peter said knowingly.

He turned his head to try to scowl at Peter but Elizabeth quickly recaptured his attention by leaning forward again. Peter hooked his chin over Neal's shoulder to watch as she sucked at Neal's cockhead.

"Fuck, El," Peter said.

Neal was pretty sure that was his line if only he could breathe to speak. Elizabeth gripped his shaft firmly and sucked him down without any hesitation. Shock coursed through Neal, hand in hand with the pleasure of Elizabeth's mouth. In all Neal's fevered dreams, he never imagined Elizabeth on her knees for him. He'd always been on his knees for her.

"Ah," he said when Peter kissed down the side of his neck before biting the fleshy part of his shoulder.

"Feels good?" Peter asked him, hand stroking curiously down Neal's sides to his flanks.

"Peter," Neal said helplessly.

"I know," Peter said. "You don't know how she's tortured me. On and on about what she wanted to do to you once we got you home. What she wanted to watch me do to you."

Elizabeth pulled back with a wet sound. "Honey, come here," she said and Peter stopped pressing his dick against Neal's ass to go see what she wanted.

"Peter's inexperienced," Elizabeth informed Neal and he almost came on the spot. As it was, he swayed a little on his feet.

They were both still dressed. That's all Neal could think about as Elizabeth pulled Peter down to the floor beside her. He was completely naked and they were both fully dressed at his feet. Staring at his cock. "Umm," Neal said, shifting his feet, but Elizabeth shushed him.

"You know what you like, honey," Elizabeth said to Peter, one hand wrapped around Neal's cock and the other slid up into Peter's hair.

Peter licked his lips and let Elizabeth guide him forward.

Neal's hands clenched into fists at the first tentative touch of Peter's tongue. "That's it," Elizabeth whispered encouragingly and Peter looked up at Neal as if seeking his approval. Peter's eyes were dark, red splashed along his cheekbones. Neal was going to die; this was going to kill him.

Whatever was on Neal's face made Peter wrap his hands solidly around Neal's hip bones and get down to business. There was nothing like being the center of Peter's considerable focus and this was no different. Neal could feel the need to move building low in his stomach; half of him wanted to thrust because Peter's mouth felt so good and the other half wanted to twist away because the suction was too intense and Neal was going to come right down Peter's throat if he kept it up.

The decision was taken out of his hands because when El leaned down to lick around the seal of Peter's mouth, Neal's hips pushed forward thoughtlessly, greedily and they both pulled back to glare at him. El's glare was laced with amusement, but Peter looked genuinely annoyed.

"Umm," Neal said, "I think I need to sit down."

Elizabeth smiled. Peter said, "Upstairs." Seemed like he'd remembered his desire to fuck Neal in his bed.

The trip of the stairs was torture because El started stripping off articles of clothing as she went and Neal almost tripped over his own feet staring at her ass and he was sure Peter was staring at his.

Neal reclined on the bed at Elizabeth's insistence and she climbed into his lap. She was wet, skin slick against his as she leaned down to kiss him. He could hear the sounds of Peter undressing somewhere near the bed, but Neal kept his eyes closed and focused on making more soft, pleased noises escape Elizabeth's mouth.

"I want to ride you so much," Elizabeth said and Neal thrust up involuntarily as if she were already surrounding him. He gasped at the heat of her, imagining her hips rolling against his.

Neal wanted to taste her. They'd ambushed him at the door and he hadn't gotten to do anything. He cupped her ass and Peter made an appreciative sound. Neal urged her up his body until she got the idea and said, "Oh," breathlessly.

"Fuck," Peter said and the bed dipped as the mattress took his weight.

Elizabeth wasn't shy as she straddled Neal's face; she held herself open for Neal's tongue with one hand and the headboard with the other. It made Neal wonder how many times Peter had done this for her, ate her out while she rocked against his tongue.

Then concentration became nearly impossible, because Peter settled himself between Neal's legs and took up where he left off. Neal turned his head to the side and gasped into the soft skin of Elizabeth's inner thigh.

"Oh, he likes it, Peter," Elizabeth said. She climbed off of Neal and draped herself along his side, her hand low on his stomach.

Peter pulled off long enough to say, "He tastes like you."

Neal caught a glimpse of mischievous blue eyes before Elizabeth leaned in to lick at the slick on his chin. "He does taste like me."

The vibrations from Peter's groan made him arch up hard and Peter pushed him back down into the bed sheets. "Please," Neal said. He shifted restlessly beneath Peter's mouth.

Elizabeth rubbed his stomach softly, but Neal was past soothing. "Fuck me," he said.

"Oh, sweetie," she said. "There are no condoms in the house."

Neal swore tears sprung to his eyes. "Are you serious?" he wailed.

"Shh," Peter said. "Neighbors.

Neal glared at Peter over the hard, wet curve of his dick. Peter grinned and said, "Stop looking like that; we'll take care of you." Peter slapped Neal's outer thigh. "On your knees." Elizabeth moved back to give Neal room to roll over. His cock hung heavy between his legs.

"Gorgeous," Peter said and kneeled up behind him.

"What?" Neal tried to ask and Peter said, "You talk entirely too much." Elizabeth giggled.

Peter coaxed Neal into spreading his legs wider and arching his back. "That's it," Peter said, low and encouraging. Neal felt entirely too exposed for someone not about to get fucked.

"Are you going to…" Elizabeth trailed off meaningfully and Peter made an affirmative sound.

Neal wanted to ask, but he'd already been accused of verbosity. Then he didn't have to ask anything, because Peter was spreading him open and licking wetly over his asshole.

He lurched forward out of surprise, but when Peter hauled him back he went more than willingly. "Peter," he said and dropped his head down to rest on his forearms. Peter teased and licked at him while Elizabeth rubbed over his sides and told him how good he looked spread wide for Peter.

Peter pressed his thumb against Neal's rim, a threat and a promise. Neal shuddered and grabbed at his dick. He squeezed at the base when Peter sealed his mouth over his hole and fucked Neal with his tongue.

Elizabeth tugged his hand away and replaced it with her own, but the angle was wrong and she wasn't stroking fast enough. He twisted in frustration, bucking between the two of them. Peter's fingers bit into the tender skin of his hips.

"I need," Neal gasped and Elizabeth smoothed her thumb up through the trail of pre-come slicking his cock to its source. He shouted, Peter's admonishments forgotten.

"Like that?" Elizabeth said and Neal could only nod. His eyes were clenched so tight, his cheeks were hurting

"Mmmm," Peter said. His teeth caught on the edge of Neal's rim and that was it. Neal's cock jerked and pulsed in Elizabeth's hand, painting the sheets beneath him with come.

"Oh." Neal's legs were shaking. Peter gave him one last lick before pulling back and letting him go. Neal could feel the blood rush back into the grooves Peter's fingers' had made in his skin. He would have bruises tomorrow.

Elizabeth giggled and the bed bounced and shook next to the space Neal had collapsed in. He cracked open an eye to see Peter kneeling between Elizabeth's legs, fingers buried between her folds while he kissed her hungrily.

The little curling motions of Elizabeth's hips caught and held Neal's gaze; she was fucking herself on Peter's fingers. Warmth spread through him, tingling like mouthwash, and he turned over to get a better view of the action.

Peter's cock stood out from his body, proud between his legs. Elizabeth had a hand clenched in Peter's hair as she kissed him and a hand gripping his forearm. Their kiss broke with a wet sound.

"You're so wet," Peter said. He pushed Elizabeth's thigh wide and Neal could see how flushed she was, the shine of her desire.

Neal watched as Peter snugged his cock up against Elizabeth and she arched in welcome as Peter started the slow thrust inside. Despite the barely restrained frustration on Peter's face, he entered his wife slow and easy.

The wave of jealousy didn't particularly surprise Neal, he wanted to be fucked, to be on his back impaled on Peter's cock like Elizabeth currently was. He shifted closer and smoothed his hand down Peter's sweaty side. Peter's even strokes faltered at Neal's touch.

Peter was pale, obviously not a believer in tanning beds. Neal gave in to the temptation to cup Peter's ass, feel the clench of muscle as Peter moved within Elizabeth. Peter looked at him with hot brown eyes and Neal licked his suddenly dry lips.

"Oh," Elizabeth moaned and her legs went tense around Peter's waist. Peter said, "Fuck," and his thrusts went ragged and desperate.

Neal leaned down to kiss Elizabeth because he wanted to taste her pleasure and she gasped into his mouth. Peter claimed his mouth when Neal pulled back, biting at Neal's bottom lip.

Peter moved off of Elizabeth carefully and flopped down on the edge of the bed. "Fuck," he said again softly.

Elizabeth stayed where she was, eyes closed and legs splayed wide, breasts heaving as she tried to calm her breathing. She opened her eyes when Neal placed his hand beneath her belly button, fingertips flirting with her triangle of curls. The upward roll of her hips was an answer to a question Neal hadn't even asked yet.

He rubbed lightly over Elizabeth's clit and she jerked enough to jostle Peter into paying attention. Neal leaned down to lick at her navel as he pushed his fingers into her. The spill of Peter's come unmistakable around his fingers and Neal's cock plumped at the feel of it.

Neal raised his fingers to his mouth and tasted the unique combination of Peter and Elizabeth. They both made appreciative noises at him and Elizabeth reached down to touch herself. Neal smiled slowly and said, "So condoms." He had a feeling they were going to need an ample supply.

Fic: Food and Friends| Frank/Gerard| R

ficsoreal — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 15:36:34 GMT

Fic: Food and Friends
Universe: Inkstained
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: R
Words: 2062
Summary: In Shotgun Frank invites Travis over to dinner and bethac wanted to see that scene. help_haiti fic. Complete AU set in a society where status is shown by the number of tattoos a person possesses. Heirs to property get their first tattoos at puberty. It's completely ridiculous and self indulgent with Coming Out Balls, Courting Rituals, Gentlemen's Clubs, Brothels.
Notes: Thanks megyal for the beta! Hugs.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Inkstained Stories: (Stories can be read independently.)
♥: Shotgun, Frank/Gerard, 20688 wrds, R
♥: Bound by Ink, Ryan/Spencer, 23416, NC 17
♥: Two-Sided Coin: Pete, Pete/Patrick, 17590, NC 17 continued in Two-Sided Coin: Patrick, Pete/Patrick, 12540, NC 17

Inkstained Ficlets:
♥: Shifting Sands, Andy/Matt, 2000 wrds, R

Inkstained Outtakes:
♥: Mikey Confronts Frank, Aftermath of the Final Sealing, Alternate Wedding Night, Pete/Patrick, Pete/Patrick, Mikey+Frank, ?? wrds, NC 17

The snowflakes clinging to Frank’s eyelashes melt away as he steps into the warmth of the foyer. He shrugs off his heavy coat in one quick motion. Tate, his new housekeeper, takes the coat from him silently and hangs it in the front closet. The house is oddly quiet, beneath the noise of the television, and Frank frowns. There’s no hammering, no singing, no music blasting.

He asks, “Where is Gee?”

Tate tilts his chin up, mouth slightly twisted. “Sleeping, sir.” Tate’s black slacks are sharply creased and his shirt is starched stiff, proper in a way that’s out of place among the rest of Frank’s staff.

Frank raises an eyebrow and Tate’s face immediately smoothes into a mask of blank professionalism. “Master Iero is in his work room.”

Pleasure sweeps through Frank. He’s going to be sad when the day comes when hearing Gerard referred to as Master Iero fails to stir him. “Thank you,” Frank says deliberately and Tate nods oblivious to the faint hostility belying Frank’s words.

There’s a trail of destruction through the living room and winding around the house, empty glasses, discarded pens and old newspaper; Frank follows the crumbs until he finds Gerard sprawled, asleep, in the middle of what seems like a dozen half finished projects. There’s a blob of clay masquerading as a misshapen vase, a portrait of a wild eyed cat and a small tornado of newspaper clippings.

Gerard’s hair is tousled around his head in a way that suggests he didn’t bother to comb it after climbing out of bed and starting his day.

Frank leans down to brush it out of his face and Gerard blinks at him, mumbles, “Frank,” before his eyes fall closed again.

He smiles and whispers, “Go back to sleep,” needlessly. After one last look at Gerard, Frank goes to bother Cook about dinner.

“Cook,” he says and beams when she sighs without looking up from the pot she’s stirring.

“Frankie, no tasting before dinner.” There’s a wiry curl escaping the gray bun at the back of her neck.

He clutches his chest dramatically even though she’s not facing him. “I would never.” He sniffs the air. “Is that chocolate?”

“Yes. Master McCoy’s favorite.”

Frank jumps up on the counter to watch her work and just smiles at her grumbling about his behavior. He loves hanging out in the kitchen, loves the heat, the smell of food cooking and watching Cook move with a grace that comes from total confidence in her craft.

After some minutes have passed, Cook says, “Your Gerard has a terrible diet.”

Frank scowls reflexively, but he knows she’s telling the truth. Gerard rarely eats breakfast, sometimes forgets to eat at all and at other times spends hours stuffing his face with treats. He eats like he is the spoiled, child of an indulgent family which he is. Frank says, “He’s getting better.”

Cook hums and turns off the oven. “You best be preparing yourself for company.”

He hops down and busses her cheek before heading up to his room to freshen up. He grabs some clothes for Gerard and sets them on the bed in case Gerard wakes up in time to eat at the main table and heads back downstairs in time to be greeted by the low murmur of Travis’ voice in the front lobby.

“Travis.” Frank throws his hands in the air and the corners of Travis’ lips turn up. He accepts Frank’s hug with grace and when Frank steps back, Travis’ gaze sweeps the room, bouncing off the walls.

Frank knows Travis is looking for Gerard. He says, “Gerard is resting at the moment. He might be joining us later.”

“Ah,” Travis says and follows Frank into the dining room. If he thinks it’s odd that Gerard isn’t present to greet him, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

The table is simple, three place settings and flowers as a centerpiece. Frank takes the head and Travis sits at his left, leaving Frank’s right for Gerard.

They sit quietly as the food is brought out, comfortable in each other’s presence. Frank waits until their wineglasses are full before asking, “How’s life been treating you?”

Frank sees Travis nearly every day at work, so the intent behind his question is clear.

Travis takes a sip out of his glass. “Better.”

For a second, Frank is incredibly angry on Travis’ behalf. Ryan is a good kid and Frank likes him well enough, but he’s known Travis for years and it irks him to see a good friend hurting.

He doesn’t say anything trite like, “These things happen for a reason,” instead he says, “Good,” decisively and changes the subject.

Gerard wanders in half way through the main course and pulls up short at the sight of Travis. He says, “Oh,” and his cheeks turn red.

Frank pushes his chair back and holds out his hand to Gerard. Travis rises with him. Frank says, “Gerard, this is Travis McCoy. He’s a member of the Council.”

Gerard’s changed into the clothes Frank set out for him, but his hair is still wild around his head. He looks up at Travis with wide eyes and says, “Nice to meet you,” quietly.

Travis smiles and says, “The pleasure is mine,” which makes Gerard blush harder and Frank laugh out loud.

When Travis raises an eyebrow, Frank shakes his head, says, “Long story, but rest assured, the joke is on me.”

The conversation shifts naturally from work to more general topics as Gerard picks at the plate placed in front of him, but it’s not until Travis mentions going to see the newest orchestral arrangement at Thalia Mara that Gerard really starts paying attention.

By the time dessert is wrapping up, Gerard is talking freely, hands waving wildly about in distracting patterns and Frank is beaming. God, he’s disgusting when it comes to Gerard. If Frank was on the outside looking in, he’d be talking a ton of shit about how whipped he is over Gerard.

At the door, Travis kisses Gerard’s hand and tells Frank, “Congratulations,” even though he’s already wished Frank’s marriage well.

Frank bounces on his toes, hands clasped behind him, and says, “I know.” Travis shakes his head, small smile on his mouth and disappears into night.

“I like him,” Gerard declares, rubbing the back of his hand absently. There’s a spot of purple paint on the inside of his wrist, obscuring part of his tattoo.

Frank gives Gerard a bemused look and trails him back into the living room. Gerard plops down on the couch and stares up at Frank. Frank stares back.

Gerard’s tongue sneaks out to lick his bottom lip; Frank can’t help but track the movement with his gaze.

Pink is spreading slowly across Gerard’s cheeks and he twitches fitfully. “Frank,” he says, nearly whining.

“What?” Frank bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Gerard twitches some more under his gaze before Frank gives in and sinks to his knees in front of Gerard.

He nuzzles along Gerard’s jaw line and asks again, “What, Gee?” Gerard doesn’t answer; he just tips his had back to give Frank more room to work with.

Frank bites at the tender skin of Gerard’s neck. Gerard makes an encouraging noise and Frank takes him up on the offer of more despite the sound of someone walking toward the living room. Gerard’s fingers push into Frank’s hair, curl into the strands and hold Frank closer. The footsteps in the background stop and then retreat rapidly, but Frank doesn’t care enough to look up and Gerard doesn’t notice.

“I want to suck you.” Frank nips at Gerard’s earlobe.

“But,” Gerard tries, sentence petering out beneath Frank’s mouth.

Gerard still kisses with an artless innocence, mouth seeking Frank’s blindly as Frank pulls back enough to say, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Gerard echoes; his eyes are bright and dazed.

“Excellent,” Frank says and Gerard blinks.

“What? No.” Gerard flails. “People are going to see.”

“No one is going to see.” Frank pops the button on Gerard’s pants and works the zipper down.

“We’re in the middle of the house.”

“Okay,” Frank says, “no one is going to say anything.”

“To you,” Gerard wails.

Frank looks at him seriously. “To you.”

Gerard bites his bottom lip and doesn’t protest when Frank pulls his dick free of his underwear.

Frank considers himself more progressive than most, but the possessiveness, the thrill he gets from knowing that he’s the only one to ever touch Gerard in this manner, is purely conservative.

“Hello,” he croons to Gerard’s cock, petting it lightly, “did you miss me?”

Gerard giggles even as his hips press upwards into Frank’s hands.

Frank places a kiss on the head of Gerard’s cock and the giggles cut off abruptly. “You missed me,” he says smugly.

During the first weeks of their marriage, Frank took a lot of time exploring Gerard’s body, finding out what pleased him, what made him blush, what made him uncomfortable. Now, Frank would say that he knows Gerard’s body pretty well, but there are still things that surprise him.

Like the way licking along Gerard’s slit makes his hips roll up and pleading sounds escape his pretty mouth.

“Do you like that?” Frank lifts his head to look up at Gerard.

Gerard tries to push his head back down, but Frank resists. “Frank,” Gerard whines.

“Tell me,” Frank says. Gerard talks a lot, but he’s been hesitant to tell Frank what he likes explicitly, to demand things of Frank.

“Yes,” Gerard says and it’s like a dam has burst. “Yes, I like it when you lick me there. Please, please.” He bucks his hips and pulls on Frank’s hair at the same time. “Frank.”

Frank gives in to the tugging and takes Gerard back into his mouth, not teasing, just straight, hard suction and tonguing along the underside.

Gerard’s body is shameless beneath Frank’s hands, every twist and arch begging, demanding more from him and Frank gives it. He lets Gerard thrust into his mouth, slurps him down and swallows around him.

Heat rolls and settles in the bottom of Frank’s stomach, at the base of his spine. He pushes a hand down between his thighs and rocks against his palm. The pleasure flares bright and frustrating, because the friction isn’t enough. His own touch will never be enough when Gerard is spread out and wanting in front of him.

He pulls off to mouth along the underside of Gerard’s cock, uncaring of how sloppy he’s become, his spit slicking him and Gerard both. Gerard’s biting his bottom lip, but that doesn’t stop the sounds escaping him.

Fuck, the sounds. Frank has heard Gerard sing. Always, when Gerard’s deep into his artwork and doesn’t know Frank’s listening and it makes him hard every time. He loves it, loves to hear Gerard sing, loves to make his body sing.

“Frank.” Gerard tugs on his hair and lifts his hips.

Oh, Gerard’s probably aching, cock throbbing for him. Frank captures the head of Gerard’s dick again and swallows around him. Gerard whines above him and he won’t be long now. Frank sucks harder, anticipating Gerard shooting down his throat, but he’s still surprised by the first pulse.

His chest hurts after the last swallow and he pulls in air raggedly, trying to soothe the burn. Gerard bends over him, groping at his shoulders, urging Frank up and into his arms. Frank kisses him between gasping breaths and shudders when Gerard’s hand eases down his chest.

Frank shifts his hips forward and says, “Fuck, yeah, touch me.”

The touch of Gerard’s hand is still tentative, but Frank bucks forward and his grip tightens. He nips at the pale skin at Gerard’s throat and fucks into his hand frantically.

Gerard makes a surprised noise when Frank spills over his hand; his eyes get even bigger when Frank licks his hand clean for him.

Frank collapses on the couch and Gerard scoots over to lean against his side. “That was fun,” Gerard says.

He chokes on a laugh and gets poked in the side for his efforts. “Ow,” he says, mainly for show, but Gerard smoothes his hand soothingly over the spot.

Sleep is weighing down Frank’s eyelids when Gerard says, “I’m glad you didn’t give up on me.”

Frank smiles and pets Gerard’s hair lazily. “Never, Gee, never.”

Pimp!

ficsoreal — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 02:24:54 GMT

het_idcrack!!! Because I really enjoy reading about women on top. ♥

Always-a-girl genderswap is acceptable!

Go check it out!

Fic: Positive Reinforcement| Neal/Peter/Elizabeth| R

ficsoreal — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 19:04:18 GMT

Fic: Positive Reinforcement
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Neal/Peter/Elizabeth
Rating: R
Words: 1149
Summary: Neal returns from walking Satchmo and receives a treat.
Notes/Warnings: Written for miscellanny's Sex is Not the Enemy Fic/Artathon. My Prompt.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

“The next time Satchmo needs a walk, Peter’s taking him.” Neal closed the bedroom door, eyes glued to the scene on the bed. Elizabeth was straddling Peter, black bra stark against her pale skin; they’d started without him again.

“Stop complaining,” Peter said and pulled Elizabeth down into a quick kiss before snapping his fingers at Neal. “Strip.” He still had on one sock. There were penguins blowing bubbles on it.

Neal seriously considered disobeying for about half a second, but Elizabeth was looking at him over her shoulder, amusement clear in her blue eyes, and he could find another time to annoy Peter. He toed off his shoes and socks and started working on the buttons on his shirt while walking toward the bed.

Peter and Elizabeth both watched him with avid gazes. He shook his hair back out of his face, the performer in him rising to the surface. He spared a brief, regretful thought to the tie he’d already removed, but he could make this work. He parted the halves of his shirt slowly and pulled the bottom out of his slacks. Peter made an approving sound as the shirt dropped to the floor.

“Come here,” Elizabeth said and climbed off of Peter’s lap to kneel up on the side of the bed; she reached out with greedy hands as Neal moved within range and quickly freed his cock. He curved a hand around the back of her head as she bent down to suck him in.

The bed shook against his legs as Peter moved over to join her. He shivered when Peter pressed a kiss to the side of Elizabeth’s mouth where it was stretched wide by his cock.

Peter looked up at him from beneath his lashes and there was nothing coy about it. Neal bent down to meet his kiss and Elizabeth gripped his hip, following him with her mouth. She sucked him like she couldn’t get enough and the touch of her mouth made his kiss sloppy. Peter nipped his bottom lip and said, “We’d never want you to feel left out,” and Elizabeth hummed her agreement around him.

“I,” Neal gasped, but his words were cut off by another kiss from Peter before he moved back down Neal’s body and slid his hand into Elizabeth’s hair, pulling her mouth away from Neal’s cock.

He watched as Peter kissed her, long and deep. Her hand was still moving on his dick and when the kiss broke, Peter leaned down to take her place. “Fuck.” He’d shared Peter’s dick with Elizabeth before, but he’d never had them between his legs at the same time. He locked his knees as Elizabeth pressed an open mouthed kiss to his hip bone.

“Please,” he said softly and Elizabeth said, “Shhh,” licked at the indent of his navel. Her hair mingled with Peter’s and he put a hand on each of their heads and held on as they played with him, shared his cock until he came, fingers clenched in their hair and toes curled into the carpet.

“Don’t fall,” Peter said and helped him onto the bed. Neal turned his face up blindly for a kiss and Peter smiled against his mouth before obliging him. Peter always said he got clingy after orgasm, but Neal could care less because he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to taste himself in Peter’s mouth.

He only stopped hugging Peter close when Elizabeth pushed at him, admonishing him for being greedy; He smiled up at her dreamily, feeling warm inside and out. She smiled back brightly, then shoved him to the side and climbed back into Peter’s lap.

Peter laughed the laugh he saved for the two of them and Neal couldn’t even work up any indignation. He watched them kiss with an ease and a familiarity he was quickly gaining.

Elizabeth was already rocking in Peter’s lap and Peter’s hands were around her waist pulling her down against him as he thrust up.

It was so fucking hot. Neal definitely saw where he could be helpful. He clambered over behind Elizabeth and helped her out of her bra. She sat up to let him pull it over her arms; he looked at Peter over her head and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Neal,” Peter said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably.

Neal grinned at him and cupped Elizabeth’s breasts with both hands, squeezed gently.

She shivered and leaned back against him. “Neal.” Her voice was ragged around the edges. Neal helped support her weight as she reached down to position Peter’s cock properly.

“Fuck.” Peter arched his back as Elizabeth sank down on him.

Neal peppered Elizabeth’s neck with kisses and watched over her shoulder as Peter lost his mind beneath and within her. “Look at him,” he whispered to Elizabeth. “Look at how much he wants you, how good you make him feel.” Neal pinched one of her nipples and she gasped, but her rhythm didn’t falter.

“Does he feel good inside you?”

“Yes,” she said, “thick.”

Neal pressed his hips forward, rubbing his cock against her. “Are you close?”

Elizabeth nodded, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Peter said, “El,” voice ripping at the seams. He arched upwards meeting Elizabeth’s downward movements and Neal licked his lips when they both groaned.

He reached around to rub Elizabeth’s clit and she clutched at him, manicured nails digging into his skin. “Neal,” she said on an exhale. Peter was watching, looking down between Elizabeth’s legs at the place the three of them came together.

“Come for us,” Neal said into Elizabeth’s ear. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, worrying it softly before biting down. She screamed and Neal could feel the little contractions start beneath his fingertips.

“Yes.” Peter thrust up with ragged motions before going still beneath Elizabeth’s weight, shuddering through his release.

Neal pressed a kiss to Elizabeth’s temple and eased her off Peter’s lap to his side. She curled up next to Peter, put her head on his chest and Neal settled down at her back. He swept an idle hand over her hip before reaching over to pet Peter’s stomach lightly.

Peter caught his hand and brought it to his mouth, licking over the tips of his fingers briefly. Heat curled lazily in Neal’s stomach and he shifted restlessly.

Elizabeth elbowed him in the stomach. “Time for sleep. We all have work in the morning.”

Neal glared at the back of her head fiercely.

“I can feel you glaring at me,” she said, smothering a yawn against Peter’s skin.

Peter laughed low and satisfied. He twitched around, fumbling with the bed sheets for a minute, wiping himself down, before stilling. Peter covered Neal’s hand with his own where it still rested on his stomach. “Goodnight,” he said and turned the bedside lamp off.

Elizabeth said, “I can still feel you glaring, Neal.”

White Collar Pimping Post! Get in on this Deliciousness!

ficsoreal — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 23:47:57 GMT

So, I've been rambling about something called White Collar and some of you (megyal) wanted to know a little bit more about it!

Pimp Cup:

fahye's White Collar Pimping Post: This post is picture heavy and I agree with the majority of the commentary. Particularly, the comments concerning Peter Burke.

copperbadge's White Collar Pimping Post: Has actual thoughts and words that make sense. Lol.

I, Pimp:

White Collar is about the unlikely partnership of a con artist and an FBI agent who have been playing extremely sexy cat and mouse for years. Also, about trust issues, being totally married, tailored clothes, bondage and hot sex.

This is Neal Caffrey, charming criminal mastermind and "star" of the show. He's pretty, flirty and smart. But don't let his love of the ladies fool you, he's crazy in love with Kate, the girl that dumped him with four months left on his four year jail sentence. He agrees to be Peter's boy (a FBI consultant on a work release) in order to search for Kate and answers. A part of this agreement includes Neal wearing a tracking anklet.

This is Peter Burke, bad ass FBI agent. He's caught Neal twice and it makes him hard every time he thinks/talks about it and he talks about it a lot. He's married to a lovely lady who is totally understanding about him working long hours, wearing horrible clothes and stalking people (including her).

Meet Elizabeth Burke, Peter's awesome wife. Elizabeth owns an event planning company and proves that Peter secretly loves sassy, well dressed troublemakers with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She takes an instant liking to Neal and spends a lot of time imaging him naked, possibly tied to her bed while Peter teases him to tears.

Mozzie is Neal's boy wonder. He lives in a storage unit and makes shit happen. Distrusts "The Man" and prone to hilarious rants and asides. I'm pretty sure he's seen Neal naked multiple times.

This is Kate Moreau, Neal's mysterious ex-girlfriend. I don't really have an opinion on Kate. Other than she looks like Elizabeth's younger sister (also Neal's younger sister). She has mapped out the two mile restriction on Neal's anklet and lives five feet outside of his limit. <- Not true as far as I know.

Relationships:

Peter/Elizabeth: They love each other in a completely over the top, I would shoot someone for you way. The story of their courtship involves inappropriate use of government funds and Peter being full of fail.

Peter+Neal or Peter/Neal: Ridiculous, competitive and full of sexy power dynamics. They have set up a mutual admiration society and are screening members. This is the second biggest pairing in the fandom.

Neal+Elizabeth or Neal/Elizabeth: Spend most of their time working together to get on Peter's last nerve, when they're not saving his ass. They look like siblings and I would love to see some separated at birth AUs.

Neal/Peter/Elizabeth: This is the biggest pairing/grouping in the fandom. I have no idea why. *cough* Really. Most OT3 stories involve Elizabeth being totally accepting and encouraging Neal and Peter to act on their desire for each other and then, Neal goes out of his way to express his love for Elizabeth. Which is totally valid, because she looks like an older version of the supposed love of his life. I like reading OT3 stories, but my personal canon is a V with Peter at the point and Neal and Elizabeth as really good friends who make out a lot and shop together.

Neal+Mozzie or Neal/Mozzie: Friends and partners in mischief. Mozzie is not Kate's biggest fan, but he helps Neal in his quest to find her and answers. Mozzie has totally slept with Neal in the past, because Neal is easy.

Neal/June: June is the attractive widow who Neal rents from. She is a classy chick with past connections to the criminal underground. Spends time having her maid bake cookies for Neal and Moz. Likes Neal's pretty face.

Fic Recs:

Neal/Peter/Elizabeth

Boundary Conditions: This is a fic/art collab between fahye and lizardspots. I would describe Boundary Conditions as a Peter Burke character study complete with hot porn. This is my favorite story right now in the fandom. Peter in this story is the closest to the Peter in my head.

Cut-off Point by isagel. "There's almost nothing overtly sexual in this story, but it is absolutely a story about bondage and D/s." -isagel The lack of porn doesn't stop this story from being hot as well as compelling. Another Peter POV, but this contains my ideal Neal.

Taking Liberties by astolat. Neal is overwhelmed by his love for Peter. This Elizabeth is almost perfect (I imagine her as a little more vicious). This is also one of the very few stories in which Neal and Peter sleep together without securing Elizabeth's permission in advance. That's a plus in my book, if only because it's different. All three POVs.

Neal/Peter

Blind/Dates by captanddeastar. Accidental dating! Absolutely hilarious and perfect. Peter POV. Everyone spends some time being confused.

T-shirt by audrarose. Neal isn't perfectly put together all the time. Peter POV. Wonderful.

Neal/Elizabeth

An Old Story by ficsoreal. \o/! I enjoy the thought of Neal/Elizabeth. A pretty rare pairing.

Neal/Mozzie

Cream of the Crop by ponderosa. Fun times in an ice cream truck! Neal is easy and easily bored. :)

Neal/June

When You're Good to Mama by zvi_likes_tv. Labeled as dubious consent by author. I would add coercion. Neal pays his rent. ♥

Leave Taking, Party Taking, Pleasure Taking by zvi_likes_tv. "Having Neal on her arm—young, white, pretty, charming, and completely unknown to everyone worth knowing—was just as much fun as she had thought it would be." (I will probably grow up to be a lot like zvi_likes_tv's June.)

Vids:

By talitha78. This was the first White Collar vid I watched. Neal-centric.

By ponderosa A fun OT3 vid. Neal/Peter/Elizabeth.

By Mary. This is my favorite! Epilepsy warning. Neal/Everybody. \o/!

Randomly, my favorite photo:

I love glasses on men.

Stories I Need:

♥ Truth Serum (Canon! I need a thousand missing scene fics. Neal rambling in the car and Peter telling him to shut up. Please!)
♥ Separated at Birth (Three of the central characters look like siblings. It's just not right.)
♥ Wing!fic (Neal is an angel. Maybe an angel sent to help Peter win Elizabeth's heart and he loses his professional distance.)
♥ Elizabeth punching somebody in the face. (What?)
♥ Kid/Pregnancy fic. (I have needs and I'm not ashamed.)

Conclusion: Watch White Collar and write fic!

White Collar Vid: Go!

ficsoreal — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 17:08:33 GMT

Title: Go! (Teen Titans Theme)
Song Artist: Puffy AmiYumi
Fandom: White Collar
Summary: When there's trouble you know who to call. Spoilers for episodes 1-9!
Notes: This is my first try at vidding and it is delicious, time consuming crack. At some point, after staying up to 3am for 5 nights straight, you have to let go. ♥
Password:teentitans

CLICK THIS LINK. There is hotness behind it.

ficsoreal — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 02:26:14 GMT

I wished for this earlier today! Seriously!

Yuletide is REVEALED!

ficsoreal — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 17:13:41 GMT

I was not a participant in yuletide, but I did write two treats, both over a 1000 words.

As you all might know, I tend to like rare/unpopular pairings and/or scenarios. I can't help it. So, of course, I wrote Neal/Elizabeth, White Collar, for elzed. An Old Story, Explicit, 2311 words, 12 comments, 3 bookmarks, 1 rec that I know of and 369 hits. ♥

I also wrote Neal/Peter, White Collar, for lozenger8. Lies the Color of Your Crimes, Teen, 1430 words, 10 comments, 4 bookmarks and 443 hits. ♥

The best thing about yuletide for me was that several people from my flist commented on my stories! \o/! I guess you hang around for a reason or something.