Gixi

Intimacy

2009-12-19T09:04:30Z

Title: Intimacy
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There's not a lot of meaning to the Basterds lives beyond making good on their promise to kill a whole heck of a lot of Nazis. Aldo/Donny/Utivich, Donny/Utivich, some Aldo/Donny
Disclaimer: I do not own Inglourious Basterds or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Quentin Tarantino and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for mrs_gregsanders for the 100_scalps Secret Hannukah and totally late. But it's still Hannukah somewhere! (Hawaii?) Also, THREESOMES ARE HARD. :[ I really wanted to make it work, though, so I hope it's okay!
Crosspost: none

The thing was, it wasn't supposed to mean anything. It just so happened that of the ten of them three were willing to get theirs with other men instead of loose French girls and whores — not that they didn't go after those from time to time, too. It just gave them more opportunity to unload their tensions onto other bodies, when, say, Donny couldn't whack a Nazi with his bat, or Utivich couldn't meticulously slice off a scalp with his sharp eyes. As for Aldo, he didn't get tense. Tense had left his skin some fifteen years before the Germans had entered France, around the same time he'd been hung up over a tree. Still, sometimes he got an itch about him, something he couldn't quite scratch on his own, which didn't seem to have any origin but found its home in the sweat of his men.

In spite of that, the carnal, primal nature of it, it seemed to Aldo Raine like their little arrangement had come to have some kind of purpose to it beyond keeping Sergeant Donowitz from knocking off Hirschberg's head. He didn't notice it right away, so when exactly the flip came he couldn't be sure, but there it was.

It was a quiet night following a quiet day, one in a series of days that left them all feeling a bit restless and eager for the taste of blood. The itch had come to him, and after the fire had died down and even Stiglitz was snoring, he'd gotten up as soundlessly as he could and nudged the nearest of the two — Donny, as it happened — with the toe of his boot.

Donny pried one eye open, catching his gaze quick and slowly processing something. Aldo had no idea what it was; the thoughts of his staff sergeant were usually beyond him, unless they were the quick, in the moment thoughts that had to do with getting as much gray matter of of as many skulls as possible.

Donny understood him, anyway, that much was clear. Aldo made his way a little distance from the camp, just out of the clearing, and Donny followed, a looming, almost ghostly presence behind him.

Aldo thought that maybe it was some screwed up respect for their military superior that made Donny and Utivich let him direct the way they fucked, but he didn't bring it up. It worked well enough for him, and he figured if they settled into it so easily he couldn't mind much anyway.

All it took was dropping his pants and leaning against a sturdy tree and Donny had the message. Of course, Donny probably already had an idea of it before he'd even gotten up, but they had variation enough that there was room for questioning just what the details were going to be. His itch was very particular that night, which Donny seemed to have no problems with.

They'd taken to scraping up any sort of gelatinous substance they could get their hands on for their arrangement, but most of them didn't match up to even the lousiest sort of proper lubricant, so Aldo was pleased to find Donny had some on him. The first of his fingers pressing in was thick enough to satisfy just a little, but it was never meant to be about slow and teasing pressure, about drawing it out, so so he pressed back against Donny's hand and demanded more with a grunt. He got what he asked for, and though Donny seemed to think for a moment about using a third finger, he must have realized Aldo wouldn't have wanted it.

The first thrust in was where any sort of slowness between them laid; so long as Donny pressed hard and rough, if the slide was slow and drawn-out it worked just as well as a quick jab, and as it tended to do less damage that way it seemed preferable in any case. After that, Donny paused for just a second, exhaling loudly right there in his ear. Aldo gripped the tree in front of him harder, almost enjoying the way the bark bit into his palms, and felt for a moment like he was trapped in that moment just before the first shot went off in a battle.

Then Donny drew back, and there were no more thoughts like that.

The hard, quick thrusts Donny seemed to have mastered over the months they'd been in France blew out the lieutenant's mind, and if it weren't for the fact that he had Kagan on watch he'd never have let Donny near his ass, knowing how vulnerable it made him. There was such a pleasure to it, focused on the way Donny's appreciable cock pushed into him and rubbed against that fantastic part of him, the way his rough, dirty nails dug just slightly into the exposed skin on his hips, that he didn't hear the footsteps coming up on them.

From Donny's lack of surprise, he guessed it was just him, and in any other situation he might've actually gone so far as to have felt a bit ashamed about being caught in so compromising a situation, but it felt so damned good, and, as it turned out, their spectator wasn't unwanted.

He couldn't make out the look on Utivich's face in the dark, but it wasn't likely to be much different from any other time they'd been together at night: calm, his face not telling of his arousal except in the slight slack of his jaw, his lips just a little bit parted, and in the flaring of his nostrils. He was unlike both Aldo and Donny in that way, restraining himself when he was supposed to be doing something for pleasure, but he seemed to get enough out of it to keep coming back, anyway.

"C'mere," Aldo growled when Utivich didn't step closer right away. He heard more than saw him hesitate, his eyes still mostly focusing on the tree in front of him, but soon enough the private was within arm's reach, and Aldo spared one arm's support to drag him into their mess, pressing him between his body and the tree.

He reached down, cupping Utivich's erection for just a moment before fumbling his pants open, Utivich's own hands getting in the way as they tried to do it together. Utivich's breathing was louder than either of theirs, and he couldn't hold back a groan when Aldo grabbed his dick, jerking him roughly until he was completely hard. He let go then, allowing Donny's increasingly rough thrusts to push him into Utivich, making them rut together like they just couldn't help themselves, cocks caught between their bodies and against each other.

Aldo couldn't have asked for more, and so he let his eyes close, just enjoying the feel of being thoroughly fucked by Donny and the friction of Utivich. It wasn't until he started to feel like he was near coming that he noticed something that seemed just a little strange — like he was somehow disconnected from the bodies he was sandwiched between. He opened his eyes to find that even though Utivich's left hand was fisted in Aldo's own jacket, his eyes weren't on him at all, but looking over his shoulder. The way he was, it was impossible to tell if Donny had even noticed Utivich looking at him, but Aldo guessed he had.

Donny came like that, fucking Aldo hard while Utivich stared at him, his own hips pumping against Aldo's. Utivich's right hand was on Aldo's hip, the tips of his fingers just barely laid over the back of Donny's.

He didn't pull back right away, and Aldo could feel his breath on his shoulder. Suddenly Donny was the voyeur, like Utivich had only just recently been, watching as he and Aldo rubbed themselves off against each other, frantic in their need to get off. It was sloppy, like any time when they three got together at once, but it worked, and Aldo came with a groan. Utivich wrapped a hand around himself, pushing Aldo just far enough away to move his hand.

His eyes were downcast, staring unfocused at some point around their feet, but Donny didn't budge, didn't give him any sort of privacy or allow Aldo to, either. Not that Aldo minded looking; there was some pleasure to be had in knowing whoever you were fucking around with got off, too. It just seemed a bit like Utivich minded, though he didn't budge or pause. He came with a gasp, close enough to Aldo to splatter his thigh, and Donny's hand dragged through the mess before they started on cleaning themselves up and getting their clothing in order. They went back one by one, first Donny, then Utivich, and then Aldo.

He almost expected to see them still up, heads tilted together in hushed conversation or the like, but when he got back to camp and squinted into the darkness he could make out the lines of their bodies atop their own bedrolls.

---

For all his cursing and showing off in front of the Nazis, Donny wasn't the mouthy type. He preferred to be imposing and silent, knew it kept up the air about him that kept them calling him a golem all the way back to Germany, and in spite of his own particular Boston-bred way with words, he wasn't a conversation man. Each of the Basterds knew as soon as they met him that he'd rather be hitting something than philosophizing. Sure, he could keep up his end of any of their talks, a skill he'd needed as a barber, but he wasn't the sort to seek out anything meaningful through words.

So Aldo didn't bother to hide his surprise when Donny sat himself next to him during breakfast one day and opened his mouth as if he really had something of import to say.

"How d'you think Utivich is doing?" he asked. He wasn't looking at Aldo, like he cared so much what he thought, or at Utivich, like he had some kind of worry about him, but just stared at his food as he shoveled it into his mouth. Nonetheless, his tone was a bit off, sort of too casual to be really careless.

Aldo looked down at his own meal. It was the same shit they'd been eating for months, more or less — canned, half-cold, and nearly tasteless. It could wait. "I think he's doin' fine. Course, I wasn't the one who thought he wouldn't survive 'gainst a Nazi. You got an issue with him again?"

Donny looked up at him them, just for a moment, chewing carefully. "Who says I had an issue with him before?"

Aldo snorted. "You kept tellin' me you didn't want a pansy like him on any team of yours. Said you thought he'd faint at the sight of blood or some shit like that."

"Eh, words." Donny shook his head. "That was Sicily. I hadn't even met the guy. On paper he doesn't look like much of a killer."

"You didn't seem to take well to him after we got back, either. Looked to me like you were waitin' for him to die when we got out here, in fact."

Donny waved his fork through the air dismissively. "That wasn't an issue, that was reality. Somebody's gotta bite it first; makes sense it'd be the little guy."

Aldo didn't bother dignifying that sort of bullshit with a response. If Donny wanted to talk himself in circles — or pick a fight — he could jabber at one of the others. He went back to eating.

It seemed Donny wasn't finished, though. "Besides, it wasn't like I thought this was really gonna happen when we were in Sicily. You kept on talking like it was already real."

"You seemed to believe it enough," Aldo said through a mouthful of beans. "Wouldn't have pulled it off if you didn't."

"I did, eventually. But when we were first looking at the details I was still just interested in fucking you."

Aldo choked slightly, but managed to keep from looking around. After he wiped his mouth, he said, "Excuse me?"

Donny smirked, amusement shining in his eyes. "Don't act so goddamn surprised, Aldo. It's not like we've got those kind of secrets anymore."

Sure they didn't. And yeah, they'd screwed a few times before Aldo had managed to get everything together for them to go back and get the boys together, but it'd still just been to him then what it was that very morning: relief. The girls had been more plentiful around there, but he'd beens serious about getting into France from the start and didn't have time to waste on romancing some pretty little things.

"It was like a dream, then," Donny said, sounding strangely wistful. "Really getting in here? I wanted it, sure, but I didn't think we'd have much choice but to do what we were doin'."

Aldo went quiet again. He hadn't a fucking clue what was going on between Donny's ears, and didn't want to waste time trying to figure it out. If he needed to know, Donny would tell him.

"So," Donny said, setting his plate and fork aside at last, "you really think Utivich doin' all right?"

Aldo looked over at Utivich, who was picking at his own food without much enthusiasm. He was a small, quiet, intellectual type, but he took pride in the way the scalps he handed over were cut, and even when they could practically hear his heart beat hard in his chest he marched on good as any of them.

And for whatever reason, Donny wanted Aldo to give his approval of him. He felt like Utivich was a kid they were scrutinizing, but he wasn't sure just who was meant to be his father.

"He's doin' fine, like I said."

---

Two nights later Aldo could hear Donny rustling around, and he nearly expected to be nudged by a boot. Instead, he heard those heavy footsteps move carefully around and away from him, and when he opened his eyes he could just make out what had to be the shadows of him and Utivich. He thought about following them out of the clearing they were camped in, but they stopped just at its edge.

They weren't talking, but they moved close like they were. Their faces were in nearly complete darkness, and what he could see of the rest of them wasn't moving much. They couldn't have been a foot away, and Aldo would've sworn he could heard Utivich's breathing again.

Whatever they'd meant to happen was suddenly aborted, though, when Utivich turned abruptly and walked deeper into the trees. Aldo didn't worry much; Donny joined him quickly, and not far off Wicki was on watch.

He thought again about joining them, but decided against it.

His hand was probably good enough company for him anyway.

Gone Away

2008-10-06T08:37:25Z

Title: Gone Away
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You don't really appreciate some things until they're gone. Harry/Perry
Disclaimer: I do not own Kiss Kiss Bang Bang or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for rounds_of_kink round eight, day five. Came in a bit late.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

"Where've you been?"

All right, that was sort of expected. I mean, I did sort of up and leave for a week, and — okay, I don't have any sort of good excuse. I wasn't on a case, no one kidnapped me, and I hadn't even been with Harmony. I'd sort of just felt like going to Las Vegas.

I know what you're thinking: you're thinking, "Harry Lockhart, you're a fucking idiot." And you know what? Perry would agree with you. Actually, right at that moment, walking into the apartment-slash-office we'd been sharing — okay, the apartment-slash-office Perry had been letting me crash in since Christmas — I would've agreed with you, too.

The thing is, I don't really think things through. And it wasn't like it was the first time I'd up and left without warning; I usually left a note or something, but that was about it. I'd taken a three-day trip to Mexico the month before and the only notice I gave Perry was a message on his cell phone: "Adios, Señor Gay Perry! Off to Mexico, see you when I see you." And yeah, he'd been pissed, so it wasn't like I wasn't expecting to be yelled at.

Except he didn't really yell. Okay, that's a lie: he did yell. It just wasn't right then. I came in the door, suitcase in one hand and the one chip I'd managed to salvage in the other, and then Perry threw himself at me.

You know what Perry looks like, what he acts like. I couldn't have defended myself if I tried. I considered my options, but it seemed like the only way out was to flop on the floor and play dead, and even then he'd probably shoot me just to make sure.

I was expecting, you know, a fist to the face or something. I'd gone off work for a week and he probably had some case he "needed" me for — or had wanted me to pick up his dry cleaning or something — and I expected punishment.

I didn't get it, and he didn't punch me. He hugged me instead.

Yeah. Weird, I know.

At least he hit me on the head after, when he pulled away, but it didn't change the fact this his eyes were all shiny, like he was crying.

Because he was. Crying, I mean, which compounded the weird and threw us into a whole 'nother universe of "this is really fucking weird." I was honestly surprised he didn't have a goatee anymore, because this was clearly the evil, alternate universe version of Perry.

"I'm sorry," I babbled quickly, dropping my suitcase and putting the chip in my pocket. "I don't really have an excuse and I fully expect to not be paid for this week and I'll get your laundry right now if you need but please don't fire me."

Perry stared for a moment, then hit me over the head again.

Okay, maybe not alternate universe Perry. Possibly still evil, though.

"You idiot," he hissed, but his eyes were still shining, and he couldn't really hide that without making it more obvious. "Where the fuck did you go?"

So I told him. He hit me again.

"You idiot!" He sounded angrier and more relieved at the same time. That's kind of impressive, actually; I can't do that. I'm just angry or relieved, or I try to go between the two and just end up confused. Or dizzy. "I thought you were dead!"

Oh. Oh, shit. Well, all right, I guess I can forgive a little shine in the eye then. I honestly hadn't thought that the guy would be worried — I just thought he'd figure I finally flaked out for good. I'm flakey. I thought he knew.

"Why the hell didn't you call or— or anything?" Aw, a little stutter. He must've really been worried.

"I didn't think about it." Perry moved to hit me again, but I ducked — and hit my head on the still-open door, but at least he didn't hit me. "Jeez, Perry, you're acting like you actually care."

"What if I needed you to do something for me?" Pfft, like I even did much at Sentron. Perry doesn't really like it when I endanger his life by attracting attention. "What if I had plans for the week and those plans included you?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to grab your take-out or whatever it was you had planned for me. Like I said, take it out of my paycheck." Okay, so maybe that was a little cocky of me, but it had gotten to the point where I was pretty sure he wasn't going to fire me, and his nagging was a little annoying and repetitive. Kind of like my mom, actually.

That's not a pleasant thought.

"I'll remember to leave a note next time." I bent down to pick my suitcase up again and head to my room, but before I even got my fingers wrapped around the handle he was lunging at me again. He didn't hug me that time; he put his hands on my chest, pushed me back into the door so that it slammed shut, and got real close.

"You're going to fucking listen, Harry." He looked angry and a little scared, and he's actually pretty good with that simultaneous conflicting emotion thing. "No more running out without any notice, or being gone for days without at least making a call in. Sometimes I just need you here, damn it."

Now, okay, when you read that it sounds sort of sappy, right? It didn't seem so sappy when he was growling it into my face. It was actually sort of scary. Scary Perry, huh. He needed a breath mint, too.

And then, unsurprisingly, I said something stupid.

"Jeez, Perry, you make it sound like you're in love with me or something."

The double-emotion thing on his face sort of faltered, and he looked cool and composed for all of a tenth of a second before he lunged at me for a third time, except—

Except this time there wasn't any violence and there weren't any tears.

Sometimes I forget— and I know it's dumb, but— sometimes I forget that Perry's gay. I know, he's Gay Perry and all and he fucks guys and he dated that doctor for two months and he does some really gay shit, but still. All my life there's been a sort of separation between me and gay men, at least in my head, and I admit, I never saw myself being friends with one, and then all of a sudden I was (and it turned out I had been before; I called up Chook Chutney, and it turned out he was gay. Apparently Harmony was the last girl he was with. Life's like that, I guess). The point is, after getting over all the shit about how he kissed me and the freak out and the weirdness of it the first time I could hear him fucking some guy — we have thin walls — it just didn't seem like he was gay anymore. Not a threat, I guess. He was just Perry, and sometimes people made a stupid pun about his name.

He reminded me, though, in a big way. Gay Perry isn't just a name, and apparently he can actually kiss pretty well, because that first one was a quick-let's-look-less-suspicious thing and this one was—

Well, it was one that made me seriously reconsider some things.

And before you get all up-in-arms about the Harmony thing— no. It wasn't a thing. I mean, it was, it was kind of a big thing, but that was for me. Don't get me wrong, Harmony cared — cares, actually, but not in that way. And I never got a chance to convince her to give me a chance, really, because after I got shot there was the hospital, and then her sister's funeral, and you really can't mack on a girl when she's standing over her sister's casket crying, or even a week later, because she's still in mourning. It's creepy. By the time it felt safe to, the chance had just slipped away, and I was okay with that. I mean, I still talk to her, and we have fun, we just don't do anything naked. Well, all right, there was that one night we did naked karaoke, but there was no funny stuff. I promise. I was a complete gentleman. Also, Marleah was there, and she's sort of scary and deterred me from any drunken attempts at, uh, anything. I did not want to wake up next to her again.

But back to Perry and my Big Gay Revelation.

Perry had his hands on the door on either side of me, so I really couldn't escape the kiss, but I realized after a few seconds that I really didn't want to. There was no tongue and it was just kind of a kiss that was there, like, "Hey, would you mind if I kissed you?" —that sort of kiss. But it wasn't bad, and it didn't last too long.

Perry pulled back, but didn't move his hands. He just looked for a second, like he was trying to figure something out about me, or like there was something on my face, I don't know. There might've been something on my face. I had just had lunch, after all. I closed my eyes, then; I get kind of unnerved when people look at me like that.

The next thing I knew, I could feel his breath on my ear, and he was speaking in a voice I'd previously only associated with him holding a gun up and preparing to shoot someone. It turned me on a little. "I couldn't stop thinking about you all week. All fucking week, Harry. At first I was just pissed off that you could be so stupid."

"I am stupid, I'm sorry," I muttered. My brain was sort of melting at that point, like it had been left in the sun for too long. Perry would have some things to say about that. I really was sorry, though, but mostly I just wanted him to kiss me again.

"Of course you are," Perry said, pressing his lips to the skin just below my ear before going on. "You're an idiot, and then I realized that I actually wanted you to come back. I needed you to come back. I do need you here, Harry. I actually even want you here."

I let out a shuddery breath. He was pressed right up against me, and I could feel his hard-on against my leg, normally something I'd run from, but in that moment it just made my knees go weak.

"I want you, Harry." My hips jerked a little, and yeah, I was definitely hard. It didn't seem right, to go from not gay to completely hard for my completely male boss so fast, but what could I do? Harry Junior's got a mind of his own, and he liked what he was hearing. "I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you through the floor so that you'll never want to leave again. Can you deal with that?"

"Yeah," I breathed, and then panic flared up, because holy shit, had I just agreed to being fucked through the floor? It seemed like I had. "Yeah, uh, but— I need— I need to think about it. Get a handle on it, right?"

He looked surprised, but even with his boner pressing into my like that he didn't seem to have any problem stepping away, letting me have my space. I wondered how many guys had only realized they were gay when Perry had kissed them, and then I stopped wondering because his thigh brushed against my cock and suddenly I didn't want to think about it anymore.

"I've thought about it," I announced, grabbing him by the shirt and smashing my face against his, which, yeah, was not the most graceful first gay kiss ever. I mean, first gay kiss that I'd initiated. Perry fixed it, though, because Perry fixes my mistakes, and then there was tongue and Perry really, really can kiss.

He pushed and pulled me until we were stumbling away from the door. The first room you come in the apartment-slash-office is, of course, the office; it wouldn't make a lot of sense for us to let people straight into our bedrooms instead of setting a real professional atmosphere, right? Right. That's what Perry said when I asked him about it, anyway. So the most obvious sex-friendly surface was Perry's desk.

As a formerly straight guy, you wouldn't think I'd really be all that eager to bend over for a guy. I wasn't, actually; I was trying to think about the logistics of it as we stumbled, with whatever brain function I could manage to summon up, and I was pretty sure we could have sex face-to-face somehow, or at least do something else that would get us off and not result in me bending over. The thought of me fucking Perry didn't really come into the picture just then; I guess I sort of figured he wouldn't let me do it.

He does. Let me do it, I mean. It's great, but to be honest, I could live with just being fucked. Not that I'm real eager to give up being the fucker— uh, the one who does the fucking, per se, but—

Shit, I'm getting sidetracked. Back to the sex.

Anyway, I was surprised myself when Perry shoved me away, turned me around, and bent me over his desk, because I just gripped the edges of it and held on while he undid my pants, trying not to run against the wood because, yeah, ow. But the being bent over part was hot. I like Perry being in control. Not in a creepy, doesn't-let-me-do-shit way, even though that is sort of our relationship, but—

Sorry, sorry. You'd think when it comes to porn I'd stay on topic, but no, not me.

Where was I? Right. He was undoing my pants, and before I knew it I was naked from the waist down to my ankles, and Perry's pants were undone and he was pressing his fingers into me with something on them, some kind of lube — and yeah, Perry keeps sex jelly and condoms in his desk. And he wonders why people insist on calling him Gay Perry. Sheesh.

That was actually what I was thinking at the time. I was trying, really trying hard not to think about his fingers in my ass, because it didn't really hurt, not a lot anyway, but it felt weird. I wasn't one of those kids who'd gotten curious as a teenager and stuck things up there. My ass had never seemed particularly interesting, you know? I sat on it, and some other stuff I try not to think about during sex, and that was about the extent of its usefulness.

And then, when he had three fingers in me and it was bordering on okay-maybe-this-hurts, he crooked them in this weird way and the edge of one finger, just the edge, brushed something.

And suddenly my ass was much more interesting than before.

"Jesus, do that again," I panted, and Perry laughed.

"Not yet." I heard the condom wrapped being opened, a sort of squishy-wet sound like the lube again. "You're already so hard, Harry. I don't need you shooting off until I'm fucking you hard."

"I won't, I won't," I promised, but then I could feel him— Perry's cock, feeling sort of like his fingers, but a lot bigger, a lot bigger and much more blunt. I didn't know how to feel about that; part of me wanted it, knew the fingers hadn't been so bad and that I'd been really sure just a few minutes before, but another part of me was ready to cover my ass and run. Except I couldn't, because, you know... desk.

He didn't wait for me to relax or decide one way or the other. Perry's not all that patient a man, you know. He just sort of pressed on in, and it was startling and kind of hurt at first, but I had known it would, and I tensed up more at first but when that made the pain worse, I sort of figured it out on my own that I had to relax.

See? I'm not that stupid.

Perry pushed in, slid on home until his chest was almost pressed into my back, his hands once again planted on either side of me. It wasn't all that bad; I needed a moment to adjust, yeah, and it didn't feel great, but I could see where the drag and burn friction of it, the full feeling could have its appeal. Really, I just wanted him to hit that spot again. His dick was filling me enough, and certainly big enough.

He pulled out, almost as slow as he'd pushed in, and then thrust in, faster, and—

Oh, yeah. That was it. God, I love that.

The thrust after that went faster yet, and so on, picking up speed and angled just right until I was squirming on the desk and trying not to let my cock bump the edge much, and let me just say that I cannot be held responsible for the noises I make when I'm having sex, even if they do sound like words, so if I choked out something that sounded like "I love you," well—

Well. I mean, it's not my fault.

When he heard that thing I didn't really say, though, he apparently took it as a directive to get his hand on my cock, so I wasn't going to argue right then and there, because oh yeah. Prostate and dick: two great tastes that go great together.

Right, pretend I didn't say that. Moving on...

It wasn't long after that that Perry's thrusts became sort of stunted, losing their rhythm, and then he made this sort of keening noise that was really weird to hear from him and kind of high pitched, and even though he had a condom on I could feel his come ballooning it up, spreading inside of me, even if the rubber did have it separated, so it didn't feel wet or anything like that. I was actually sort of disappointed.

He was still for a moment, and then, dick still in me and all, he went on pumping furiously, his other hand still on the desk, keeping him propped above me even when my arms gave way and my forehead his the wood maybe a little too hard, but I just couldn't care, because I was so close, so close—

And of course it would be right when the door opened that I came.

Yeah, awkward. Especially since it was a client, one that had already met with Perry and given him her money, and he had to talk her down for almost an hour before she stopped demanding her money back (because, what? Gay Perry was having gay sex? I think she said something about wasting time that could have been used to find out who her husband was screwing behind her back, but yeah, right. He was at work right at that time anyway). I retreated to my room for a while, and then, when Perry didn't call me downstairs or come looking for me, I got sort of frustrated.

I'm not patient either, you know.

When he did come to look for me, he didn't find me in my room, or in my clothes, or any clothes at all. I don't think he minded.

You know, come to think of it, I guess I do sort of love Perry.

Don't tell him that.

Yet.

Road Rage

2008-10-06T06:07:20Z

Title: Road Rage
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes you say things without thinking about them, but that doesn't mean others aren't. John/Matt
Disclaimer: I do not own Live Free or Die Hard or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for rounds_of_kink round eight, day five.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

"Is that such a bad thing?"

After three hours, two of those stuck in in inch-a-minute traffic, John still didn't understand half of what was coming out of Matt's mouth.

It hadn't been his idea to drive the kid, really; he's wanted him at the award ceremony, sure, but that was mostly because he didn't want to be up there on his own again — it was embarrassing — and maybe a little because he thought the kid needed a little glory after his intensive questioning sessions with the FBI. He'd thought he'd find his own way there, but he didn't have a car and apparently his doctor didn't want him driving anyway ("even though it's my left leg with the problems, here"), and then there was some argument about not wanting to go. The kid was stubborn, but he couldn't exactly argue with John McClane when the guy showed up and muscled him into his car.

"What?"

Matt turned to face him this time. "I said, 'Is that such a bad thing?'"

John searched his mind for what they'd been talking about — something neutral, maybe about Lucy or dealing with people recognizing you because you were on the news, but nothing that would obviously illicit that response. And then there had been some movement, and John had gone to slide into place when some jackass in the next lane had cut in instead; John narrowly avoided running straight on into the guy, and then he said—

He said—

Huh. Interesting. "It's just some road rage, kid." Which, okay, yeah, it was kind of embarrassing that John McClane, of all people, got so pissed about a little traffic, but it didn't pump up the adrenaline and he just couldn't stand it when shit didn't move because people were too busy gawking at an accident or something like that.

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Really? You don't think it means anything that the first thing that comes to mind when you're pissed at another driver is to call him a cocksucker?"

John turned his head slightly toward the passenger side, sparing one eye for the road. "You think I've got something against gay guys?"

Matt held up his hands, laughing quietly. "Whoa, who said anything about guys? Did your wife ever give you a blowjob, McClane?"

That was definitely not neutral conversation. "My ex is none of your business, kid."

"Sorry, sorry."

Matt turned back to the window and John turned back to the road. For a few minutes, they were quiet.

"All I'm saying is—"

"Matt." Surprisingly, he went quiet. "I've already got the road rage thing going. Do you really want to push this?"

Matt made a noncommittal noise, drumming his fingers against the door.

A few more minutes of silence. It wasn't comfortable.

"Not everyone would take offense anyway," Matt said, quick and quiet.

"What's that?" It wasn't like John had forgotten already; if he had, the silence could've melted into something comfortable and the annoyed tension in his shoulders might've gone. But if he played it that way — if he acted like he'd forgotten — maybe Matt would take the hint and really drop it. Maybe.

"It's not like everyone's ashamed of doing it," Matt went on, oblivious to John's plan. "It's sex. People don't usually do it because they have to, they do it because they want to, because they want to get a guy off. Sometimes they even do it because it gets them off."

John raised one eyebrow at the kid, but didn't say anything. He was talking about it like he knew from personal experience.

"I mean, you've probably gone down on some women, right? Your wife, at least?" Before John could respond, he barreled on. "And she liked it, yeah? How about you?"

John shrugged, feeling just slightly uncomfortable. "It was all right, I guess."

"All right?" Matt scoffed, like he didn't believe it. "Feeling her writhe, hearing her moan— that doesn't do it for you? I mean, come on, haven't you ever wondered why some guys beg strangers in alleyways for it?"

"They're usually looking for drug money," John pointed out, and Matt waved a hand, like that wasn't important.

"Maybe some of them, but other guys— other guys just want to suck cock. They need it, like some people just need to get fucked, or tied up, or— or choked, or whatever. It's hot."

John couldn't help but notice that the kid was breathing a little faster; a part of him wondered briefly about asthma. "Hot?"

"Yeah," Matt breathed, eyes focused on John. "Amazing."

John shifted lightly, gripping the wheel. "So... are you...?" He couldn't finish the question, couldn't bring himself to ask the kid that.

Luckily, Matt was about as frank and unashamed as the FBI's most wanted hackers came. "Am I a cocksucker?" His grin was wide, showing off his teeth.

John grunted in response — not exactly an affirmative, but not uninterested. He wouldn't have admitted it, of course.

"Oh, yeah," Matt said, and there was a flush high on his cheeks, like just the thought of it was turning him on. He unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning over. "Want me to show you?"

John didn't have a chance to protest, to think about whether or not he wanted to protest, before Matt's face was in his lap, nuzzling his nose against John's jean-covered crotch, and yeah, he was sort of hard. But still, Matt was a guy, a young guy, like his daughter's age, and they weren't exactly in any sort of private space. He putt a hand on his neck, but it didn't exactly stop him from moving in, running a hand over John's thigh. "Jesus Christ, kid."

"Don't call me that," Matt mumbled, his hand moving from John's thigh to his zipper.

"Anyone could see—"

"Your windows are tinted and everyone's just focused on how bored they are," Matt said, his voice muffled as he mouthed at the rough fabric. "No one gives a damn if you get off while you wait."

"I'm not—"

Matt wasn't about to let him finish any of his sentences, apparently, jumping to conclusions about what he meant. "What? Young? Gay? Interested? I don't care how old you are, you don't have to be gay for a blowjob, and you are definitely interested so don't even try that." And then his John's fly was open and Matt's hand was buried in his briefs, pulling out his cock and staring at it hungrily.

"I don't have a condom," John said, in one last, weak attempt to get the situation under control. He certainly couldn't deny his interest; he was almost fully hard, just from the stroking of Matt's hand and the mere suggestion of getting his cock sucked.

Matt rolled his eyes, then licked a stripe up John's cock, from base to tip. "God, you're big."

"Can't handle it?" John asked, and tried to resist pushing his hips up. He didn't want to choke the kid, no matter how turned on he was. "You don't have to."

Matt looked up at him, just once. "Are you kidding me? Just sit back, McClane."

McClane obeyed, if only because it was all he could do with that hot, wet mouth on him, Matt's tongue teasing the head of his cock, running along the slit before he pushed down, down, and draw back up just before John hit his throat. John figured that was fine, didn't expect more — he was groaning as it was, really, loving it, one hand threaded into Matt's hair, the other still on the steering wheel — but when Matt went down again, he opened his throat and let John slide in, then swallowed around him. "Shit, kid. Matt— that's—"

Matt made a noise of agreement. John hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes, focused entirely on the feel of Matt's mouth on him, until he heard another zipper; he looked, and yeah, that was the absolutely unmistakeable movement of Matt's hand on his own cock, making the already awkward position they had with Matt leaning over the barrier between the seats even moreso, but it wasn't like they had a lot of room to move. If they had, by then John might've given up on all pretense of public decency and shoved the kid onto his knees in his seat.

He'd never thought about fucking a guy before, not in any sort of serious way, and it surprised him how much the idea of it turned him on. He could see it in his mind: Matt beneath him, his mouth free to moan and make noises like John was, all that skin within reach...

Later.

"Jesus," John gasped, and he was already so close that when Matt used his free hand to grope at John, cradling his balls, stroking backwards cautiously, it only took a few more bobs and another deepthroat swallow before he had to tighten the hand in Matt's hair in warning. Matt made a strange noise around him, then hummed, and he couldn't stop it, no matter how worried he was about choking the kid — he was coming, hard and quick, and it had been a long time because it took longer than he remembered, but Matt swallowed it all, and Jesus.

Matt was panting when he sat back up, his mouth red from being stretched and used, but grinning, licking at a bit of come that had escaped him, dripping down his lip. John groaned, but he was no impatient teenager, and his softening cock just couldn't bring itself to react to that sight. He buttoned himself up, his eyes still on Matt.

"Do you need a hand?" Matt waved his fingers, covered in his own come, as he clumsily attempted to fasten his pants again with one hand. "Oh."

"Yeah," Matt said, then opened the glovebox. There was a pack of tissues there; he went through a few, stuffing them into his pocket, as he cleaned himself up.

It was then that he noticed the sound of another car's horn; there was a space in front of him, and it looked like a few more cars had already cut into his lane. He didn't blame the guy behind him for being pissed, but as he drove into the space, he couldn't bring himself to care too much.

Matt laughed, slightly raspy. "You didn't notice that at all? They started almost as soon as I went down on you. I don't think they saw, but..." He fell into silence, a smile fixed on his lips, and it was more comfortable that time— even if there were some questions.

After a while, John had to ask. " It was that good? Really?"

Matt nodded enthusiastically. "Fuck. You don't know the half of it, McClane."

John kept his eyes focused on the road; it looked like the traffic was beginning to let up, just a little. Maybe they'd be in DC before nightfall — if they were lucky, they'd even be on time to the ceremony.

If they were really lucky, they might even have time before.

"I guess I should try it sometime, then."

John grinned at the startled noise Matt made and resolved to never call anyone he didn't like a cocksucker again.

Sierra Echo X-Ray

2008-09-07T19:58:47Z

Title: Sierra Echo X-Ray
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Matt has sex and memories and John McClane. John/Matt
Disclaimer: I do not own Live Free or Die Hard or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Okay, I have a lot of explaining to do. First off, I have been kind of obsessively reading John/Matt fanfic even though I did not see the movie until last night. And then when I did, all these things kind of clicked for me, and I was all gung-ho about finally writing my own fanfic, so I started this. Except— some of it got warped, and some of what I meant to put in it got lost, and I spent the entire fucking night (seriously, I was up 'til almost seven in the morning, which... might have messed with my state of mind) writing it so I'm going to post it but it might sort of suck. Also, for a Die Hard fic there is kind of not enough McClane, and I apologize for that... especially since it's John/Matt. Oh— and it's also kind of Matt/other. Like Matt/everyone in the city of New York who's willing. ALSO ALSO, I just kind of hope this make sense. And an almost-final note: this is Joan Chen (and this, on the right obviously).
...Sooo, basically, if I fucked up badly, just let me know. I promise my next attempt will be better.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Matt's memory — it wasn't quite photographic, but it was close enough. He remembered a lot of stuff, and that was why he was better than Warlock.

Not that Warlock wasn't good — amazing, even. The guy was halfway to brilliant. But he was arrogant and moody and when you got into serious stuff, he became the sort of guy no one wanted to talk to. Matt respected him, sort of, but only because he had to, because Warlock had links set up constantly that he didn't have the time to linger on.

Warlock was concentrated. Matt spread himself out.

That was why Warlock had been laid all of three times in his life and Matt... well.

Matt's sex life — it wasn't quite mind-blowing, but it was close enough.

---

"Watch the knee," he hissed, moving his left leg away from her thigh.

"Sorry, sorry." She was only straddling his one leg now, and she wasn't exactly the smallest girl he'd been with; she slid off him, her hands fluttering over his knee. "I just— I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," he said, letting out a heavy breath as the pain staarted to subside. He knew it was going to throb for a while, but at least he could take his mind off of it if he could get hers back on the task at hand. "Let's just use your bed, okay?"

"Okay." She held out her hand and led him to it, but she stood their, nervous and fidgeting, when he sat down. "I— should I be on top? I mean, for your leg—"

"No, no." He patted the spot next to him. "I'll be fine. Just..."

And then her lips were on his, and he put his hands into her thick, blond hair, and they didn't talk anymore.

---

He might've freaked out a little bit after the morphine wore off. He wasn't exactly the calmest he could've been when he was questioned, which, even with Bowman and McClane vouching for him, still seemed to go on forever. Their voices weren't loud enough to settle the skepticism everyone else had; it didn't even matter if they believed that he'd helped John, that he'd prevented the final steps of the fire sale — they just couldn't believe he didn't know what he was doing when he'd written the algorithm, didn't believe he wasn't just saving his own skin all along.

Like the bullet wound in his knee didn't prove a thing.

He could remember it all, could remember shooting over and over again and seeing the blood spurt out. He knew, consciously, that he'd done it to save Lucy, that he didn't have the time to wait for John to shoot him, that it wasn't a sure enough thing that that one last lackey would drop to his knees and surrender when Gabriel was down.

He knew it, but he couldn't stop wondering. Sure, it meant Lucy thought he had balls, made her give him those eyes just before they parted ways, but her gratitude didn't ease the sick feeling in his stomach.

So he had to wonder — wonder if maybe that guy wouldn't have shot her, since he clearly couldn't have pulled anything off on his own, and at that point he certainly wasn't getting away. He'd probably have run, turned and tried, without aiming at any of them.

Probably.

He knew he'd done the right thing, but he couldn't help but remember it in his dreams, and sometimes he woke up and ran to the bathroom to throw up just at the distorted memory of it.

It gave him that much more respect for John, made him that much more grateful.

---

She was older, and for all the thrill of young virgins there was something to be said about older women's wisdom in the art of sex.

She wasn't the kind of woman he ever wanted down on her knees or up against a wall. No, she was classy, sexy and seductive in her dresses and puffing away on a cigarette. It didn't matter that it messed with his asthma, because he liked being the geeky, dorky kid with her, pretending to be virginal.

She rode him hard, and by the end she was barely disheveled, her hair down and her breath coming a little faster.

Oh, yeah. There was something to be said for older women.

---

He built his life from the little bit of compensation Bowman offered him — "for your help, and to replace your apartment" — and from scratch.

It wasn't easy to settle after what he'd been through. He wasn't ready for a new place yet, but he couldn't go back to his old apartment. One of his neighbors offered to take him in, but he'd been there for only four hours when the smell of fire got to him.

No one else could smell it. They said it was in his head.

It didn't matter; he had to get out. He'd gone online — on his new, custom-made laptop of his own design — and agreed to meet up with some virgin who'd let him stay the night. She was pretty enough, some blond thing, maybe a few extra pounds on her, but that didn't even matter. He would've settled for some sixty-year-old bag with a walker if he needed to, just to get out of there.

He bid his friends and neighbors goodbye and hobbled out. He wouldn't go back to that part of Camden for more than six months after.

---

He was a closet case, that much was obvious. He was shifty, and he pulled down all the blinds when Matt arrived, even though he lived on the twenty-eighth floor. In New York City. If anyone could see them, they wouldn't give a shit. Most of them saw more on the subway every day.

It didn't matter, though; the guy didn't have a wife or girlfriend, it seemed, so there was no guilt wasted, and once Matt pulled down his zipper he was all for it, completely into sucking cock. He wasn't bad at it; Matt figured he'd done it before.

He wouldn't meet him again. Matt figured if he tried, the guy would pretend not to know him, anyway. He'd done it before.

---

So he found himself in New York City not because of John McClane, but just because. He'd bed-hopped for weeks, looking for no more than casual sex and a place to sleep, maybe a meal here and there. When he didn't have company, he'd settle into any place with wireless and simultaneously keep up with Warlock, look for his next hookup, and retrace Thomas Gabriel's steps through the fire sale, trying to fix it all, undo what he could.

He didn't contact him directly, and he refused to accept a legitimate job there doing it full-time, because he couldn't stand thinking about it al the time. Not yet. He needed to be able to turn away, turn into warm and forgiving flesh and pretend he hadn't had anything to do with all the people that died, or lost their money, or just generally panicked that day.

So he left them notes, sneaking into their servers and planting something here or there, anywhere it might be seen. "Look here," it'd say, or "Tell them I'm sorry," and then he'd point them in the right direction so they could smooth down another path, cover up what they'd missed.

---

New York, Matt decided, was the best place for sex.

So long as he had a condom on hand, there was always someone willing, and they were barely ever more than a few subway stops away.

Of course, it couldn't all be good.

"You want to what?" he asked, tugging at the restraints on his arms. They were awfully tight. "No. No. No way in hell."

"But it's fun!" she said, and damn but she looked innocent, all dressed up like some teenaged princess. The schoolgirl thing didn't turn him on, but she was hot, and he was into bondage enough, so he could accept it, but this... "It'll be kinky."

"A little too kinky for me," he said, struggling to sit up against the headboard. "No. Fuck no."

She ran a hand up his chest, like she wasn't aware of his distress at all, like a little bit of soothing could make him suddenly be into whatever she wanted him to be into. "Come on, Matt. I thought you were adventurous."

"Fuck," he muttered, and then the safe word came out and she pouted, but untied him and let him gather up his clothes without a word of protest.

Before he left, he turned, pointing a finger at her.

"A bit of advice? Tell someone if you're hoping to get into showers of any sort with them. That's not covered by 'adventurous.'"

And then he slammed the door and cursed all the way down the street, because New York City hotels were fucking expensive.

---

He was actually kind of surprised that he wasn't surprised to see McClane, that it was as easy to deal with his presence as it was.

He was in some fast-food place, somewhere where even he couldn't bring himself to buy a burger for all the fat they soaked it in, leeching off their wireless again when someone sat down opposite him.

He was sort of used to that. Sometimes his hookups met with him in places like that; sometimes that was how he found them in the first place, usually the shy, almost-a-virgin kids. Mostly girls, sometimes guys. Some flirting, some subtle hinting on his part, and one low promise that it wouldn't be anything serious, and then they were off, sometimes with him and sometimes not, depending on who they were.

But this was McClane. John fucking McClane. The thought of sex didn't even come up there.

"Hey, kid." Of course, John had a burger. Matt almost snorted at the idea of it, because of course, but McClane was still more fit than most guys half his age and if he somehow had managed to avoid clogging his arteries for however long he'd been alive, Matt was sure he could keep on doing it without his help. "Surprised to see you here."

"Yeah, well..." And he couldn't say anything more than that, because it was just chance, really. Chance and running away.

"What're you doing in the City? Got a nice, respectable job now?"

Matt did snort, then. "Me? Hell no. I'm still trying to piece my life back together. My apartment blew up, in case you don't remember."

John winced. They both knew it was fake. A lot of stuff blew up then, and John didn't have a whole lot of reason to care about an apartment he was sure to think was crummy anyway. "So you got a place to stay here?"

Ah, right. Zeroing in on awkward territory. Last night he'd bunked with a super-religious college girl whose roommate gave him death glares. That night it was to be some guy named Bo who was into some kind of cops-and-robbers roleplay stuff.

Matt tried not to think about that too hard.

"Yeah, I've got a place." Because it was true, mostly. Not the whole truth, but John didn't seem intent on pushing the issue. "How's Lucy?"

John started going on about her boyfriend, making a lot of use of the words "sleazeball" and "fuckhead." Matt felt intensely glad that he'd had the sense not to pursue something with the McClane girl; he had a feeling neither she nor her father would've been too happy with the casual aspect, and even if it had gone beyond that he wasn't sure he wouldn't be called a sleazeball or a fuckhead, either.

He imagined himself as a helicopter getting killed by a car. Yeah, he was glad he'd let that go.

---

The guy — the cops-and-robbers guy — was a total dud, completely vanilla and trying so hard to be kinky. Matt didn't really mind, though; a little talking him down, a little heavy petting, and they got down to business the good, old fashioned way.

Then the guy's friend showed up, and maybe he wasn't such a dud after all.

---

So he wound up staying in New York longer than he meant to, and it only made sense that he'd keep in contact with the only person he really knew in the city. Calling McClane up the first time was kind of nerve-wracking, because he didn't really feel like he had the right to, but John had let him put the number in his cell and didn't seem to mind when he picked up.

They went to a bar, because Matt suddenly felt the need to man up and push his masculine side forward. John was all alpha male all the time, and if the fire sale had been any indication he didn't put up with guys who couldn't hold their own weight that well. Matt didn't know a lot about John McClane, really, but he knew that there were some guys who were so obsessed with their own testosterone levels that even if they were going to take it up the ass, they had to make sure Matt was rough-and-tumble enough for them first. He played it that way.

It felt awkward, stilted. John could tell.

"We're not about to die," John said after finishing off his second beer. "You don't have to pretend to be a fucking lumberjack or something to impress me."

Matt blushed, just a little, and relaxed. It was a lot better after that.

---

Matt was cool with a lot of stuff when it came to sex. Well, not a lot-lot — he didn't want to have any bodily fluids that weren't strictly sexual on him when it was all said and done, but other than that, he was pretty much up for anything.

It surprised him, a little, when he found out that Nazi paraphernalia didn't fall under that "anything" category.

They were just clothes, he told himself, and he tried to be okay with it, but when he caught sight of that swastika on her arm while she was jacking him off, he couldn't take it. It reminded him in some distant, twisted way of Gabriel. He pushed her away, apologizing profusely, and ran for it.

He wound up in a hotel again. He was starting to hate hotels.

---

"You are a fucking Luddite" was the first thing out of Matt's mouth when he finally got the privilege of seeing John's apartment.

It wasn't like technology was completely absent, but the computer was dusty and some sort of ages-old Windows shit, and he had a DVD player but it was still in the box propped up against his entertainment system, a VCR still hooked up. There was even an honest-to-god tape in it, and, unsurprisingly, it blinked noon as the time all the time.

"I am going to fix this," Matt promised, and within a week he had John set up with more ridiculously complicated technology than he knew what to do with.

"I don't even know what this shit is for," John complained as he sat at his rarely-used desk.

"Its just a computer," Matt said, rolling his eyes. "It's not really all that complicated."

"Doesn't look like any I've ever seen before."

"That's because it isn't." He didn't bother saying that he built it himself, though he desperately wanted to gloat; he figured it would probably be lost on McClane, anyway. "Don't worry. It's secure, I've made sure of it."

"That's not what I'm worried about." John made a vague gesture, pointing to something that wasn't there. "Where's the— what do you call it? The tower thing."

They had a long way to go.

He'd only put the most basic sort of programs on it, because he figured a guy like McClane wouldn't have a whole lot of interest in most of the stuff he could have put on it. He'd probably write notes with the word processor and maybe send his kids some e-mails. He manipulated the programs himself so they'd operate more or less like their popular counterparts. He didn't need John to be confused every time he sat down at a different sort of computer.

"I set you up with a e-mail account already. I figured you probably don't have one besides the one you use for work." He glanced sideways at McClane. "Did you?"

John grinned wryly. "You know me too well."

Only he didn't, not really, because when he told John he'd set him up with "ThatGuy" as his screenname, he just got a blank look in return.

But it figured, really. Matt could remember useless shit like how fast a fully grown male hyena could run; he'd heard about it once when he was eight and never forgot. He couldn't expect John to remember every conversation they'd had that day, anyway; there were bigger things to remember, like getting shot and not dying and saving the fucking country.

Still, it was kind of disappointing, and he knew he was lying to himself when he tried to imagine that the twisting feeling in his stomach was because he remembered shooting that guy again.

---

Matt was in heaven. He was a little dubious about being the third player in a married couple's games, but they really were young and adventurous, unlike the last pair he'd tried it with.

He was pinned beneath them, his mouth full of cock and her tight cunt on his dick. One of his hands was on her thigh, the other on his ass, and they were focusing on him just as much as each other.

He came three fucking times. His mind was so blown he almost didn't see McClane when he stumbled out of their home.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelped, and turned around to make sure the Millers weren't at the door. When he rubbed at his eyes and turned back around, John was still there. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making sure you're all right." John's eyes darted to the door, then back to Matt's face. He didn't look embarrassed in the least. "Seemed to be a little late for you to be out, so I thought I'd just check up on you and see that you weren't getting too deep into any more shit."

Matt barked out a humorless laugh. "You were checking up on me?"

John just shrugged.

"I don't need you watching out for me," Matt spat, probably angrier than he should have been. Damn it, though— it had been such a good night. The last thing he'd wanted was McClane following him around. Stalking him, practically.

"Really."

"Really." Matt shuffled past him, tired and a little sore and really not interested in having the conversation he was sure was going to come up soon enough. "And my sex life is none of your business."

There was a hand stopping him, gripping his wrist, and he whirled around, almost ready to throw out his fist before he remembered that it was McClane, who could probably have killed him just from the recoil involved in a punch like that.

"What?" he demanded, and he felt kind of like a petulant child, but he figured he had a right to be upset, anyway.

"Hey, calm down. I thought you might prefer a ride to your place instead of walking."

Matt jerked his arm away; if he had had a "place" of his own to go to, he might've taken John up on the offer, but he didn't quite feel comfortable with John knowing that he was heading to someone else's house, some woman who'd offered to keep him for a few days if he satisfied her needs as a divorcee. The Millers didn't really have space for him overnight; he would've been willing to take the couch, but he was pretty sure they wanted him out before Mr. Miller's mother came over the next morning.

He couldn't say why it mattered, but he didn't want John to know.

"I'm fine," he said, purposely making it sound angrier that time. "I don't need to be protected."

---

John didn't apologize, exactly, but Matt figured it was probably the McClane version of an apology— or something.

"I see you as one of my kids," John explained when they were back in the fast food restaurant with the extra-greasy burgers again. "I can't help it; I've gotta make sure no one's making any moves you don't want them to."

"They aren't," Matt replied, and he wanted to be angrier than he was, like he'd been that night, but he couldn't bring himself to. Something about John made him want to forgive him. "I've done it a lot. I know how to stop people, okay?"

John's eyebrows went up at that. "A lot?"

"Yeah, McClane. A lot."

"I thought you hacker boys were supposed to be sex-deprived geeks," John said, the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, what's 'a lot'?"

On one hand, there was the truth, which would probably surprise and maybe upset McClane. On the other hand, there was his pride, because he hated it when someone assumed he was some kind of virgin just because he knew his way around a computer. "Almost every night since I got out of the hospital," he admitted.

John didn't flinch and his eyes didn't go wide, but Matt knew he was surprised, and he felt a little bit smug about it.

---

The guy was almost ten years younger than Matt, only just in college, and so shy Matt almost thought nothing was going to happen, even though it was a prime moment for the kid: his roommate was out, and he had his cramped little dorm-space all to himself. Matt was pretty sure that didn't happen often enough for kids like him to grab a lot of opportunities.

But finally, finally the kid put a hand on his thigh, set down his oh-so-illicit beer, and kissed him.

And fuck his mind, but it was while he was thrusting into the kid, wincing in sympathy because he was too tense, too tight — it was then that he realized John didn't think of him as one of his kids at all, because he was pretty sure he felt more fatherly to the kid he was fucking in that moment than McClane did to him and wow, that was a sick thought.

He pushed thoughts of McClane aside and somehow the kid started calling him "Daddy." He was okay with that.

---

"There was this one girl, practically a virgin, who kept bumping into my knee. It was terrible." Matt made a face, then sipped his beer. "But the next night it was this Joan Chen look-alike, a complete cougar. It was like sexual karma; a mediocre fuck one night, and the most fantastic sex you can imagine the next."

He didn't talk about the men, not right away. He was just testing the waters.

"I think if it weren't for that, that karma sort of thing, I'd swear off sex for good, with some of the people I've met." Another sip of his beer. "This one girl wanted to pee on me. I'm into a lot of stuff, but not that. I mean, I get that some people are, and more power to them, but not me, and I just wish she'd mentioned it before I got my pants off."

John grunted and made a face of his own, probably trying not to think too much about it. Or maybe he liked that.

Matt would have to find out before he got his pants off, if he got that far.

---

Matt loved rimming. If he was honest with himself, he preferred being on the receiving end — preferred it a whole lot — but he never complained about doing it, either, and at least it felt good to have someone fall apart like that, if they were someone that really liked it. If they didn't, they could move on to more interesting things.

The girl he was with just then, some curly-haired thing, really liked it. Her fingers were between her legs, her arm pinned under her, and she was panting like she'd run a mile. Her thighs clenched and unclenched, the muscles of her ass moving around his tongue when he thrust in. She moaned, finally, losing it as he lapped at her, her knees shaking a little.

"Fuck me," she begged, and put her hands on the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs and presenting herself to him. "Please."

As he pushed in, he tried not to think about whether or not McClane was into rimming.

---

"So did this start after the fire sale business, or...?" John didn't have to finish for Matt to get his meaning: "Is this some kind of weird PTSD or something?"

"No," he answered, calm and placating. He wasn't sure how John would take it; it meant he wasn't fucked in the head, sure, but it also meant John couldn't fix or protect him. He was just—

Just what? A slut?

Maybe. "I just like sex. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen and I haven't looked back since."

And okay, yes, maybe he had picked up the pace since the fire sale, but it was out of necessity. He was starting to run low on money, and he knew he'd need to get a job, but until then he was just doing what he could to conserve his resources. Really.

He changed the subject quickly, then.

---

Matt thought that maybe he was doing a lot of unnecessary thinking during sex.

Then he almost laughed at that thought.

Still, he was pretty sure that when the twins — God, fuck, twins, what a fucking fantasy — started licking paths up his body, he should've just focused on the feeling, or at least on how good it was going to be to have twins.

Instead, when one of them reached the pit of his knee and all he felt was a slight tickle, a little twitch, all he could think about was how it didn't hurt anymore, how his stomach wasn't twisting, how he had actually been sleeping through the nights. He wondered how it had got to be that long, that much time since he'd come to the city.

His thoughts did go back to the twins, but it just wasn't right for them to stray at all, really.

---

"So how do you go about meeting so many... people?" Tactful as always, McClane was. It was almost embarrassing, the way he could skirt around the issue, pretend they weren't talking about sex.

Not that he hadn't opened up a lot, and once they got into it they could talk about it like it was anything, no big deal at all. Matt actually liked being able to open up like that, even if he did have not-so-innocent motives. "The internet."

"That's your answer to everything," John huffed.

"Well, it is the answer to everything." He grinned, helping himself to a beer from John's fridge and, after a moment's pause, grabbing one for John, too. "Seriously, though, there are hundreds of sites for hookups — casual, no-strings-attached sex. You gotta find the right ones, though; some are just filled with creeps who don't really care if you say 'no' or have second thoughts."

"'Course," John agreed, like he knew all about it, but after a few almost-silent minutes, just the sound of the TV going, he asked, "So, what's it say on your profile? 'Genius hack boy seeking hot young girls to appreciate his huge, hot brain'?"

Matt chuckled. "No. Maybe it should, though."

Another moment's pause, and then:

"It wouldn't just say 'girls,' anyway."

He could hear John choke on his beer as he swallowed, just a little. He covered it up well. He didn't cover up the way he shifted on the couch well, though; Matt knew that move well.

Victory was just about his.

---

Matt tried not to compare one hookup to the next too much. Sure, there was good sex and there was bad sex, but he didn't like thinking that one girl was so much prettier than another, or one guy more built than the last. So long as they were a good fuck, what was the point of dwelling on stuff like that, anyway?

Still, he couldn't help it as he lapped at another semi-anonymous guy's dick and balls. The thought struck him hard and sudden; there was no way to anticipate it, no way to stop it.

I'll bet John's dick is bigger.

---

His body was thrumming with anticipation when he decided, finally, to go for it.

He didn't call and he didn't come on the weekend, like he might normally have; he just showed up on a Tuesday afternoon.

He'd left his stuff in a hotel. He only barely had the money for it, but he couldn't make plans for somewhere else when he was planning on fucking John, and he didn't want John to think of him as some leech or know just how he'd been living.

It might've been wrong, maybe, to hide it from him with the plans he had, but he didn't dwell on it. Much.

He'd known John would be home — the guy didn't get out much, except when it was for work — and so just called up, got buzzed in, waited outside his door. He counted his footsteps, knew exactly when the door would be open, and then he was in John's personal space— not touching, just close.

Just very, very close.

"Hi." He was sure John could feel his breath on his chin, see the intent in his eyes.

"Hi?" John looked confused, ready to push him away, and not because he didn't want it. "Matt, is there some—"

He didn't wait, because for once talking wasn't the answer, would only make it worse; he just pressed his body against John's, his lips following. He licked at John's lips, one hand on his neck, the other on his hip. John's hands went to his shoulders, still at first, like he was going to push him away at any second, but Matt pressed himself into John's thigh, let him feel his cock, hard and ready against his leg, and then John was pulling him in, lost to it.

He led the kiss, all alpha male as always, and Matt didn't really mind; he let John play dominant, because he was pretty sure the older man's experiences with gay sex didn't go very far, if anywhere at all, and after a certain point he'd need Matt to hold his hand.

He never for a moment thought it wouldn't go there. John's supposed heterosexuality didn't matter, and his own sexual history didn't either. It was just them, and he saw the way John had looked at him, noticed the way he moved and fidgeted when they talked about it, and he knew John was past the point of wondering, well into the land of wanting.

He was right.

This kiss quickly turned hot, messy, almost frantic, their hands moving like they wanted to go places, places where clothes were but shouldn't be. Matt nudged, gently, until they were moving, and then John pulled him toward what Matt could only hope was the bedroom — he was too busy paying attention to the groans rumbling from John's chest, the way his cock twitched against Matt's stomach, hardening quick, to work out how to move them there.

Before they were halfway there clothes started coming off, shirts abandoned on the floor, Matt's shoes toed off as he stumbled after John, chasing his lips, his tongue, his hands. John was down to nothing but underwear by the time they reached the bed; Matt was fully naked, but with his pants clutched in one hand. John gave him a questioning look, which Matt answered by pushing him down onto the bed, straddling him once he'd arranged his limbs properly.

"Gotta be prepared," Matt said, rolling his hips against John and fuck, but that felt good. He pulled a strip of condoms out of one pocket, a half-used tube of lubricant out of the other. They were his bread and butter; he was sure John would've had something around, but he didn't like to waste time and it wasn't like they weren't in his pockets anyway.

He got himself ready first, his eyes fixed on John's as he pushed one slicked-up finger, two, three into himself, riding his own hand. He might've played it up a bit, just to get more of those low groans out of him, but the last thing he wanted was second thoughts at a time like that, so he kept the focus on himself, rolling his hips, rubbing against John's erection, stroking himself with his other hand for a moment.

The body beneath his was beautiful, fucking beautiful despite its age, in spite of — or maybe a little because of — its scarring. He'd been with older men before, but none like McClane, none who could have easily fucked up someone his own age. And John's eyes — they were wide, like he couldn't believe it was happening, but he was smirking just a little, like he always did in unbelievable situations, like he did during the fire sale, because John didn't really let anything catch him by surprise.

He pulled John's briefs down to his thighs, no further, and there was a flicker of doubt, a hint of maybe-we-shouldn't in McClane's eyes, so he put the condom on John's dick — which was bigger, oh God was it huge — with his mouth, and that erased all the lingering doubt. He was jittery with arousal then, almost shaking, and he slicked John up and sank down onto him so fast he almost didn't breath while he did it, sinking down quicker than he should have, because he was used to it but not that used to it and fuck, but John was big. It hurt, the burning stretch, but it was a good hurt, the sort that meant he wouldn't walk right the next day, that he'd remember it into the next night. He liked that.

John's hands were on his hips, and one of Matt's was on John's chest, brushing over a nipple when he sank down again, and again, and again— and John was losing it before he knew it, thrusting up into him, pulling him down, flesh meeting flesh so hard it almost rattled Matt's bones, and John's head tilted back and he growled and came inside him.

He only needed a few quick strokes, and thank God it was John's hand, thank God, and then he was coming, too, splashing onto John's stomach.

---

It wasn't working.

Matt was running out of options, because he had to sleep somewhere and he was barely getting enough food to keep his blood sugar at a decent level, and he was spending more and more time with John, so there was less time to search for new hookups. He'd been with the guy before, and he knew he was good, but—

It wasn't working.

He could still feel the burn, the dull pain from John, and his face was pushed into a pillow and the guy was plowing into him hard but it wasn't enough, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn't come. When it was over, he rolled to the side and jerked himself off, biting his lip and thinking about McClane.

Fuck.

---

They met again on one of the usual days, when Matt had called ahead. McClane had sounded like he always did, but as soon as they were in the same room — the living room, not the bedroom, no — John was saying things like, "I'm twice your age."

"Not quite," Matt corrected. "And anyway, I don't care."

"I'm in a dangerous line of work. It can be frustrating, getting involved with a cop."

It came just as easily the second time: "I don't care."

"It's part of why my wife left me, you know. Fuck— I have kids. Kids barely younger than you."

And the third: "I. Don't. Care."

A steady stare, and then John said: "I don't want this to be some casual fuck thing, Matt. I'm giving something up here, you know; it's not like I've fucked a guy before. You ready to deal with that?"

Matt's mouth was open, ready to speak, but no sound came out.

---

It was funny, to think that Camden would be a vacation, but it was. New York City had somehow become home, and that sort of bothered him, but only a little.

The wreckage had been cleared up, the building was safe to live in and there was a new tenant where he'd been, but some part of his brain still told him it smelled like fire and smoke.

He didn't want to live there.

He spent most of the day catching up with his neighbors — the nicer ones and the geekier ones, mostly — and then, at night, went three floors down to a room he knew well.

She was still living there, and when she saw Matt she clutched him to her breast and kissed his forehead, then his mouth. Her lips were hot and insistent and there was nothing about her to compare to John, and it was still familiar, a nice, safe territory.

He'd never promised to be exclusive, he told himself as she sucked his cock, his hands in her short, dyed hair. Hell, he'd never promised John anything.

---

They argued about the news. John liked turning it on when he was around, just to annoy him; Matt would snipe at him about it, say he was brainwashed and mock the reporters, and then eventually break down and offer some kind of sexual favor to get it turned off.

That one always worked.

But they did stop arguing, eventually. Partly it was because they came to something like an agreement; John admitted that the news bent the facts, or omitted some, or played up certain things to get a rise out of people, make them listen. Matt admitted that although he could remember all the inconsistencies, that he knew for a fact — he always said that, a fact — that they were lied, fear-mongering corporate tools, it wasn't always that bad and they did at least alert people about important shit as soon as possible. Plus, there were traffic and weather reports.

But that was only partly it.

The other part of it was that Matt had started to develop a Pavlovian response to it; every time he heard the evening news correspondent's terrible voice, he got an almost instant erection. John usually ended up missing half the news when Matt was around, winding up otherwise occupied.

---

He did things that John didn't, some that Matt expected John wouldn't; he dressed up in women's panties, brought out a whip and a blindfold, called Matt terrible things that used to arouse him.

He asked him not to use the whip that time, because he didn't want John to see the marks. After a few barked insults, he asked for "Matt" or "Matthew" or "Matty" — or "kid," even. It made him shiver, and yeah, he came eventually, but it felt all wrong.

He hated that it felt wrong.

---

"The Warlock loves this song," Matt admitted glumly when John turned on Fortune Son for probably the billionth time. "I could've liked it, maybe, but he's a real dick, and it's just noise. Not that I would've liked it that much, I mean, it's still old and terrible, but—"

John shut him up with a kiss.

They went to a concert at a bar, one where two of Matt's favorite underground bands played, but they missed the second set, the wailing of the band's singer barely ringing in their ears as they left.

Matt had wanted to say it was just sex, nothing more, but once they got to John's place that night more tired than he should have been when he could have been feeling the adrenaline and energy of the bands, they didn't even undress, they just collapsed onto John's bed and slept.

They hadn't left because they were horny, or because John had bribed him with sexual favors; they left because Matt actually felt bad for the way John winced at the screaming and all the particularly high notes, felt guilty for putting that sour look on his face.

---

"I— I can't."

The words came out so suddenly he almost didn't expect them himself. Certainly she, his Joan Chen look-alike— she didn't expect it, didn't think that halfway through her previously unnecessary seduction he would give up.

And he was hard, true, but even just that made him feel terrible, returned that sick, twisting feeling to his stomach, that feeling he hadn't felt since the fire sale still bothered him, and— oh God.

He could still remember it clearly, but it wasn't just the gun in his hand and the blood and the killing, it was John, the fierceness of him, protecting Lucy and the country and him, and—

Fuck—

"I'm sorry."

He was out the door before he could explain himself, before he could throw his shirt back on, and he didn't see the Joan-clone again.

---

"I'm yours."

John looked startled by the outburst, and then more startled by Matt's appearance, the bags in his hands, his disheveled hair and the way he was breathing a little too harshly. That was always worrying when you had asthma, but he pushed that worry to the back of his mind, because there were other, more pressing worries.

Well, maybe not, but he did have it under control, anyway.

"What are you talking about?" John asked, moving away from the couch, pulling Matt to him, keeping him close enough to feel against him, far enough away to look down into his face, open and honest like it hadn't been, maybe, since the fire sale ordeal. "What is this?"

"That was a bad way to put it," Matt said, dropping most of his bags less-than-delicately, setting his laptop down on top of them a little more carefully. "I'm— I want to be with you. Only you. And I'm sorry, I've been lying— not really lying, but lying by omission, so I'm just as bad as the news. I was seeing other people, a lot of other people, and I don't have my own place or any money, but if Bowman offers again — and I think he will — I'm going to take that job, I'm going to be honest, I swear. I have to say more, I need to tell you everything, but later— please just kiss me now. Please."

John did, and Matt was so happy he could have cried.

He didn't — John was a liar if he said otherwise — but he could have.

---

Matt was in the park — a park, actually, one of the city's many parks, and he didn't know the name — when he saw the Millers again, hand in hand.

He wondered how he felt about it, seeing them again. John wasn't around, and he'd told him everything, and he didn't have to feel guilty for thinking about it, so...?

He felt nothing. Yeah, it'd been fun, but he didn't want to be a part of their lives anymore. He was the same guy, but they weren't a part of him.

They looked happy, anyway. Happy without him. He figured that was good, too.

---

The hardest part was when he had to actually show up in front of Bowman, face-to-face, because it meant he had to go to DC and John didn't come, because he had things to do with his job because, oh, yeah, he had one. Saving the world and all that.

He wasn't that needy or clingy, really, but Bowman usually needed him for more than a few days, sometimes even up to two weeks, and sometimes he had to take longer trips farther away.

John joked that he'd had too much sex before, had become addicted to it, but he always indulged Matt when he called him up and begged for a little phone sex. It wasn't anything like the real thing, but it was good enough to take the edge off, just for a little while.

Plus, there were those times when he finally, finally got home, and John didn't make him eat or sleep or anything when he walked in the door, he just let Matt crawl on top of him, ride him like the first time, or clutch at him and do it against the wall, or over the table, or in the shower—

He understood, basically. Afterwards he'd bother Matt with bad old music until he agreed to turn off his laptop and sleep or eat or whatever.

The easiest part — the one that always caught him off-guard — was how easy it was to fall for McClane.

"Do you still think about the — uh, the fire sale?" Matt asked once, when they were half-dressed and disheveled on the couch but not quite tired enough for sleep.

"What kinda question is that?" John had responded, and Matt almost ducked his head away, because, yeah, McClane, of course it wouldn't bother him, but then— "Of course I do. All the fucking time. My daughter almost died. You almost died. Hell, even I did; you don't forget that easily."

"Oh." And that was kind of a relief, because it had almost been a year, but he couldn't forget, even though it wasn't all bullets and explosions in his head anymore, even though he'd focused on the memories of McClane, made them swell up and push out as much of the bad as he could, but it was still there. He wasn't sure he'd ever forget what it was like to kill someone.

McClane was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and Matt was a pretty good actor when the situation called for it, but under that stare he couldn't help but squirm and give himself away. "Does it still bother you?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, and he shifted, leaning his shoulder against John's. "I sort of remember all of it. The guns, the fire, every one of their faces—"

John shifted, too, and the weight against him was reassuring. "Too smart for your own good."

"Yeah," he agreed, and then, after a moment: "I remember you, too."

John smirked at him. "That's good."

They were silent again. Matt wasn't watching whatever was on TV anyway — some football game, he thought. He'd always hated the sport. He got the feeling John wasn't watching either, though.

John shifted again, the warm press of his body just a little heavier against Matt. "You remember the first time you and me were together?"

"Every second."

John smirk became something like an actual smile. "That's good."

So Matt's memory — it wasn't quite photographic, but it was good enough.

His sex life, on the other hand—

His sex life was mind-blowing.

Twisted

2008-08-26T05:20:21Z

Title: Twisted
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Speed thinks he might be a little twisted. Speed/X
Disclaimer: I do not own Speed Racer or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: This is an apology fic for compactstars, because the thpeed_wacew porn-a-thon didn't exactly work out.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

In retrospect, the front seat of the Shooting Star was probably neither the most discreet or safest place for sex, but at the time Speed was only concerned with here, now, harder.

His pants were still tangled around one leg, his shoes and socks still on as he squirmed in X's lap, their cocks bumping together and making his breath hitch. They weren't kissing; Speed kept his hands on X's face, his mask pushed off, studying him as though he was making sure there were no traces of his brother left.

He didn't understand it himself, why the revelation had the effect it did on him. Some part of him felt like it should feel disgusted or deceived, like his attraction to the other racer should have dwindled, at least, and become the light, airy affection he'd had for him in his youth.

But it wasn't like that; it was there was a ghost, like his brother had never been his brother, but an icon, one that had been put into another body. He felt like he was making love to a god, one he had almost been sure didn't exist, only to have him prove himself to him in two words in a garage.

"I'm Rex."

They had been sleeping together already for almost a month, ever since he'd gone to Thunderhead when Trixie broke it off with him. It had been against the hood of his car, on the Mach 5, his hands splayed out and caressing it as X pumped and jerked inside him, and it hadn't seemed wrong. It didn't seem wrong then. He couldn't even ask why it was then, of all times, why it hadn't been said before the first kiss, because he knew it was true and he didn't care. Or, rather, he did care, but only in a way that made it so much more exciting.

He felt dirty, and absently thought he might be a little twisted. He definitely didn't care.

The angle was all wrong and the seats were stationary, so Speed turned, kicked his pants off his leg, and, almost as an afterthought, pulled off his shoes, revealing his red socks. X, who had been frowning since the words slipped from his lips, finally smirked, lips pressed against the back of Speed's neck as they sat chest-to-back and Speed sank down with nothing but his own spit to ease the way.

It seemed right, to be connect that way, bare and open, and he knew it was twisted that he would never be able to think of his childhood racing lessons from his brother in the same way ever again.

It hurt, because he wasn't quite used to it yet, not enough to be able to take it easily without a real lubricant. It was good, but yes, it hurt, and he must have closed his eyes because of it, since he didn't notice Inspector Detector until he heard X's breath catch and his eyes flew open.

He stilled, and for a moment it was like all the air had gone from his lungs; he was sure he couldn't breath, like something was crushing him, even as X whispered quiet, soothing nonsense into his ear.

But Detector, standing in front of the Shooting Star, didn't look worried or scandalized. There was a crease between his eyebrows, like he was trying to figure something out, but he didn't move until he said, "Do you know who he is?"

Speed just nodded, numb.

Detector let out a long, slow breath, licked his lips, and didn't move. Speed felt his own breath come back to him, quick and excited, and when X thrust up into him he didn't question it, meeting him halfway and locking his eyes with the inspector's.

He was pretty sure it was twisted, sick, wrong to be fucked by his own brother in front of the man who'd hidden him in plain sight, but as he tilted his head back, resting it against X's shoulder, and raised up on his knees again, he couldn't care less.

Confusion of Want

2008-08-26T04:54:12Z

Title: Confusion of Want
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Cannonball Taylor wants what Speed has. Cannonball/Speed
Disclaimer: I do not own Speed Racer or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: This is an apology fic for bad_luck, because the thpeed_wacew porn-a-thon didn't exactly work out.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

"Slut," Cannonball hissed, his lips curling in something like distaste. "You little whore. You love this, don't you?"

Speed was laid before him across the hood of the Mach 5, his wrists bound by that ridiculous ascot he had been wearing. He groaned, hips arching up without shame, as if they weren't out in the open — and sure, the road was more or less bare, empty of all but their two cars, but it didn't mean no one would come along, see the way the younger racer responded to him, ached for it.

He hadn't even touched him yet.

Still, it was obvious what they both wanted; the bulge in Speed's pants gave away his lust, and the responding bulge in Cannonball's left little doubt about what was going on, was compounded by the pounding of his heart. He could hear it in his ears, beating like drums or horse's hooves.

"You love this," he repeated, not as a question, as he worked Speed's pants open.

It wasn't as though he had set out to have his way with Speed Racer that day. No, certainly not that day, when he had his license back, finally, when he was free again. The road was long, straight, and although unpaved, it was the perfect place to take out his frustrations, to push his car to its limits and maybe never stop.

Then he'd seen the Mach 5, and it was like it was mocking him, taunting him, because—

Because he wanted it so much. Not just the car, not just the power of its engine, but everything Speed Racer had. The youth, the glory, the taste of winning on his tongue. He had once breathed it in like air, and then it had been ripped away from him because of a stupid, desperate mistake.

A mistake. Yes, just a mistake. It was a mistake to be seen, to have his tricks found out, because it was his place, what he had earned by working for Royalton for so long. He deserved to win, deserved to have the best car, the most money, the young flesh again...

He had seen the Mach 5, and before he knew what he was doing he'd cut in front of it, sending them both into a long skid; Speed only barely stopped in time.

But he did stop in time. He was good enough to do that.

It made Cannonball furious.

He couldn't stop himself from launching out of the car, grabbing Speed by his ascot — his ridiculous, childish ascot — and hauling him out of his seat for a kiss.

He'd been the star once. He knew how to make a girl melt until there was nothing left of her but a puddle in her panties; his techniques worked just as well on the young man, and he smirked then, just once, because he knew about the girl, and knew in that moment that their relationship must have been painfully chaste, because it only took a moment for him to feel the press of Speed's cock against his leg, and then he'd pushed him down.

His hand was in Speed's pants, working him so fast it must have been almost painful, but Speed loved it, cried out for it, tried to reach for his shoulders like they were an anchor and he was lost at sea, tugging at the cloth on his wrists. He arched up again and came, and the evidence of it was all over his pants, the bottom of his shirt, Cannonball's hand.

The look in his eyes after, not even sixty seconds later, was pathetic, full of fear and worry— and yet behind it there was a shine of lingering arousal, something that didn't care about his family or his friends or racing at all.

Cannonball couldn't remember feeling that, or feeling anything about family or friends. He was jealous of it, and it made him feel sick.

He wanted to force Speed to his knees, to make him suck his dick or roll him over and fuck him blue, but that look in his eyes made him back away, legs shaky and dick still hard, until he bumped into his own car.

"Mr. Taylor?" Speed asked, and the other emotions were gone, confusion all that was left.

He didn't answer; he just got in his car and drove away, back the way he'd come.

Biggest Fan

2008-08-23T02:05:34Z

Title: Biggest Fan
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kevin wants acting lessons from Kirk. Kirk/Kevin
Disclaimer: I do not own Tropic Thunder or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for mspotamus's RDJ kink meme thing again. It's kind of not so good, because I really struggled with the funny and it didn't really come out, except a maybe-funny line here and there that may actually be only funny to me. Also, I fucked up Kirk's dialogue, because I don't know much about Australian slang, and if I made him talk like the quotes on kirklazarus.com, I'm pretty sure I'd have to stop every few lines to kick myself in the face. ON TOP OF THAT, it came out sort of ridiculously long, considering how short I'd meant it to be, but once I got to the sex I was kind of like, "Well, it needs to be longer than that." So... here we are! I hope it doesn't suck!
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

The after-party for the Oscars branched off into after-after-parties, and the splintering left the Tropic Thunder group broken apart. Kirk had searched the room as soon as he'd entered, and he'd been vaguely disappointed to find that none of his costars were present. Nearly being killed by drug lords and then making a second movie (even if there never really was a first) really brought him closer to them.

He was pretty sure Alpa had left the scene altogether, the way he'd been all over Lance halfway through the first after-party. He figured it must have been similar with Kevin and Jennifer, and probably with Tugg and his shiny new non-wooden Oscar, too. Jeff had parted ways with them before midnight; Kirk was pretty sure that had something to do with resisting temptation, and had clapped him on the shoulder and shared a smile with him that said I know what that's like.

And then he remembered that he wasn't really Father O'Malley. Sometimes it was hard, just being Kirk Lazarus. Hard and a little depressing.

He mingled and drank on his own, the icon for the film at that particular party. And then he drank some more when he realized that on his own, he wasn't interesting; he wasn't Sergeant Osiris anymore, and most of those who came up to him seemed disappointed when they heard him speak in his own voice, his own words.

So he might've been just a little drunk when he realized he wasn't the only one there anymore. Kevin came directly to him, obviously uncomfortable, and stood so close their shoulders pressed together.

"What happened to Jennifer?" he asked, mumbling around his glass. "Did she ditch you?"

Kevin shook his head and took a drink before answering, "Nah. She was just a date. We're not actually involved or anything."

Kirk raised his eyebrows. "Tabloids'll say different tomorrow."

The edges of Kevin's lips quirked up in a small smile. "I know."

Kirk gave him an answering smile. For once, it didn't feel wrong to be playing that sort of game.

---

"And so that's it, no more movies for a year, I decided." He was babbling, sure, but Kevin was listening attentively anyway, he was interested in what Kirk had to say, and so it didn't matter that he was drunk and talking far too much. Maybe that was Kirk— maybe he was a talker. He'd have to watch that and see. "I've got to slow down, take some time to, you know— find myself, or whatever bullshit you want to call it. For now, Kirk Lazarus is just going to play Kirk Lazarus."

Kevin nodded, eyes wide, like it was the most profound thing he'd ever heard, and he couldn't help but go on.

"...costarring Kirk Lazarus in a film called Kirk Lazarus, directed, written, and edited by Kirk Lazarus," he slurred, throwing an arm around Kevin and gesturing to a screen that wasn't there. "Fucking produced by Kirk Lazarus. Or George Lucas. No, wait— Kirk Lazarus. Yeah, that one."

Kevin laughed and didn't push him away, so Kirk had to untangle himself from the mess of his arm and Kevin's neck, which really shouldn't have been so complicated. "Casting by Kirk Lazarus?" he supplied.

"Yeah," Kirk agreed, settling back against the wall he'd been leaning against. "Casting by Kirk fucking Lazarus."

They were silent for a moment, watching the crowd move and sway before them, some dancing, others just drunk like Kirk. It was late, but their numbers had hardly thinned, although the coherency of the average partygoer there had taken a turn for the worse.

Kevin cleared his throat.

"So, since you're not working right now, does that mean you might have time to, uh..."

Kirk waited a moment, then pushed him to continue. "To...?"

"Never mind," Kevin said with a wave of his hand. "It's stupid. Forget it."

"It's stupid, I'm drunk. It'll mesh nicely." He pushed Kevin again, physically that time, shoving his shoulder. "Come on, then."

Kevin opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to ask, "Would you train me?"

Kirk blinked. "I think I'm too drunk. Or not drunk enough. Train you in what, may I ask?"

"Acting," Kevin breathed, like it was taking all his effort to explain. "I told you, I'm pretty much your biggest fan, and— well. I want to be as good as you."

"As good as me." Kirk shook his head. "Kid, you don't want to be me. I don't even know who I am."

"I don't want to be you," Kevin said quickly, "but I want to be able to do what you do. Just— uh. Not to that extreme, I guess, but, you know. Good."

Kirk didn't say anything to that, staring at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Please? I promise I won't push you to go off the deep end. I just— I got this script, and I'm sort of nervous about it, but I really want to do it, and I don't want to be some dumb newbie when they see me and fuck it all up." And he looked so hopeful, he was almost begging, and he was Kirk's friend. How could he say no?

So he didn't; instead, he grabbed the kid by the arm, dragging him through the undulating crowd toward the exit, barely hearing the kid babble behind him.

"Wait— what? Where are we going?"

"My place," Kirk answered, and a sober part of his brain thought that sounded too suggestive, but all the drunk parts of it told him to ignore that. "We're going to start your training right now."

"Now?" Kevin asked, incredulous. "It's almost four in the morning!"

"A good part won't wait for you!" Kirk insisted, adding, "And I might change my mind when I'm sober."

---

The ride to Kirk's home was a little awkward; Kevin tried to break the silence with intermittent thanks and inquiries for directions, but Kirk remained quiet, more than a little bitter about not being able to drive his own car to his own home just because he'd only had— what? Six drinks?

Toward the end of the drive, Kevin started listing everything he loved about Kirk — or it sounded that way, anyway, the way he went on and on about about his every role. Kirk was tempted to snap that yes, he did know about the trouble they had on the set of If You Could Hear What I See with the herd of cattle, he was there, but he kept to his vow of silence until they were out of the car.

"Wow," Kevin said as they pulled up. "This place is huge."

Kirk just gestured to the garage.

As he led Kevin to his spacious, sparsely-decorated living room, flicking on lights at random, the bitterness subsided and his curiosity grew. He sat on his couch, propping his feet up on an extremely expensive coffee table. Kevin stood, almost nervously, at the couch's end, leaning against the armrest.

"So, what's this script about, anyway?"

Kevin gave him a half-smile, glad that he wasn't angry anymore. "It's this story about these three friends — kids — who make a pact to stick together if one of them ever strikes it rich, but they grow up and grow apart, right? And then one of them does get rich, makes a fortune starting his own business, and the other two show up and kind of ruin everything for him."

Kirk nodded, taking out a cigarette and his lighter. He offered the pack to Kevin, but the younger actor shook his head. "Sounds interesting. Not an award-winner by any means, but interesting. So, what, is it a drama? Comedy?"

Kevin flushed, just a little. "It's— a drama. Kind of. There's some romance in it."

"There always is," Kirk murmured, lighting his cigarette. "What's your character?'

"An artist," Kevin said. "A starving artist, really. He can't sell anything, so he turns up at Clint's — the rich friend's — place because he's got nothing left. And he's welcome, kind of, annoying but welcome, until Clint finds out that he's trying to get money by selling himself instead of his paintings."

Kirk stared at Kevin, who was blushing full-on and looking away by then. "Huh."

"And— and in the end, Clint leaves his wife for him, and they're a couple even though pretty much no one approves." Kevin ran his hand through his hair, risking a look back at his idol. "Yeah. It's— I loved Satan's Alley. Really loved it. I think it's my favorite of yours. I wanted to be able to do that."

Kirk's eyebrows went up, his still-drunk mind taking a wrong turn at that. "Have sex with men?"

Kevin blushed again, but turned toward him. "No! I mean— I mean I want to be able to play that kind of role like you did. Because this guy, he wants Clint, but he has to fight it because Clint's married and a big CEO and kind of scary. It's kind of like— I mean, not really, but it's kind of like O'Malley resisting temptation. Right?"

"Not really." Kevin's shoulders slumped, and Kirk rolled his eyes, gesturing for him to sit next to him. He put out his cigarette and dropped it into an ashtray, then leaned back, spreading his arms over the back of the couch. "Doesn't mean I can't help you."

"Oh thank God," Kevin said, relaxing visibly. "I've been really worried about this, and I really want to pull it off, so I—"

Kirk put a hand over his mouth. "Kevin? Shut up."

Kevin nodded, Kirk's hand moving with the motion.

"Good. Now, we'll work on the 'starving artist' portion of this later, but for now..." He pulled away his hand abruptly, quickly replacing it with his lips; he missed at first, catching only the corner of Kevin's mouth, but one hand on Kevin's jaw turned them both enough to get the angle right.

It didn't last long. Kevin pressed his hands flat against Kirk's chest, pushing him away almost immediately. "What the hell? This isn't what I meant!"

Kirk gave him a reproachful look, still leaning in too close. "You want to play a gay man when you've never so much as kissed a guy before?"

"Yes!" Kevin said, scrambling down the couch until he bumped into the armrest he'd been leaning against earlier. "I mean— I don't think I should have to—"

Kirk laughed, following him slowly. "Then why the crikey fuck did you ask for my help?"

Kevin made vague, fluttering gestures with his hands. "I— I just admire your work, and—"

Kirk cut him off, covering his mouth with his hand again. "You think I didn't do the same for Satan's Alley?"

Kevin pried his fingers away this time, holding his hand away from his face. "You kissed Tobey Maguire? You— oh my God, you had sex with Tobey Maguire?!"

"What? No!" Kirk laughed, pulling his back to him. "Tobey's way too uptight for that. I slept with other men. There was this one set decorator, had an ass on him like you wouldn't believe..."

Kevin frowned at him as Kirk seemed to drift off into memory. Apparently it had been a very nice ass.

Kirk shook his head after a moment, coming back to the present. "But I did kiss Tobey. We did a lot of practicing, too, if you catch my drift."

Kevin remembered those scenes; they had seemed so real, so passionate... He was jerked out of the thought by Kirk's thumb across his lower lip, brushing gently.

"Lips a lot like yours, actually. Full. Soft. Sort of girly." Kevin glared at him at that. "Well, it's true. Nice to kiss, though."

Kevin swallowed and resisted the urge to wet his lips.

"Besides," Kirk said as he leaned in again, his breath ghosting over Kevin's lips, his hand sliding away to cup his jaw, "we're all gay once in a while."

The kiss was better that time, because Kevin was expecting it. He almost pushed Kirk away again, but after a moment all he could think was Why not? It's for the role.... He buried his fingers in Kirk's hair, and he could feel the smirk against his lips, felt Kirk's other hand rest on his shoulder, thumbing the dip at the base of his neck.

It wasn't so bad.

Then Kirk pried his mouth open with his tongue and shoved it inside, and for a moment it was — messy, uncomfortable, uncoordinated, like all his bad kisses with girls in college had been when they'd been too drunk to see straight and then threw up in his lap. He really hoped Kirk wouldn't throw up in his lap. He seemed like he could hold his liquor a bit better than that, but still...

The moment passed and Kirk's tongue retreated back into his mouth, beckoning Kevin's to follow, to take some initiative and do more than just be kissed. Tentatively, Kevin licked inside Kirk's mouth, feeling like he was crossing into some sort of holy territory. He chided himself for his ridiculous hero-worship, acting like a fanboy well after he'd gotten to know the man; hell, they were friends. The time when he should have stopped being awed by the guy was long past.

And then Kirk sucked on his tongue, and he felt himself fall into holy territory all over again. He melted into the arm rest, sinking until he was partially under Kirk, hands still locked in his hair. No kiss he'd had before had ever been like it; not even his mostly sober girlfriend-for-three-weeks had kissed him like that. His cock twitched in spite of himself; he hoped Kirk wouldn't notice.

He did. Kirk drew back, biting softly at his lower lip and letting his hand fall to Kevin's chest, brushing over a nipple through his shirt. He sat up, smirking down at Kevin, disheveled and panting, his gaze drifting down to his crotch.

"Well, well," he murmured, rearranging their legs until his were between Kevin's, "looks like you're getting into character just fine."

"Yeah," Kevin breathed, trying to sit up with him, "right. I think I can do this."

"Where do you think you're going?" Kirk asked, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him back down. "We're not done here."

Kevin's eyes went wide. "We aren't?"

Kirk's smirk grew devilish as he dragged his hand down Kevin's body, making no pretenses about his intended destination. Kevin gulped, but made fists at his sides, resisting the urge to stop the hand's path.

"I think I've got it," he said. "We don't really need to take this further. I mean, there won't be anything on-screen that I can't fake, so—"

"Shhh," Kirk said, his fingers pulling at the waistband of Kevin's pants. "If you're going to learn from me, you're going to dedicate yourself, body and soul, to this part, understand?"

Kevin nodded, his mouthing falling open slightly as he felt the weight of Kirk's hand on his dick. He was getting harder, the bulge becoming more obvious, and he had to stop himself more than once from trying to will it away, like so many unfortunate classroom erections. It made it worse to think of Kirk as his teacher, even if that was sort of kinky. He had watched a lot of teacher-student porn after high school...

He closed his eyes, following Kirk's movements by sound and feel alone. The sound of the zipper made him tremble slightly; the feel of Kirk's hand cupping him through his boxers made his hips jerk, made precome spread over the cotton. He sighed when Kirk pushed down the waistband, letting his cock spring free.

Feather-light touches up the shaft, light caresses to his balls, and he was fighting not to moan and trying not to think about the fact that he was pretty much losing his virginity to Kirk Lazarus. And then he realized that was a lost cause, because there was no way not to think about Kirk when he was between his legs, his fingers on his dick, when he'd felt his stubble against his lips, and it was, when he let himself stop worrying so much about it, pretty hot.

"Now," Kirk said, his voice yet another reminder of just who it was making him hard, "I want you to pay very close attention to what I'm about to do. You're going to have to do it yourself after, all right?"

Kevin nodded, keeping his eyes closed. Surprisingly, it only aroused him more to think about getting Kirk off, too.

And then he had to open his eyes, because Kirk's mouth closed over the head of his dick, and the wet-hot-amazing feeling was too much, a complete shock to his system. His hands scrabbled for purchase, gripping the back of the couch and the armrest behind him, clutching as he writhed, trying not to thrust up because he'd never had head before, but he was pretty sure that normal people couldn't take it like porn stars, and he really didn't want to push Kirk's gag reflex.

After a few minutes of nothing more than sucking and licking at the head, Kirk wrapped his hand around the base of Kevin's dick, sliding down slowly. Kevin felt like his mind was going to drip out of his ears, it was so good; fantasizing about being blown had never even come close. He gripped the couch harder; he wasn't sure he'd be able to last long, and sure, it was his first time, but if he couldn't keep it going it was going to be embarrassing anyway. He closed his eyes again; watching his cock disappear into Kirk's mouth just made it harder to keep from coming.

Kirk pulled back, his tongue curling and doing the most amazing things to his dick. His free hand came to Kevin's balls, rolling and stroking them in time with the bobbing of his head, the stilted jacking of the hand at the base. It was too much, too much—

Kirk's hands acted at the same time, reacting quickly to Kevin's low keening; the one on his dick squeezed the root as the one on his balls pulled, not too hard, and Kevin groaned because as much as he didn't want to come too fast, he still wanted to come. But it was still good, and he was nearing the edge again. If Kirk didn't do that again, he was going to lose it any second...

The hand on his dick squeezed again as the one on his balls slipped back, tracing lightly across his skin to his ass, pushing gently, gently, like he was waiting for Kevin to let him in. Kevin jerked away, just slightly, and then moaned because he really didn't want Kirk's mouth further away. Kirk followed him, both with his tongue and with his finger. Before he could reach his hole, the hand pulled away, and so did the mouth, just for a few seconds; his eyes cracked open to see Kirk sucking on his own finger, his tongue doing absolutely obscene things to it, and wasn't it funny to be thinking of anything as obscene when his brain was getting sucked out through his dick?

The mouth returned, and Kevin threw his head back over the armrest. The finger came with it, trailing back again, and he steeled himself for it. He took pride in the fact that he didn't jump when he felt it, slightly wet and slippery, slide over his hole, then press in.

It was a weird feeling, but he was distracted by Kirk's mouth and found it easier to ignore it and focus on the blowjob. He'd never really understood that part of sex with men; what was it about having something up one's ass that was so attractive to then?

And then he understood, because Kirk had worked his finger all the way in, and just as he dragged his teeth ever-so-gently up Kevin's cock, he pressed something inside him that Kevin belatedly realized must have been his prostate, and Kevin came apart, shooting into Kirk's mouth without warning.

When he came down from his orgasm, he expected to hear spitting, to feel Kirk rearranging them for his turn, and he felt a little apprehension settle in his stomach. There was no way he could be that good for Kirk, he was sure.

But as it turned out, he didn't have to worry; he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows, and when he looked down at his crotch he saw Kirk's head lying against his thigh, eyes closed, breathing steady. His hair tickled the bit of exposed skin at Kevin's hip, his breath coming in warm bursts over Kevin's softening cock. He could see a tent in Kirk's own pants, and a little bit of come on his lips made him realize Kirk must have swallowed most of it. The thought was pleasant, but he couldn't dwell on it; his mind was going fuzzy with sleepiness, and he barely managed to muster up the energy to tuck himself back into his boxers before falling back against the couch and drifting off to sleep as well.

---

Kevin awoke the next morning with a start, a slight throb in his skull, and a crick in his neck from the armrest. His right leg was numb, and it took him a moment to realize it was from Kirk's weight, still on top of him. He tried to gently extricate himself from Kirk's hold, but it was no use; Kirk started to mutter and shift, lifting himself up.

"Fuck," he said, wincing in the sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As he turned away from it, his eyes landed on Kevin; the younger actor almost expected a dismissal, or even a "What are you still doing here?", but what he got was "Morning."

"Morning," Kevin replied, a wary smile on his lips. He couldn't help the way his eyes fell to Kirk's crotch, where his pants were still tented up. Still? He was hard all night? "Do you want me to...?"

"What? This?" Kirk gestured to his crotch, and Kevin nodded. Kirk laughed, shaking his head. "No, not necessary. I've just got to piss is all."

Kevin blushed. "Oh."

They stumbled through the house, Kirk pointing the way to one bathroom while he wandered off to another.

Once he'd relieved himself, Kevin splashed cold water on his face, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He considered using the shower, feeling uncomfortable and dirty in his slept-in suit, but he didn't want to overstay his welcome; Kirk hadn't said much yet, and he didn't want to give any reason for the morning to take a turn for the worse.

When he opened the bathroom door again, Kirk was there, dressed in just a clean pair of jeans and dropping aspirin into his hand. He was already smoking, and just pointed to his temple before wandering off again. Kevin followed him, tossing back the pills without water.

"So, uh, I sort of left my car behind. Is there any chance you could give me a ride...?"

Kirk quirked an eyebrow at him as they entered his kitchen, which was just as massive as his living room was. "What's the rush? You have somewhere to be?"

Kevin shrugged. "Not really. I just thought that, after last night..."

He trailed off, and Kirk snorted, going to the fridge and pulling out a carton of orange juice. His cigarette left his lips just long enough for him to take a long gulp from it, wiping his mouth on his forearm after.

"I'm sorry," Kevin blurted after a moment, looking away. "I know you were drunk last night—"

"So were you," Kirk pointed out, offering him the juice. Kevin took it, feeling awkward as he drank from the same carton; it seemed almost more intimate than getting blown by the guy, but that was ridiculous. "Besides, I would have done it if I was sober, anyway."

"Really?" Sound more like a virgin, Sandusky. "I mean— uh, thanks. I wasn't thank drunk, really, so... I mean, I probably would have, too."

Kirk nodded, like that was what he expected anyway, and started digging through his cupboards. "You want anything?"

Kevin watched the muscles of his back stretch and move, following them up to his arms, to his fingers, and back down to his ass. Before he could stop himself, he replied with a strangled "Yeah."

Kirk looked over his shoulder. "I meant for breakfast."

Kevin bit the inside of his cheek; he was caught before he'd even realized what he was doing. It was funny; he felt more sure of himself with the alcohol out of his system than he had the night before, and he was sure that, however it played out, he wanted Kirk.

"You never told me your character's name," Kirk said, turning back to the cupboards. "That's more important than people give it credit. You can't be a character without the name."

"Danny Lewis," Kevin answered, approaching Kirk slowly. "Daniel C. Lewis when he signs his work."

"Nice note," Kirk praised, not turning away from his cupboards. They seemed to be mostly bare; Kirk spent most of his time on location. He probably barely ever ate at home, Kevin thought. It looked like his options were either cereal, potato chips, or rotting fruit.

Cautiously, Kevin put his hands on Kirk's waist, just above his jeans; Kirk twisted around, not pulling away from the touch.

"You planning something?" he asked, and then after a moment added, "Danny?"

Kevin wanted to correct him, because he wasn't Danny, not just then. He had no urge to paint Kirk's figure, no desperate need to be touched by anyone, and the faint pang of hunger in his belly was far from enough to make him wait until he'd eaten. Instead, he smiled, sliding his hands down, forward, until he was stroking Kirk through his jeans, feeling an electric shock of pride and pleasure when he felt the older actor getting harder under his palm. "I want to try something."

Kirk didn't say anything, but his eyes held a challenge, saying, Go ahead. Try. Kevin didn't really need the push, but it made his own dick throb appreciatively anyway.

He flicked open the button of Kirk's jeans, pulling the fly down, but didn't touch Kirk's cock. He had discovered the wonders of pleasure he could get from his own ass the night before, and he wanted to give a part of that back to Kirk in his own way.

Kevin had seen a lot of porn. He had an external hard drive full of nothing but porn, organized in folders by the number of women involved and kink. There weren't a lot of files in Porn Drive G:\One\Rimming, but they turned him on anyway, whether the girl was giving or getting. He wasn't sure he could reach the prostate with just his tongue, but he was pretty sure he could make it good, anyway.

He sank to floor, pulling Kirk's pants — no underwear, which sort of just figured — down to his knees with him. Kirk didn't protest, just moved his legs as far apart as they could go, bracing himself against the counter. Kevin palmed his ass, excited just by the feel of it in his hands, and then pushed the cheeks apart, exposing his hole. He breathed over it, more to steady himself than anything else, but it made Kirk's thighs shiver slightly. With that boost of confidence, he quickly swiped his tongue over it once, testing the feel of it. It wasn't so bad; he did it again, letting his tongue linger, circling the hole and then swiping over it again. Kirk made a small, low noise in the back of his throat; Kevin took it as encouragement, taking one more steadying breath and then pushing his tongue in. Kirk pushed back against him, just slightly, and he thrust his tongue in further, pulled out, thrust in again, fucking Kirk on his tongue. He picked up the pace, alternating licks around the hole with thrusts in, enjoying every small, restrained noise Kirk made above.

He almost didn't notice when Kirk started talking. "Danny. Danny, stop— hold on a second. Kevin."

Somewhat reluctantly, he pulled away, looking up. Kirk's breathing was somewhat ragged, though the cigarette was still in his mouth, hanging slightly to the side. He took it out, tapped the ash into the sink and dropped it in a dirty glass, then gestured for Kevin to stand.

"I want you to fuck me."

Kevin felt his draw drop and his dick rise; he couldn't have heard that right, could he? "What?"

"Fuck. Me." He punctuated it with a thrust and grind back into Kevin's groin, reaching around to hold him in place by his hip in an awkward grip. "Danny."

"Are you sure?" Kevin asked, though he didn't want to. He wanted to just do it, but it didn't seem right not to make sure, even if Kirk was offering— Oh, fuck. Kirk Lazarus was offering to be fucked. "I don't think I'm— I'm not really in character, anymore."

Kirk ground back again, pulling one of Kevin's hands forward to his dick. "Do you really think I care? I'm hard as a fucking rock here, and I don't need you to be in character. I already saw your dick last night, and I wasn't in character. You're a pretty nice size, by the way."

Kevin groaned, his dick aching against his pants and Kirk's bare ass. "Don't we need something to— to—?"

Kirk opened a cupboard and grabbed something, holding it back for him. Olive oil— all right. "Any more questions, or do I have to go whack off on my own?"

"C-condoms," Kevin grunted, because it seemed important.

Kirk snorted. "You mean you didn't have any on you for last night?"

Oh, right. Even though Jennifer had just been a date, he'd hoped— right. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a condom. "We should've used one last night..."

"Doesn't matter. I live on danger, anyway," Kirk said, then paused. "No, wait, that was—"

"Zack Blake," Kevin supplied, remembering the role well. A teenage cop— not one of his favorites, but not bad. None of Kirk's work was. "I don't know what—"

"For fuck's sake, let me," Kirk said, twisting around and grabbing the olive oil back. He uncapped it, pouring it over his fingers and reaching around without hesitation, pushing first one, then quickly two fingers into himself. Kevin leaned back, watching him fuck himself on his fingers. He swallowed; it was much hotter than it should have been, but it was just the precursor to what he knew was coming. He fumbled with the condom, eventually getting it open and rolling it on himself; Kirk pulled his fingers out, shoving the bottle back into Kevin's hands. He slicked himself quickly, tremors wracking through his body in anticipation, and it was all he could do to go slow when he pressed against Kirk's back, pushing in.

Kirk groaned as he pushed in, leaning forward over the counter. His hands were splayed across its top, and he pushed back, pressing himself onto Kevin's dick. When they met, Kevin's stomach against his back, he breathed a sigh of relief, like he'd been waiting for it to cure some pain— and he might have been, Kevin realized. He'd read a few articles about the endorphins from sex counteracting headaches; maybe every time Kirk got a hangover, he'd call him over... or maybe not. He did have eleven kids by eleven women, after all; he probably wasn't really interested in anything even semi-permenant. Well, that just meant Kevin needed to make an impression.

"Fuck me hard," Kirk demanded with a thrust back. "Hard and fast, like a drop bear on its prey."

"Like a what?"

"Just fuck me," Kirk growled. Kevin obeyed.

He could barely restrain himself anyway; he had thought the blowjob was good, but fucking Kirk was heavenly. Every thrust brought him so close to the edge he felt like he was teetering over it constantly; he held onto Kirk's hip with one hand, the other falling near Kirk's on the countertop. He thrust for all he was worth, glad they were close in size; he remembered, after a moment, Kirk's touch to his prostate, and adjusted his position on each thrust until Kirk dropped forward slightly, moaning.

"There it is," Kirk hissed, wrapping a hand around himself and pumping wildly. "Fuck. Fuck."

Kevin smiled against Kirk's back, bringing extra force to the next trust, enough to push Kirk forward, his heels rising from the floor. Kirk clenched around his dick; it wouldn't be long, he knew, and he didn't care, as long as Kirk got off this time, too.

"My name," Kirk said, and it seemed odd; Kevin thought that was his line. "Say my fucking name, Kevin."

"Kirk," he hissed, right into his ear, and Kirk pitched forward, coming over the counter.

The tightening of his muscles, the sight of Kirk coming was enough, and Kevin came, too, spilling inside him with a loud, embarrassingly high-pitched moan. For a moment, they rested just as they were, Kirk leaning on his elbows, Kevin resting against his back, trying to breath normally again.

Eventually Kirk nudged him, and Kevin drew back, pulling out and pulling off the condom as Kirk reached for a roll of paper towels, wiping his mess off the counter and the cabinets it had begun to drip onto below. Kevin tied off the condom and threw it in the trash, risking a glance at Kirk as he did so; the Australian seemed pleased, humming a song Kevin didn't recognize to himself lightly. He was smiling, actually smiling. He hadn't even realized it, but he hadn't seen him smile since he took the wig off back in Laos.

"Well," Kirk said, pulling his pants back up and buttoning himself off, "that was fan-fucking-tastic. Glad to see you know how to use your dick."

Kevin blushed, just a little. "Um, thanks?"

"Cigarette?" Kirk asked, pulling a pack from the back pocket of his jeans. Kevin shook his head. "You know," Kirk said, lighting up, "it's been a long time since Kirk Lazarus has been fucked. Probably since before my kids were born."

Really? "Well, it's the first time Kevin Sandusky's ever been fucked."

Kirk eyed him for a moment, like he was sizing him up for something other than sex. "I think there might be a role in Kirk Lazarus's life for a Kevin Sandusky character. What do you think?"

It took Kevin, who had only started to pull his clothing back on under that scrutiny, a moment to realize what he was saying, to bring back the conversation from the night before. "Well... I don't know. I mean, it's up to you. You are the casting director."

Kirk laughed. "Yeah, I am the fucking casting director. I think you've got the part."

Kevin grinned, trying to conceal his joy just a little; he wasn't sure if that meant anything like commitment or even a long-lasting friendship, but it sounded promising. "Great. That's great. I am your biggest fan, after all."

"Nah, kid. You're not just a fan, you're a friend." Kirk's eyes glittered, almost, bright like his smile. "The sort of friend they make films about."

"Yeah," Kevin said, meeting his eyes evenly. "You, too."

There was a silence between them, not awkward or uncomfortable, and the space separating them seemed to be filled with a warm, giddy feeling, like they'd discovered something new in each other.

The silence broke gently, smoothly, as Kirk offered him breakfast again; eventually they found an almost-expired box of pancake mix, which Kirk set up to prepare while Kevin showered quickly and changed into an offered pair of sweatpants. They sat at Kirk's too-large, unused kitchen table, reminiscing about Tropic Thunder and sharing looks that meant more than they could put into words.

"What are the chances?" Kirk said, when they brought up Alpa. "Maybe we caught something out in the jungle. Just wait and see— next it'll be Jeff and Tugg."

Kevin cringed at the idea. "Please, no. I mean, yes, it's unlikely for three out of five random guys to turn out to be interested in men, but— no."

"Hey, it's Hollywood," Kirk said with a smirk. "Everyone's gay sometimes. If we're lucky they just won't do it with each other."

Kevin tried not to think about it. "Tobey Maguire isn't gay anytime."

Kirk shrugged, and they finished off their breakfast in silence. As they picked up their plates, leaving them a mess in the sink, he asked, "So, you think I could get the role of Clint in that movie of yours?"

Kevin raised his eyebrows. "I thought you weren't doing any more movies this year."

"I might make an exception if there's someone around to remind me that I'm Kirk Lazarus."

"Well, I don't know. I'm pretty sure they've already cast Benjamin McKenzie in the role."

They had. Kirk got it anyway.

Method to Madness

2008-08-20T08:16:42Z

Title: Method to Madness
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot, Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Summary: If Kirk Lazarus is Tony Stark, then Tony Stark is— Well. He's Tony Fucking Stark. Tony/Kirk
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, Tropic Thunder, or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for mspotamus's RDJ kink meme thing, and it might not be so good because it came out less like Tony/Kirk and more like Tony/Tony, but, uh... I like Tony/Tony, so there. Also, insert obligatory pimping of tonyxall here. Edit: I got sporked for the first time (that I know of and that wasn't intentional)! I'm actually proud of this. I know, I know, I shouldn't be, but I am. It's funny to me. I mean, it's like a sort of honor, you know?
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Tony Stark never answered his own door. He was always aware of it being answered, but he could count on one hand the number of times he had put his own palm on the handle of the door, pulled, and saw someone else on the other side. Three fingers, all accidents or coincidences.

So he didn't answer the door, and even though Pepper told him, through Jarvis, that Kirk Lazarus had arrived, he still jumped when he saw him.

It wasn't because he was surprised by his presence, of course; he didn't think Lazarus was exactly the sort to wait for anything to come to him, and had more than expected him to reject any sort of personal space and storm on down into the lab. He was surprised because he didn't storm, he sauntered in like he owned the place. He was surprised by the quietly carefree way he walked, like there was no way he and Tony Stark could possibly have any sort of confrontation when they met. He was surprised, most of all, by the realization that with his hair and beard dyed dark, Kirk Lazarus looked a lot like he did.

Tony knew a lot of actors, most of whom he'd fucked. He'd heard a lot of stories about Lazarus, about his intense immersion method acting, about his dedication. It was the only reason he'd agreed to being shadowed for two weeks.

He'd always sort of wanted a twin.

---

"Your walk is off."

Day two, and it was time to start criticizing. If someone was going to be playing Tony Stark on the big screen other than Tony himself, he sure as hell wasn't going to be sloppy about it. He knew Lazarus would take it to heart, and so he stopped him before they got to the car, doubled back, walked to it again.

To his surprised, Lazarus didn't look offended in the least; instead, he watched Tony carefully, studying the motion of his body as he moved. He copied him, then cursed under his breath and did it again, more satisfied the second time.

"So basically, I need to walk like there's a rod stuck up my ass twenty-four seven," Kirk said, sliding smoothly into the car. He nodded to Happy, who almost called him "Tony."

"More or less, yeah." Tony slid in beside him, and then smiled brightly. "You've almost got the accent down."

Lazarus cleared his throat, then tried again. "Like there's a rod stuck up my ass twenty-four seven."

"Closer." Tony looked away, out the window. His eyes were too blue— not quite right. It was kind of disturbing; they almost seemed as bright as the arc reactor, which he hadn't let him see yet. "I wouldn't say 'twenty-four seven.' And you've got to put more into your insults."

"I hate you," Lazarus said, in a near-perfect imitation of his voice.

"Now you're way off. I love myself."

---

Half of the board of directors had flown out of New York just to talk to Tony, and they were — some would say understandably — pissed at the prospect of having to deal with a second Tony, especially one that was an actor.

Lazarus asked if he should leave. Tony laughed, and Lazarus almost looked ashamed, but he apparently knew enough to know that shame was just not something Tony did. Ever.

Tony slept through the meeting, waking only when he was asked something directly, and only muttered the barest passable responses then before drifting off once more. He was sure he probably snored.

Lazarus yawned by the end. Ton gave him points for it; he hadn't sat through dozens of the same sort of meetings before. It took some time, getting that bored with it all.

"You didn't wake up when the bald guy asked about your marketing intentions with the suit," Lazarus informed him as they were leaving. "I told him he could shove his 'marketing intentions' right back up his ass."

"Not bad," Tony conceded. "I would have asked how his daughter was, too. I slept with her once, on his bed."

"I'll keep that in mind."

---

On day five, Lazarus called Pepper "Miss Potts" when asking for her to order breakfast from the place Tony likes.

He also asked for extra bacon, crispy, which was wrong, but Tony let it slide.

"'Miss Potts?' Really?" Tony asked, a smirk plastered across his face as he toyed with the latest potential upgrade to the suit. "You sound like a schoolboy, Kirk."

Lazarus looked confused for a moment, and Tony saw him piecing it together, the puzzle written across his face. He hoped— he was pretty sure— he was never that easy to read.

It wasn't a matter of formality, or lack thereof. Tony would call any schmuck by his best-known nickname and throw in a charming smile just to get what he needed, to stay on everyone's good side even when he was cutting wires behind their back. Orders, even the sort that seemed like polite requests, either got no name or formal names, because Tony knew when to square his shoulders to stroke an ego here and there, especially if it was menial work that wasn't really in the job description, but—

But it was different with Pepper. It was different with Rhodey, too, but it was especially different with Pepper.

It clicked, and Lazarus didn't say anything, he just smiled.

---

Jarvis recorded everything that went on in Tony's home. That was why he knew exactly what happened on the evening of the sixth day, and why he had to prepare himself for it when Lazarus descended the stairs into the lab, searching for him.

He didn't say anything, he just played the video, a high-quality capture of Pepper informing Lazarus of some inane detail of Tony's life, as she'd already gotten used to doing. And maybe if he hadn't been looking for it, hadn't seen Pepper's face before she left that night, he wouldn't have noticed it even if he had seen the video feed: Lazarus's hand on the small of her back, Pepper's eyebrows knitting together, the hand dropping just a little lower.

He let it stop there and then loop back. Lazarus knew what had happened after, anyway.

After a few minutes in which Lazarus looked neither surprised nor uncomfortable, Tony said, his voice even, "Do you really think I'm that fucking stupid?"

Lazarus didn't answer, didn't need to. No, he didn't. And now that it was pointed out to him, he knew where he'd gone wrong.

She's too important for that, Tony didn't say. It wouldn't happen again. He relaxed, felt his shoulders drop a bit, and turned back to his work.

---

On the seventh morning, Lazarus got to see the other half of the equation first hand. Tony didn't know it at the time; he hadn't given him access to anything through Jarvis, had told him he would need to figure it out himself if he wanted to have any kind of success in their time together.

So he fucked the girl into the bed, some model or other who might have been half-naked in some ad somewhere. He didn't really know her name, except that it started with a P. Or a B. It didn't matter either way, because he already had his dick in her and he didn't need to bother with trying to charm or impress her out of her dress anymore.

She moaned and writhed like she was in ecstasy, and that was why she was facing away, so she couldn't see the sort of bored look on his face. He wasn't really all that interested. He just wanted to get off.

Pepper kicked her out, as usual, and Tony went about his day and it was almost noon before he remembered that Lazarus was supposed to be around somewhere.

He found him with the scene on a screen in the basement, and Lazarus wasn't ashamed — of course he wasn't — as he pointed to a part of it.

"This, here— what did you do with your hand?"

Tony looked at the screen, and he could barely remembered, but— "Her ass. I was fingering her ass."

Something almost like fascination flew through Lazarus's eyes as he set the footage back to play, and Tony knew he was thinking, So this is what it's like to be screwed by Tony Stark.

---

On day nine, he let Lazarus see the arc reactor.

"You're acting like this is some kind of fucking religious experience," Tony said, feeling more exposed than he thought he would. Most people made their oohs and aahs about the arc reactor from a distance, even if they did lean in close enough to breathe all over it and fog it up. They didn't really go for the tactile experience.

"It kind of fucking is," and at that point it was getting kind of weird, the way his own voice was parroted back to him. "It's not like I'm going to have the real thing—"

A pause. Tony knew Lazarus was actually considering it, and he'd probably throw in the life-threatening shrapnel, too. But he wasn't quite that stupid.

"—so I've got to know what it's like," he finished, eventually.

Tony couldn't feel it at all from his side, knew that the fingers were stroking the entire thing but his nerves weren't there, didn't alert him to it except for the occasional brush against his skin when Lazarus touched the edge. Nonetheless, it was sort of hot; he'd always found the devoted attention of fetishists went straight to his cock, so long as it involved worshipping some part of his body— and, in his bed, it usually did. Lazarus wasn't so much different from one of those fetishists, even if he wasn't even close to any erogenous zones.

The edge of his hand brushed Tony's nipple, and he didn't let his breath hitch in his throat, forced himself to let it out, smooth as ever. After a moment more, he pushed Lazarus's hand away, buttoning up his shirt.

"That's enough of that. You're starting to look more like a moth than Tony Stark."

He wasn't sure if Lazarus had noticed his reaction; the man was too fined-tuned to his ever subtle gesture, he could have seen it even if he didn't let on that he had.

Sometimes he wondered if being such a smug bastard was worth it, and he wondered if maybe the whole Lazarus thing had really been a good idea after all.

---

One the eleventh day, Tony completed a fake arc reactor. It felt the same to the touch as his, and even though it consumed energy rather than creating it, it still gave off the same light. Best of all, it was lightweight and could be stuck to flesh as easily as a fake nose.

Lazarus put it on happily and looked to Tony like he was some kind of mirror.

His eyes were still too bright. It was a problem, because Tony couldn't keep his eyes away from them, even with the lure of his own fantastic work and a lot of bare flesh just within reach, since Lazarus had taken his shirt off for comparison.

Tony thought about having Pepper put in an order for contacts, then made Lazarus do it instead. Pepper couldn't tell the difference.

---

On day twelve, Lazarus said, "Call me Tony."

---

Sometime between the thirteenth and fourteenth day, when they tumbled home less drunk than they let everyone else believe, still riding the high of losing ten thousand on the craps tables — they'd been playing it easy, because Tony didn't want Lazarus getting too carried away with money he didn't really have — they collapsed on Tony's bed, and Tony didn't have the energy, he told himself, to push Lazarus away, to point him toward the guest bed he'd been using.

If he fell asleep, it was only for a moment, but he was pretty sure he had, because one moment he was closing his eyes on the edge of his massive bed, and the next he was blinking at Lazarus's face, trying to squirm away because the arc reactor was bumping against its fake twin, which sort of hurt, and maybe a little because his dick was about to dig into Lazarus's thigh and he didn't like throwing that sort of surprise so suddenly at anyone.

It was too late, though, because Lazarus's eyes were wide and a little confused, and he grabbed Tony's arms, keeping him steady.

"Wait," Lazarus said. "Wait."

So Tony waited, but he couldn't always be a patient man, and he wasn't exactly in the mood to stick around doing nothing while Lazarus tried to figure out his fucked up psyche. Whatever it said about him, he was horny as hell, and he ground down into Lazarus's thigh, driving that point home.

"You'd—?"

"Fuck myself?" Tony supplied, twisting out of Lazarus's grip and putting one hand on his chest, next to the imitation reactor, and another on his shoulder. "In a heartbeat."

Tony didn't even bother asking if Lazarus swung that way, because he knew it didn't matter, not for a fucking second. No whispers had ever really been made about his sexuality, but two weeks with the man had convinced Tony that he had not gone into Satan's Alley without preparing for it thoroughly, to an extent no one else Tony knew would ever go. It didn't matter any more what Kirk Lazarus might do; Tony Stark was all that mattered there.

Tony pulled the zipper on Lazarus's pants open, shoved his hand in and wrapped his fingers around his dick. It didn't feel exactly like his, and for a second that surprised him; it was bigger, thicker mostly. "Nice, Kirk," Tony said with a grin, even when his stroking produced no result — Lazarus was still soft. Not pushing, not protesting, but not interested.

Lazarus adjusted, let himself be stroked, and muttered, "Call me Tony."

That sent something jolting straight to Tony's dick. He groaned, rutting against Lazarus's thigh, and that was it. That was the key; Lazarus's eyes, darkened by contacts, met his instantly, and then he was writhing, his cock hardening, clutching at Tony like Tony clutched at him. They kissed, frantic and almost painful, and Tony was barely sure whose tongue was in whose mouth as they rolled, mindful of the bed's edge. It wasn't a fight for dominance or an argument about who would do what or who— when Tony found himself on his back in the middle of his bed, both wrists caught in one of Lazarus's hands, it wasn't surrender, it was just how things worked out.

Lazarus knew where the condoms and lube were, and Tony didn't stop to wonder if he'd found them before, while wandering around mostly unsupervised, or if he'd just guessed correctly; instead, he focused on getting his pants off, his shoes and socks, and then unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall open just enough to put the arc reactor on display. When Lazarus came back to hover over him, his shirt was gone but his pants were still on, hanging on his hips, and he pushed them down only just enough to let his cock free, rolling on the condom quickly before slicking up two fingers and pushing them in without preamble.

"Fuck," Tony whined, wrapping his legs around Lazarus's hips. "Tony."

Lazarus fucked him with his fingers, setting a hard and rough pace almost immediately, and Tony knew he was right about the Satan's Alley thing, because he knew exactly how to find his prostate and make it fantastic. He tried to thrust himself back on those fingers, but he was held down firmly, the one hand back around his wrists, chests pressed together so that the reactors almost bumped again.

Lazarus pulled out his two fingers, pushed in three, and Tony wasn't going to wait any longer. He thrust up, rubbed himself against Lazarus's erection as best he could, and the groan he got as a reward said that his best effort was definitely a good one. The fingers were gone, and an instant later Lazarus's cock was pressing against him, pushing in, and Tony almost kicked him to make him push in faster, but he saw the way Lazarus was breathing, the concentration in his eyes, and he trusted him, trusted that it would be good.

It was, though Tony would have thought of "good" as a terrible understatement. He let loose a string of curses, occasionally mixing in a hissed "yes" or grunted "God!" to shake things up, encouraging Lazarus to do the same, and hearing Lazarus — no, hearing himself get off was the most erotic thing he could dream of then, made it so good that after his hands were let go he wasn't sure who it was that jerked him off to his end, just that he saw nothing but the shining blue of the arc reactor when he closed his eyes and came. Lazarus gripped his hips, pulling him back into every thrust, and Tony went with him, pushing against him as best as he could, squeezing every muscle he could find the will to command at that point, until his other self came inside him.

---

The fourteenth day, for the most part, was sort of hazy after they woke up, dressed, and successfully evaded Pepper, taking care not to look like they'd been fucking. Tony smirked at his mirror image when she turned away, unsuspecting, and as soon as he could get her caught up on a call to some overseas corporation he intended to turn down anyway, they stole away to every semi-private corner of the house.

In the living room, Tony blew Lazarus off, then got to find out exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a Stark blowjob. He didn't usually swallow, but he did just that once, hoping Lazarus would, too. He didn't, spitting into his hand and smirking at Tony as he wiped it on his pants, letting him know he'd been caught.

In the guest bedroom Lazarus had stayed in, Tony tied Lazarus down with a belt around each wrist, riding him until he was thrashing helplessly and begging to come.

In the basement, Tony slid on parts of the armor and Lazarus blew him, or tried to until he was bent over a worktable and fucked, lost to the mercy of Iron Man.

They eventually wound up, towards midnight, back in Tony's room, and Lazarus found an almost-forgotten dildo which would not be forgotten again; he fucked Tony with it, bringing him to the edge and easing him back down again and again, watching his face intently, studying him before pushing him over, and he came so hard it sort of hurt. Then Lazarus straddled his hips, jerking himself off onto Tony's stomach, and the way he moved over his dick made Tony wish there was some way his body would allow him to get it up again, but he was exhausted, and five orgasms in twenty-four hours was nothing to be scoffed at.

He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around what he fondly thought of as almost-himself, fingertips tracing the smooth lines of the not-reactor.

---

In the morning, Lazarus was gone. Tony couldn't really hide his disappointment, and Pepper rolled her eyes when he whined about missing his own company.

"I'll just be happy when the world is back to having one Tony Stark," she said, not even looking at him, and that would have hurt if he didn't know she didn't mean it. Or that she did, but— well. It was Pepper. "You were really upsetting the— the balance of things."

"The balance?" Tony asked, raising his eyebrows. "Pepper. I didn't know you cared."

She didn't bother rolling her eyes that time; instead, she told him he had a meeting to be at in less than an hour, and everything went more or less back to normal.

---

Tony was invited, but he didn't make it to the movie premier. He liked hearing about the movie, but the thought of seeing himself on screen made him feel sort of sick and a little sad.

Nonetheless, he commended Kirk Lazarus for his excellent performance the next day and told one reporter that he never wanted anyone else to play him again.

Trust

2008-08-07T06:43:44Z

Title: Trust
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Trust leads to greater things. JD/Cox
Disclaimer: I do not own Scrubs or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country)... and I just totally forgot to post it here. Whoops. This might be motivated by the fact that it sucks ass, but there you have it. I admit it: at the time, I was just trying to write as much porn as possible, and I was struggling a lot with inspiration from the prompts; it wasn't that I didn't want to write them, but I couldn't think of a way to make them work (except, sometimes, if they were my own, but I wanted to fulfill someone else's porn wish, not just mine). Also, I think this wins in my own personal records as worst title ever, not for just being outright awful but because I wasn't even creative enough to come up with a twist on the prompt — I just used the prompt itself (which is repeated like a million times in the fic, because I suck).
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

JD trusted Dr. Cox. Perry. He trusted Perry. He figured he had the right to call him that.

"Perry," he moaned, clutching at Dr. Cox's back.

"Don't call me that," Cox grunted, his mouth brushing JD's shoulder and his fingers twisting inside him.

"Sorry."

JD trusted Dr. Cox, because how could he not? The man saved lives every day, whenever possible — he was a damned good doctor, and even if he couldn't take care of himself, he did a good job caring for other people.

Not caring emotionally, but physically. Yeah, that one.

Not that JD couldn't have done without the emotional caring, but given that he was mostly naked in Dr. Cox's bed and being thoroughly ravaged, he figured there was maybe a chance for that. Maybe.

He trusted Dr. Cox not to be blunt, honest, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt — others, of course, but he trusted him when he said Jordan was gone, possibly for good this time. Every time was possibly for good, really, but even if she did come back, maybe....

He trusted Dr. Cox to know what he was doing, even when he was pretty damn drunk and things had taken a sudden turn for the gay and JD had no idea how that worked, really, outside of the old insert tab A into slot B.

He trusted him, or else he wouldn't have been in his bed, making really embarrassing noises and, yeah, maybe he'd had a few too many Appletinis, too, but he was sure they wouldn't regret this. He trusted Dr. Cox to make sure he got through the day without falling apart.

The fingers were gone, replaced by a thicker, more blunt pressure, and JD close his eyes because ow.

But he trusted that it would get better.

"You shouldn't trust me, Newbie," Dr. Cox murmured into his ear, slurring a little. "I don't even trust me."

But someone needed to, and so JD did.

It got better, and JD wondered if maybe there was a better word than "trust" for what he felt towards Perry — Dr. Cox — but he couldn't think of it before his mind fell to pieces at the feel of Dr. Cox's cock — and if he giggled at that, it was a manly giggle — hitting his prostate.

JD closed his eyes, trusting that Dr. Cox would still be there when he opened them again.

Breaking Character

2008-08-07T06:35:23Z

Title: Breaking Character
Type: Real Person Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: PG
Summary: Heath acts like he just is.
Disclaimer: I do not own or know Jake Gyllenhaal or Heath Ledger. I do not own Brokeback Mountain or any films mentioned within this piece and have no connection to them. They are the property of the actors and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit or slander.
Notes: Uh, so, yeah. Not slash — or not intended to be slash, anyway, but people can see subtext in most things. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing and, um. Yes. I admit to feeling guilty for writing about a recently-dead actor, but... well. Not guilty enough to not post it, I guess.
Crosspost: none

Jake laughed, falling back against his chair. They were both shit-faced drunk and more or less on their own to get even worse. Normally Anne and maybe Michelle and some of the others — cast, crew, Ang even — might've joined them, but Anne was busy and Michelle wasn't around and someone had fucked some equipment up, which Ang was trying to get fixed, so they were making it a personal night.

Jake laughed a lot when it was just him and Heath and some beer, mostly because Heath always made these real strange faces once he got drunk enough. Then all sorts of characters came out of him, some he'd played in other films, some he hadn't. He would screw up his face and then his voice would change, his manner, but he'd break through all in smiles now and then, Heath breaking through, and say something dumb and out of character just to make Jake lose it.

He was Jacob Grimm just then, making up the most ridiculous and dirty fairy tale he could and recounting it to Jake like it was real life, his hands twitching like he wanted to make motions with them to help describe the raunchiest parts, but that would be too Heath, and he hadn't smiled yet. The way Jake laughed at it — sometimes at him, when drunkenness made his tongue too thick and he stumbled over his words or started to repeat himself too much — got his mouth twitching, begging to let him break character. His thumb jerked, and he slurred a little, fighting it.

"—and— and she turned around, and her— and she— fuck—"

Jake snorted, mouth full of beer, and a little spurted past his lips, spilling down the front of his shirt. Heath didn't miss it, and the smile cracked out, breaking into a full laugh that made Jake choke, struggling not to laugh with him.

When they calmed down, Heath was making faces again, and Jake just sat back, taking another sip and watching. He didn't watch much television out there; Canadian TV was terrible, and he got all the entertainment he needed without so much as pushing a button if Heath was drunk off his ass. He didn't take any prompts and he didn't need any motivation outside of a can in his hand; he just hiccuped his way through a few people he wasn't and then laughed with Jake.

Jake had tried it, once or twice, but it didn't come to him the same way. He couldn't concentrate on it right, twitched too much, laughed too easy; when he was drunk his muscles were too liquid for him to work up the will to act. He had to just be.

It seemed like it was just that easy for Heath, acting and being almost the same.

Heath worked his jaw, then furrowed his brow, and then his face loosened up and Jake knew, just from the way his lips were set and the look of his eyes, he was—

"Ennis!" he said, almost too loud, and he choked it back, hoping he hadn't broken the spell.

Heath slumped forward a bit, curling in a little on himself. Jake imagined him decked out all just like the cowboy, and he could almost see the hat pulled down, shadowing his eyes. He rubbed his hand against his jeans; he didn't like to admit it, but Heath acting as Ennis at times like that made him uncomfortable. It sometimes felt like he couldn't see Jake anymore, like he was so stuck as Ennis that he only saw Jack, his eyes burning into him even as he spoke in that even grumble, not loosening up until the smile broke out again.

Heath looked up at him, and he looked as shielded as if he did have the hat on, as if he and Jake had never laughed together. He held it for a moment too long; Jake considered leaving, ending the night right then. The space felt too cramped, and it seemed like his knee was almost touching Heath's, even though the bed and the chair were a few feet away from each other.

He shifted, and was trying to think of the best excuse to go when Heath spoke, finally. "This — it ain't gonna end well."

His lips curled into a smile, and before he recognized the bitterness Jake almost thought Heath was back again.

"Ain't gonna end well."

Strut

2008-08-04T16:25:12Z

Title: Strut
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The border worlds and the core worlds just aren't the same, but Jayne and Simon find a meeting point between them. Jayne/Simon
Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). This is the last thing I'll have time to write for it; I wish I could have written more, and that I could have spent more time on this piece, but it's finished now and I've finally written some Jayne/Simon, so... yay, I suppose.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

There were certain courting differences between the core planets and the border worlds; Jayne knew it before he ever so much as saw a person from the core, but he didn't really grasp the depth of those differences until the Tams came onboard.

The girl, she didn't really shake up his notions of what was and wasn't romance. She was too busy being crazy most of them time, and she didn't exactly get all dolled up just to sit around being crazy. Even if she had, Jayne was pretty sure the first sound out of her lips would have crushed any sort of sweet air there was about her. Plus, she scared him.

Simon, on the other hand — Simon didn't scare him, and when he came on board Jayne could've sword he was dong what he did to Kaylee on purpose, strutting about like a peacock with its tail-feathers out. For the first month or so he kept expecting to find out some horrible sex secrets the boy had, that he was some sort of male sub-Companaion or something of that sort. He looked like he was always ready for a fancy party or a wedding, at least.

It didn't register until later that that was just how Simon was, and that it was more or less normal in the core worlds. Everyone could look nice there every day without anyone batting an eye; it was like they spent their whole lives going from fancy party to fancy party. He couldn't even begin to imagine what their fancy parties were actually like — which was why he looked it up on the Cortex, videos of some gala or other that left him stunned at the pointlessness of it all. He couldn't figure out why so many people who looked so stuffy and sexless put all that effort into looking attractive.

Not that it was all attractive, really. Some of the get-ups the rich got into actually had Jayne almost howling in laughter. He just didn't get privileged folk.

The thing was, it explained and unexplained a lot. It explained, for example, just why Simon got all riled up when Kaylee mentioned sex, and why he didn't quite get along with the rim folk so well. They all figured he was showing off, and assumed his arrogance before he even got a chance to speak. Not that he wasn't an arrogant bastard at times — at least from Jayne's eyes, anyway. The others aboard Serenity seemed to think he was just awkward — which he was, no doubt about that, but he was also stuffy and too well-bred to fit in.

The things it unexplained were less pleasant, like why Jayne couldn't stop thinking about sex when he looked at Simon. Not sex with Simon, really, because he wasn't sly, but he didn't understand how anyone could look at those fine, clean shirts with all the buttons, the pants that looked like they were made of material soft to the touch, the combed hair that practically begged to be mussed — how could they look at that and not think about tearing it all off, messing it up, staining it and just undoing him until he really and truly looked like he was from the border worlds?

Not that Jayne imagined it. He couldn't really help the dreams he had, of course, so those didn't count. It wasn't fair to count the things he thought about when he wasn't really paying attention, either, and when he jerked off, if he thought of pretty lips that were just a bit familiar, well— they were just lips. Just fingers, just eyes.

Besides, there was Kaylee, and much as Jayne liked messing with the doctor he didn't really want to hurt her. She showed up in his dreams, too, and if she hadn't rejected him so often, before they even met Simon, he'd have thought of trying to take her, just to get Simon back for looking so damn much like he was just expecting to meet someone for sex right around the next corner all the time.

He was a gorram tease, really, the way he walked, the way he talked with that smooth voice, saying every word look it tasted like some kind of fresh, juicy fruit. Words weren't meant for that sort of thing; they were supposed to be short, to the point, just to get a message across, but no one ever seemed to notice when Simon wasted precious time with words that went on for too many seconds.

It was okay for Inara to act like that. Sex was her job, and not the way it was for a whore. She was supposed to walk, talk, and act like sex all the time, not just lay back and take it, and she did it so well that Jayne couldn't begrudge her for making him stiff when she walked into a room draped in something that didn't show any skin but brought to mind nothing but thoughts of her naked.

It wasn't okay for Simon. His job was to fix people up. He should've embodied — medicine. Something like that. Should've been unattractive, completely sterile, something that never made anyone think about sex.

It wasn't okay for him to strut around like that, with his feathers fanned out and advertising mating season, and then go and leave Kaylee wailing next to Serenity's engine.

Not that she wailed, really. She just sort of sniffled and didn't look anyone in the eye.

Jayne didn't get it at first, didn't understand what had made her go all glassy-eyed on them, until he heard her saying to Inara, "It weren't his fault, really. Simon's great, but I can't keep him with me 'gainst his will. He tried, and I appreciate that. I just wish I coulda been what he needed, you know?"

It wasn't okay for Simon to sex up Kaylee like some rutting inner planet Casanova and then drop her on unsteady feet. It was like a whore offering up the goods and then refusing, even when he paid.

And if Kaylee told him it wasn't his business, well, okay. He wouldn't go out of his way to find Simon and bash his brains in, but Serenity was only so big, and they'd have to run into each other at some point. He couldn't be held responsible for what came out of the heat of the moment, then.

He really didn't think Simon had any right to look so baffled when he pushed him against the wall, one hand on the center of his chest, and got in his face.

"Guaiguai long de dong!" Simon yelped, though he didn't struggle much, just letting himself be pinned.

"You ain't got no right to treat Kaylee that way," Jayne growled, leaning in close. "I don't care how it works back on Osiris — out here we don't act like sex on legs and then chase off all the pretty little things that come along."

Possibly that was not the best choice of words, but Simon didn't seem to notice. "I didn't chase her off. It was mutual."

"Then why's she the one snifflin' while you're just as arrogant and annoyin' as ever?"

Simon lifted his chin, not letting himself be stung by the accusation. "I show my regret differently," he said, and then half-laughed, like he couldn't believe he even had to defend himself. "It's not like she wanted to stick with me, anyway, once she found out..."

Jayne waited, but apparently Simon wasn't planning on finishing that sentence any time soon. "Found out what, doc?"

"I'm not interested in women," he spat. "I'm sly."

Jayne moved away quick, like his hand had been burned just by touching Simon.

"I didn't figure that would go over well," Simon said, sounding a little defeated. "I was trying to— trying to see if I couldn't work out a relationship with someone I liked anyway, even if she wasn't..."

He might've trailed off again, or it might've just been that Jayne was too far away then to hear the rest. He didn't run, but he moved quick.

The next week was spent more or less in avoidance, Jayne making every maneuver he could to stay a good few feet away from the doctor at least. When they did get close, a clothed arm brushing a side as they passed one another, Simon looked at him, expression had and unreadable, and Jayne had to do his best not to shiver.

His dreams were more full than ever of pretty lips spouting off words he didn't understand, long fingers stroking all the way down his body. It was frustrating as hell in the morning, and he refused to jerk off then if the eyes came in, because as soon as they did he heard "I'm sly" and it was almost as though he could feel those lips around his cock, still saying the words even while they blew him.

The thing was, Jayne didn't do avoidance well, and after Mal got shot later that week, with Simon running to get back to the ship and stitch him up, panting and looking disheveled, eyes wide, Jayne gave in.

"Sly, huh?" he said, lingering outside the infirmary. Simon's hands were just clean, Mal just around the corner, but he couldn't wait a second longer. "How's that work out, exactly?"

Simon gave him a look that very clearly said Jayne was still a man-ape thing gone wrong if he asked questions like that, but as he dried his hands he answered, "About the same as not being sly works for you, except there aren't quite as many male whores out here."

Jayne barely heard him, his eyes fixed on Simon's lips as they moved.

"Jayne?" It almost looked like Simon was blushing — no, he was blushing, blushing over being stared at.

It wasn't right that he could look all sexed out all the time and still blush when someone looked at him like he was the most delicious thing they'd seen in months.

Jayne stepped in, just through the doorway, and struggled to find the words he needed.

"Could you... show me?"

Simon stared for a moment, shocked, and then his eyes went just a bit dark and he nodded.

Sex, it seemed, was different in the core planets, too. On the border worlds it was all about reaching an end, flesh on flesh and touching and doing it quick, dirty, and simple. Jayne had never bothered much with experimenting with positions; the most variety in his sex life was the couple of times he paid a whore for a blowjob instead of just straight-out sex.

But the way Simon moved, sinuous and flowing as he stripped, climbed on top of Jayne's bed, on top of Jayne, stretched up to kiss around his mouth — but not on it — and lick at his neck, that told of something different. He seemed like he had all the time in the world for it, for sex, like he wasn't in any rush to get to the end. It was torture, plain and simple, and Jayne groaned when Simon dragged fingers lightly over his chest, now and then brushing a nipple, ignoring it when Jayne thrust up. He ground back sometimes, teasing Jayne's cock with his ass, but kept on just touching, moving above him, hair falling in his eyes and Jayne had been so, so wrong, because that was Simon looking like sex, and so much better than him rolled up into one of his starchy shirts or panting from running.

Breath played over Jayne's ear, and he turned his head into it. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Jayne wasn't much for talking during sex, so he just grunted, pushing his hips up again. Simon smiled, smiled in a way Jayne hadn't seen before — though he really wasn't sure if he'd seen Simon smile before at all — devious and God, those lips.

But those lips weren't touching him as Simon sat back, and Jayne almost didn't care, watching Simon slick his fingers up, push them in, fucking himself against his hand, and Jayne didn't really like to watch so much as do, but damn if it wasn't making his cock ache for the doctor, seeing him writhe like that.

And Simon was patient, too patient, and he had three fingers in before he was ready, lips parted and eyes almost closed, and then he drew them out, making a small, almost-disappointed noise, and then guiding Jayne in and—

God.

Jayne grabbed his hips, but mostly it was Simon doing the work, drawing himself up and pushing down and going fast, then slow when Jayne was close, then fast again. Jayne didn't whimper, but he might as well have, making it clear that he wanted to just keep going, to get to the end. Not that he was really complaining about having it drawn out, but he wasn't used to it, and it was driving him half-mad.

"Touch me," Simon said, stroking himself lightly for a moment before Jayne's hand tentatively pushed his aside, trying not to grip too hard, unsure. He wasn't used to it from that angle, not at all, and if there was one part of Simon he'd ignored in his fantasies it was that one, but it made Simon moan low, clenching certain muscles and going a little faster, like he didn't notice.

Jayne came first, his hand leaving Simon's dick to grip his thighs, holding himself down more than Simon as he thrust up through his orgasm. He was barely finished when Simon pulled off him, dropping one hand onto Jayne's bed by his shoulder, wrapping the other around his leaking dick again, pumping quick and rough — like it was on the border planets, like it should be—

Though Jayne's ideas about sex were starting to change, just a little.

Simon's lips were parted again, panting into his neck, and Jayne pushed him up just a little, ran a thumb over his bottom lip, and Simon came, eyes closing as he spurted across Jayne's stomach, shaking a bit.

They were like that just a moment, and then Simon got up and found a dirty shirt — Jayne's dirty shirt, of course — to wipe them off with. His expression was hard again, not quite as unreadable, though, and there was just a hint of a smile playing at those lips.

Jayne still wanted those lips.

"That was fun," Jayne said, and Simon rolled his eyes, but didn't have any comeback for that.

It didn't seem to change anything, not right away, except that when Jayne saw Simon elsewhere on the ship than in his bunk he wasn't so ashamed of why it made him think of sex, and when he jerked off he wanted to see more than just lips, hands, vague limbs.

Simon still strutted around like sex all the time, and Jayne made it his goal to pluck those peacock feathers from him one at a time and keep them for himself.

Vampire's Hypnosis

2008-08-04T03:15:19Z

Title: Vampire's Hypnosis
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Xander gets seduced the slow way. Spike/Xander
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). This is kinda-sorta set in the comics timeline, after season seven of Buffy and season five of Angel, but the Angel bit isn't quite as important. There's some comics stuff in here, mostly in where this is going on and what's generally happening, and also the mention of one major event that would be a spoiler for Wolves at the Gate: Part III, but it shouldn't be too hard to comprehend if you've seen the end of Buffy on television. So, yeah, definitely spoilers for the end of Buffy's run on TV, Wolves at the Gate: Part III and IV, and Angel's season five. And that probably eliminates half the potential readers, but surely someone is as obsessive as me, right?
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

It was not a simple seduction — not that Xander was exactly used to being seduced, except for that one time with the mantis, and he didn't really like thinking about that — and yet it was not particularly complex. That was why he didn't suspect a thing.

When Spike appeared, grumbling about some apocalypse they'd apparently missed out on, Xander had had to be the one to stop a handful of young and not-quite-battle-savvy Slayers from staking him, so he'd sort of figured it was gratitude at first; the lingering touches, the fixed staring when he hadn't been looking — it made sense, really. It was all very platonic-seeming, with the way Spike made jokes at his expense while it happened.

And for a while, that was all. Then Spike actively started tagging along with him. "No one else is eager to buddy up with a fangy beast," he explained.

"But you have a soul now," Xander said, like it would make a difference to the girls who only know vampires as enemies.

"That's what I told 'em."

And maybe that should have been a little more suspicious, but Xander was still reeling from Renee's — departure, and he hadn't mentioned it to Spike, but maybe he could— sense it, or smell it, or something. At the time, the idea of Spike smelling any part of him would have been pretty unappealing, but he was mourning and lonely and Spike was a distraction. Not always a happy distraction, especially when he was threatening to eat Andrew if the kid spouted off one more geeky reference, but a distraction nonetheless.

And then Spike started being nice, and that was completely new but it didn't shock Xander as much as it should have, because a lot of stuff was new and he had to stay on his toes and, well, there was the matter of the soul. He suspected Spike thought he was making up for something by helping him get away from the girls when he needed to, by buying him a drink now and then.

He suspected wrong.

And so it was like hypnosis, the way he was subtly dragged under the current, drifting away but so comfortable, like he'd never left the safety of his bed.

Except he had, because he remembered that Spike had invited him to his room for a drink, and there weren't a lot of places to be alone around there but none of the Slayers were particularly interested in rooming with an undead guy.

Well, some of them were, but that, Buffy explained, was exactly why it was a good idea for them not to get to room with him.

Normally they would have gone out for a drink, even if it was a bit of a trek to the nearest pubs and bars, but Spike had complained about feeling tired, and Xander agreed to stay in just to avoid the whining. Normally Spike's room was cold and drafty, just the way he liked it, but it felt warmer that night. Normally there were some sucked-dry packets of pig's blood or mugs with red rings in them, but everything was neat and tidy.

Normally Spike wore clothes — like, some clothes, any clothes — but, well.

Xander found that he didn't mind as much as he would have a few years before.

Spike moved like liquid, like with eternal youth he'd learned how to roll his joints so that they seemed to flow with the air. He walked up to Xander, but the only parts of them that touched were their shoulders and Spike leaned around him, sliding the lock into place.

"Wouldn't want any of the girls to walk in on something they're too young for, would we?" he murmured, his voice soft and low in Xander's ear.

They had drinks, but by the time Spike finished downing his first beer Xander had more than half of his left. He'd never thought getting sloshed took any kind of concentration — that seemed to defeat the purpose, anyway — but he just couldn't find the focus to lift his arm and bring the bottle to his lips. His eyes were fixed on Spike's body, relaxed and unassuming, and he asked, suddenly, "What is this?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Drinking," he said, holding out his empty bottle in something like a salute.

"I don't—" But he realized that talking wasn't going to get him anywhere, and so he started to impatiently undress, tugging his shirt off. He cast a quick glance at Spike, trying to make sure, just make absolutely sure that he didn't have it wrong, and although Spike hadn't moved much he was definitely interested, a smirk on his lips and his hand on his—

Come on, Xander, if you're going to have gay sex, you're going to have to at least think the word—

—penis, dick, cock, little Spike, one-eyed buddy, his fleshy stake— Xander stopped thinking of euphemisms because he didn't want to blush too much while he stripped his pants off.

There was an awkward moment, when Xander didn't know what to do, sitting across from Spike, both naked. He hadn't put much thought into it.

Then Spike sort of crawled toward him, bite his shoulder — "Hey!" — and wrapped his hand around his dick.

They didn't kiss. Xander was afraid of Spike's fangs, sort of, but he was also afraid of putting more meaning to the sex than than the vampire meant for there to be. He wouldn't kiss Spike unless he was kissed first, and Spike seemed fine with that.

It was weird, really. Weird, but not terrible, just— weird. A lot of stuff happened to his ass, first with Spike's palm and teeth (oh, God — Anya had done spanking, but not biting — not on his ass, anyway), then his tongue (Anya had never done that to him— no one had), then his fingers (or that, except— well, but that didn't count), and then his—

"Cock," Xander choked, and Spike looked down at him like he'd just gone mental all of a sudden.

"Yes, that would be what that is," Spike said, and then pushed all the way in.

So it was weird, but only at first, and then it was really good.

Xander was familiar with his prostate in the same way he was familiar with his gall bladder. He knew it did stuff, had had to answer something about it on a test in high school, and occasionally when he got around to seeing a doctor it came up, but he'd never been intimately familiar with it. When Spike gave Xander and his prostate a proper introduction, he was pretty sure it was love at first sight, and that he would never neglect such a friendly part of his body again.

He came in Spike's hand and tried not to groan when he licked it off, coming inside him just a moment later.

And, okay, that was weird, too, but the part in the middle was good enough for him to forgive the weirdness, and to want to do it again. So they did.

It became something of a regular habit; they went out to drink sometimes, and then some nights Spike would suggest they stay in instead. Then it happened in the bathroom one morning, and once when everyone else was eating lunch, and then against the wall of a castle when they were supposed to be looking for a demon, and then Xander stopped keeping track, because he figured that was pretty much the point of no return, anyway, if the sex itself hadn't been.

And then one night, when they were naked and sweaty and a little bloody and Xander's eyepatch was somewhere on the floor and he was trying to keep the scar out of sight, Spike kissed him.

At that point, Xander considered himself thoroughly seduced.

Home

2008-08-04T03:09:35Z

Title: Home
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jack takes Ennis somewhere special. Jack/Ennis
Disclaimer: I do not own Brokeback Mountain or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Annie Proulx and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). This is sort of a painfully obvious story, and it almost feels wrong to write about Brokeback Mountain this way at all, but then it also feels right. I'm no Annie Proulx, though, so, yeah. In that way it seems wrong.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

There was one time, when they were on one of their so-called fishing trips, that he brought Ennis to a cabin.

It was small-sized, just big enough to live in comfortably enough. About as big as Ennis's house when he'd been with his wife, so he figured he'd have no problem with it in that respect. It was on the edge of the woods, just hidden in the trees, right edging up to a mountainside.

It wasn't Brokeback, but it wasn't a bad mountain by any means. The grass was green and long and it would've been perfect for sheep, or cattle, or any sort of grass-eating livestock.

The lines of the property weren't marked, just the corners indicated each with a post you had to look for actively to find. It wasn't so big that there couldn't be a fence, though, if one was needed. It'd take time and sweat, but it wasn't anywhere near impossible.

He showed him the kitchen, cooked beans and smiled when Ennis laughed; he said it was the first time he'd had any since— since. He didn't say much more.

Jack tried to picture the place lived-in properly: a dog lying against the wall, uncollared and work-rough but loyal. Maybe some more furniture, but nothing real fancy, just wooden and function like what was already there, sparse though it was. Proper food in the kitchen, clothes in the wardrobe, and the bed all covered.

But they just had beans and some other travel-food. The clothes they took with them, mostly just what they wore to the cabin, were the only clothes in the place. Most importantly, the bed wasn't covered, so he took Ennis out just beyond the trees, in the long, green grass, and he stripped them both — Ennis let him, with that amused, indulgent look on his face. He licked up Ennis's thigh, then his other, then teased his cock, half-hard, lightly with his tongue, his lips.

Ennis frowned, and Jack was just glad the amused look was gone when he got pushed into the grass and the dirt, bits of rocks and wilderness scratching at his back. Ennis knelt down, hooked his leg over an elbow, and without much more than spit to slick him up — like most of the time, like back on Brokeback for the first time — he pushed in, groaning all the way.

Jack used to wince at first, to close his eyes and grind his teeth until the pain melted away, but he'd gotten used to it, started to love it, and he could keep his eyes open for one of their rare times face-to-face, watching the sweat bead on Ennis's brow, his teeth catching the inside of his cheek as he concentrating on thrusting just right. He'd figured out, over the years, how to make Jack wail, but it was different at that angle, when he could see Jack's own cock bobbing against him, and he had to stop a few times, readjust, before he got it.

For a moment, it was perfect. Jack pretended it was perfect.

Later, long after they washed up and made bunks on the floor of the cabin, after Ennis left, Jack drove back to another cabin, handed an old man back his deed.

"Didn't work out," he said, and if the man suspected something wrong, which Jack was sure he didn't, he didn't say, just grimaced and complained about having to find another buyer before giving him the money back.

He went on back to Texas and Lureen never suspected a thing either, never even came close to guessing how close Jack had finally gotten to home.

Money, Money, Money

2008-07-31T07:28:47Z

Title: Money, Money, Money
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot, Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tony Stark wants Bruce Wayne because no one else is getting him. Tony/Bruce
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, The Dark Knight, or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). And here be more pimpin' of tonyxall, yaaarrr. I didn't really picture myself writing this pairing at first, but I was getting frustrated with my lack of pornish inspiration, and as I scrolled through the prompts over and over, this finally caught my eye, and I said, "That'll do, pig. That'll do." Except, you know, not. Currently I'm proud of this one, but I betcha come morning I'll hate it! Whoo! But damn, I was so close to getting this short enough for a comment. I only went over by a thousand and a half characters! Boo.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

All the money in the world couldn't buy him a night with Bruce Wayne, and that was why he wanted it so much.

Tony had heard that Wayne hadn't fucked his Russian ballerina — heard it when he was fucking her himself, making her moan his name. After it was over, when she was too close, stroking his chest, circling the arc reactor, she said, "That's why I like you, Mr. Stark. You give me the pleasure I want. Mr. Wayne withholds too much."

He asked around, found any girl he could that Bruce had been with in the year before. With a little money to pry open their lips, they all told the same truth: Bruce would not touch them, sent them home before bed, sometimes with a gift and sometimes not. From all he could tell, Bruce Wayne had not seen a naked woman in more than twelve months.

So it wasn't because he thought Wayne to be horribly attractive or irresistibly intense. He was attracted to some men, sure, but he'd met Wayne before and thought he was more boring than the ballerina. He'd seemed like a mindless playboy, one of the rich boys who toyed around with business but didn't have the brains to back it up like Tony did.

It was the conquest. He didn't even know if Bruce would go for men; from all accounts, he seemed to be the straight, one-woman-a-night bachelor type, but those same tales had missed the part where he didn't sleep with them. Maybe it was a shield. Even if it wasn't, he promised to make sure Tony Stark was the exception to Bruce Wayne's rule.

Tony Stark's method for life and just about everything was to start big and work backward, but it still surprised him that he didn't even need to try for subtle. A little innuendo, a waggle of his brows, a lick of his fingers and they were away from Bruce's latest party, an altogether astoundingly boring event that only promised to get better with Bruce's dick inside him, feeling like it was splitting him in two because it had been too long, far too long since Tony had been in that position for him to be fucked with so little preparation, but once they got into it Bruce was impatient and Tony never minded a little pain.

He moaned into the blankets, unashamed, pushing back towards Bruce. He wiggled his hips a little once they were flush against each other. "Move," he demanded petulantly, thrusting back.

"I don't want to—"

"Move!" Tony demanded again, wishing, for a moment, that he was on his back so that he could grab Bruce, force him to move faster. Luckily, Bruce didn't deny him a second time.

As it turned out, Bruce seemed to have a lot of pent-up tension, and Tony had no complaints about being pounded into the mattress, as he would later say, "like a cheap whore." He preferred it, in fact, when he wasn't the one on top, and as his arms gave way, leaving only his ass suspended above the bed, the head of his own dick barely brushing its surface, he let Bruce know just how much he preferred it.

"Oh fuck, oh yes," he groaned, his voice muffled in the blankets. "Harder."

Bruce's hands grasped his hips tight, pulling him in every time his hips snapped forward, and so Tony took it upon himself to wrap his fingers around his hard dick, pumping in counterpoint to Bruce's thrusts, getting pleasure from his prostate as he moved back, his hand as he moved forward. His other hand gripped the blankets, his teeth clenched together. He came before Bruce, his muscles turning to liquid as the other man finished, groaning low and wicked, his first noise since that second thrust in.

Tony felt like every part of his body was sore as he put his suit back on; even his fingers felt clumsy, like every muscle in them was just as well-fucked as the rest of him. As he fumbled with his tie, he asked, "So Natascha was just a beard?"

"What?" Bruce asked, startled. His pants were only half-on. He'd given up trying to clean the semen off the bed, leaving it for his butler instead.

"Natascha— the ballerina."

"No, I know who— 'Beard?'" Bruce asked, like he honestly didn't know.

Tony rolled his eyes. "You didn't sleep with her. Don't tell me you're not gay after that."

Bruce looked back to the bed, like there was some clue to his sexuality there besides the wet spot and the fact that they'd just fucked. "I don't usually sleep with men."

Tony grinned and looked at himself in the mirror. Only Pepper and maybe Rhodey would have been able to tell he'd just had mind-blowing sex. No one at the party would suspect a thing— not from him, anyway, though Bruce looked like he'd been through a sex hurricane. "So, what? I'm special? I'll bet you say that to all the pretty young boys you bring to bed."

"Not really." Bruce was still yanking up his pants, like he didn't know how to work them. Maybe his butler dressed him every morning. "It's just— been a long time."

"No shit." Tony felt his thighs burn as he crossed the room to Bruce, pushing the other man's hands away and zipping him up. "But that's been your choice."

Bruce eyed him, warily. He'd given up too much. He shrugged it off after a moment, though, fixing up his shirt and tie so he looked a tiny bit less like he'd been completely ravished. "They want money. Fame. To say they got to have sex with Bruce Wayne. I don't really think that's your modus operandi."

"Aw," Tony teased as they made their way down the hall and back to the party. "So you're really a romantic at heart."

Bruce blushed, just slightly, and disappeared into the crowd to mingle.

Later that night, some time after the champagne was served, the party heard that Batman was on his way to foil an attempt on the life of the mayor — again. Tony didn't care, laughing as the drink bubbled up to his brain; he'd gotten to fuck Bruce Wayne. Batman had nothing on him.

Dealings

2008-07-30T06:05:13Z

Title: Dealings
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Simon gets stuck with Badger. It's not as bad as he expects. Badger/Simon
Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). This prompt might have been my own, actually, and— I don't know what's wrong with me. See, Simon/Jayne is my favorite Firefly pairing, by far, but look at me! I write three other pairings and I can't write Simon/Jayne! Clearly I am not getting enough awesome in my diet, or something. Also, this is sort of a stupidly plotless bit of smut, moreso than my other stupidly plotless bits of smut, but I like sexy, sensual Simon who knows he's sexy and sensual. Mmph. Even though he sort of doesn't, really, so I guess I kind of suck... but still.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Simon didn't like being used as a bartering tool. Mal knew it, Zoe knew it, they all knew it — but it didn't stop them from leaving him in Badger's clutches and racing off with their goods. They had to prove that they could not fuck up for once, Mal had said, until they could get back on Badger's good side, because as much as they all hated him, they needed him. He promised it was temporary, that they would do this job right and come back with what they were supposed to.

Simon wasn't sure he believed him, after all the problems those who hated Badger had caused them the last several times they'd taken a job from him, but there he was, sitting in some sort of makeshift dining room, and God, he hadn't been so uncomfortable in years. He hoped Mal could somehow cut their several-days down to... well, nothing. He wanted gone.

It was weird, really, the way it had gone about. When they'd asked about leaving a deposit, Badger hadn't wasted a second before pointing to him, saying he could accept no other security but the doctor. Simon had thought maybe he needed something looked at, or some poor slave "fixed" somehow, but it had turned out more like a date, with dinner and cheap, watery wine and Badger giving him looks that made him squirm.

He thought he recognized him, maybe, but— he'd never pegged Badger for sly. He'd tried not to think about Badger at all, really, but when he had to, he thought of him as some lowlife with a Napoleon complex and probably a huge urge to compensate for something while showing off his manliness by taking women who wanted nothing to do with him.

Instead, he'd chosen to take a doctor who wanted nothing to do with him.

"You know," Badger said abruptly, "you're prettier'n any Companion I've seen 'round here."

Simon had the feeling Badger hadn't seen many Companions at all, but he blushed anyway. He cleared his throat and asked, "Is there anything in particular you wanted me here for?"

Not a minute later, Badger's mouth was on his cock, hungry and taking more than Simon had expected he'd be able to, and God, he was great at sucking cock. He closed his eyes, and it wasn't the terrible wine that made his brain go fuzzy. He breathed deeply, leaving his hands on the table, parting his legs just a little more.

When he was done, he looked down, wondering how much he was expected to do in return. He figured he could stand a handjob easy enough, maybe even give sucking cock himself a go, but Badger's hand was already sticky with come, which he wiped off on a handkerchief, licking Simon's off his lips.

Simon was barely dressed at all those next few days, his body worshipped, touched and kissed all over. He was never expected to reciprocate, for which he was at first immensely glad, though near the end he thought about it, just to get Badger's eyes a little wider, make his mouth go a little dryer with want. Badger was never naked, never asked for him to do anything. It was heavenly.

When Mal and the others arrived, surprisingly enough with everything they'd promised, they were surprised to see Simon so cool and pleasant rather than high-strung or — well, dead. Simon just grinned.

"You could stay here, you know," Badger said, his voice low. "I've got quite a bit of respect here. It wouldn't be all that bad."

Simon wasn't an idiot, and so he refused, but he made it polite. "Maybe we'll strike up another deal sometime soon."

He boarded Serenity, and didn't need to look back to know Badger was aroused, and that he would fantasize about it until they met again.

The Link

2008-07-30T05:07:27Z

Title: The Link
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ray isn't out of place with John and Mary. Ray/John
Disclaimer: I do not own Hancock or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). The prompt was "belonging," which I made overly obvious use of, but hey, I had planned to use an idea like this anyway. I thought I'd make it something longer and more complex (and about more than just the sex), but... well, maybe I still will. And once again, this whole thing got away from me and I swear I tried to keep it short, but it just didn't work. I'm sorry.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Mary had told him, mentioned in passing, that they — she, Hancock, the others — had often had one human, one mortal who was called to them, who wanted to please them more than the rest, who they appointed, in one way or another, to help them, to be the buffer between them and the other mortals. There would be one per pair; after the others died out, there was only one in every generation, and they were harder to find when they weren't flaunting their powers. She might have glossed over some details; her eyes told him that she wasn't saying everything.

She told him before she left, before she told him the rest — that she couldn't handle being his hero, that she didn't want to be a burden, that she couldn't stay still, that she wasn't like Hancock. She went to Austria first, he knew, but she slipped away after that, and he lost her. Aaron cried for a month.

It made it easier, all of it, for Ray to understand some things. He didn't even think about it when he got on the plane, with Aaron safe at an aunt's house. He didn't think about it when he arrived in the city, or through his meeting with another board of directors that had little interest in All-Heart. He didn't think about it at all until he was there, just outside Hancock's apartment, and knocking.

He wondered, just for a moment, what he was doing there, but when Hancock opened the door and just looked at him, he knew.

He walked in, and when John closed the door and turned to him, loomed over him — he wasn't that much taller, but knowing the kind of power in those hands automatically made him seem like a giant — he let out a shaky breath.

"What are you doing here, Ray?"

He didn't tell him that Mary left. He didn't tell him that he felt lost, alone, helpless all over again, worse this time than when his first wife had died. He didn't tell him what Mary had said. He just said, "I'm here for you."

Three slow, determined steps and he was in John's arms, one boulder-crushing palm cupping his head, the other at his waist. The kiss was sloppy, uncoordinated. They were nervous; Ray had never been with a man before, and although Hancock had, he didn't remember it. He had fought that part of himself, didn't understand it.

It made perfect sense then, finally.

They didn't make it to John's bedroom, but his living room couch was nice enough; New York City was providing well for him, allowing him a penthouse and more than enough to live on so long as he protected them with minimal collateral damage. The couch was, actually, fantastic, or so Ray thought when he was laying back on it, the fingers of one hand pressed deep into its plushness. His other hand clutched at John's naked back, wanting to be closer, closer. His shirt was still on and he was sucking on John's tongue, and there were fingers in his ass, two — no, three.

He didn't think about Mary at all.

The fingers withdrew, and John pulled back a moment, positioning himself, and Ray made a noise he knew he'd be embarrassed about later, the hand on John's back pressing, pulling, wanting them closer again. He knew what was coming, knew the basic mechanics of it, but every second of it was so good he almost didn't want the next second to come.

They didn't think about condoms, because they weren't part of it, weren't involved in the equation of John plus Ray. They hadn't planned it, of course, and Ray had no idea what the slick, cool liquid on John's fingers and, oh God, on his dick, the head pressing against his hole — he didn't know what it was, but it worked and he trusted John, maybe more than he should have, but he couldn't help it.

Before John pressed in, something flared up inside Ray, a new feeling he'd never had before. It wasn't physical, but it was real and raw and an absolutely undeniable force, and it made sense that John inspired it in him.

It was belonging.

John pushed in, slow, and when he was pressed against Ray's ass, he said, "Shit."

Ray couldn't find words of his own, his mouth open in a silent exclamation, but he figured John had summed it up pretty well.

They probably should have waited, Ray realized, because it burned and hurt and he wasn't sure the human body was supposed to stretch right there like that, but he moved, rocked, and had no problem with it when John pulled out, pushed back in. It still hurt, but it was so good, and his leg was over John's shoulder, flexed up in a way it wasn't used to moving anymore, but he didn't care.

It went quick, that first time, and it was just as messy and rough as that first kiss, but they didn't care about their experience. When John's cock brushed Ray's prostate, he groaned John's name, come hitting both of their stomachs. He kissed John again, bit his lip, and John was coming, too, inside him, and it felt strange, unfamiliar, but still so right.

He was sore when his pants were back on two hours later, John gone somewhere, saving another helpless innocent. He had a drink, sitting on the same spot on the couch where John had fucked him, and he thought about Mary. It still didn't seem wrong.

It didn't matter that he wasn't immortal, that he would die and Aaron would grow old while John and Mary remained in the perfect, youthful bodies. It didn't matter, because he was where he needed to be, had helped Mary in the way she needed it, would help John in any way he could. He was their liaison, their touching point to Earth and to humans and to maybe being a little less miserable about being apart. Even as they longed for each other, even as he longed for one or the other when he couldn't reach out to them, it was okay. He belonged to them, with them.

He smiled when he heard John land on the roof above. The night was still young, and he didn't intend to be alone for any more of it.

She Won't Be in His Bunk

2008-07-29T20:59:19Z

Title: She Won't Be in His Bunk
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She just needs it, just once. Jayne/Zoe
Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for oxoniensis's original Porn Battle VI (The Undiscovered Country). And yes! I wrote het sex! Kind of not-real-intense het sex, unsurprisingly, but I kept scouring the prompts and nothing was really hitting me until I noticed this one, because I'd thought about it before, about writing a fic sort of like this (though less intense on the sex and more with the angst). Surprisingly (to me), this seems to be better-liked than most of my other porn. It could just be the greater popularity of het (though I wouldn't have expected that at the PB, I'll admit), or it could be that I just am worse at writing gay sex than I thought. XD
Also, SPOILERS in a big way for Serenity (the Big Damn Movie, that is).
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

She knew, before it was over, that it would never happen again.

Jayne fucked like a dog, desperate for the end and panting and just going at it without any tenderness or feeling. It was what Zoe needed, actually, why she was on top of him, squirming for release, her fingers clawing into his side.

She didn't deny who it was. She didn't pretend that it was somehow Wash, that her husband could have been so disinterested in her face, in hearing her laugh even when he made her come. She knew who it was she was fucking, the broad shoulders, the unpleasantly prickly facial hair that she only brushed against once, accidentally.

They didn't kiss on the mouth, of course. Jayne had rules and Zoe didn't want him to think it meant something more than that just this once, she needed a body without much of a mind in it.

She'd thought, very briefly, about Mal. It made her shiver unpleasantly; she couldn't even imagine him naked in any sort of sexual way. She'd seen him naked, sure, but it had been a nakedness of necessity, and—

She groaned, surprised that Jayne had lasted so long already. She hadn't expected much of him, really, but his cock was still hard, still sliding in and out.

She'd thought of Simon, too. It was too much to ask of him, and besides, he was with Kaylee. It would have been nice, though.

Jayne tried to roll them over, but she kept her legs locked, her body up, staying in control. This was her fuck; he was just there to keep her happy, and getting off as a sort of side-effect.

She'd even considered Inara, but she didn't exactly like the idea of the Companion taking her meager payment out of pity. She might've been rejected before even that, since Inara wouldn't even do business with the captain if he had a fortune. She didn't want to come between them, anyway.

Jayne pushed up into her once, twice more, and he was spent; he'd done better than she'd thought he would, but she was still hadn't come. She slid off of his body and onto the bed — his bed, of course, she'd never have let him into her bed, Wash's bed — and trailed a hand downward, but he batted it away, pressing his fingers into her, showing more expertise than he had in the straight-out fucking, teasing her clit in just the right way—

She closed her eyes, and would have sworn, just for a second, that Wash was there.

Zoe was dressed and on her way out of Jayne's bunk in less than five minutes; he was still on the bed, laying languid in the wet spot, uncaring and naked. Before she could step out, he called to her.

"I don't guess we'll be doing that again, huh."

She stopped, not looking at him. Sometimes, Jayne seemed smarter than he looked. She had expected crudeness, unthinking remarks that left her with regret.

Sometimes she forgot Jayne was a human with emotions, just like her.

"Not in this lifetime," she said, and it was a promise.

She heard a rustle, but Jayne didn't get up. "Well, it was fun, anyway."

She left, and dreamt that night of Wash and the children they would never have. She did not dream of Jayne, and she did not return to his bunk.

Eden

2008-07-29T05:39:04Z

Title: Eden
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot, Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tony Stark has a mission to bring the Hulk into the fold. Of course, he's not about to do it the conventional way. Tony/Bruce
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written (sort of late) for the cerebel_fics Porn Battle or SEKRIT CABAL PORN BATTLE (version 3.0). The prompt was "incentives," but I also sort of tried to use "seduction," "tempting," "flirtatious," and "desperate," thus the title. Yes, I do realize it either implies something terrible (fucking Tony is like eating the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge? Must've been one fucking awesome apple) and has little to do with the fic itself, but that's the title I started with and I couldn't bring myself to change it. I suck at titles. Also, in case it's not clear, I love slutty!Tony. That's why I am now (badly) pimping tonyxall, where Tony's sluttiness is celebrated like Christmas. Sexy Christmas.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

They decided it was up to Tony to bring Bruce Banner into their ranks — "they" being everyone who wasn't Tony himself, of course.

Tony, in turn, decided to do it in the way that would piss them off the most.

There were no lawyers, no contracts, no business cards. Tony left the suit at home and told Pepper to take the day ("well, the later half of the day— maybe. After everything's, you know, finished") off. He didn't bring his sunglasses.

Regardless, Bruce looked on-edge, less like a frightened animal and more like someone who wasn't sure if he was having his last meal before death or freedom. He wouldn't say a word before the waiter came to their table, and Tony cut him off then, because he was pretty sure he was going to do something stupid like order the least expensive item on the menu; they were all ridiculous prices anyway, and it wasn't like another order of filet mignon would put a dent in Tony's fortune. He desperately wanted to order scotch to go with it, but it just didn't fit in with his plan, so he reluctantly refused anything stronger than soda. The waiter — who knew him well enough to be confused by the lack of breasts on Bruce — just gave him a sad look and nodded grimly.

Conversation was light throughout their dinner. Bruce's eyes kept looking at everyone else, at first, as though they might somehow know he was the Hulk or, you know, care. Tony's eyes never left Bruce. It probably added to Bruce's nervousness, but it was the direction he needed to go in.

Well, wanted to. If he was going just on what he needed he probably would have strapped Bruce to a table in a lab and made vague threats until he agreed to join. Or something. Although that sounded kind of evil and more than a little kinky.

Bruce barely touched his steak, but Tony didn't waste his; he savored every bite, putting more into his reactions than he would have in other company. He let his tongue curl around each bite before he closed his mouth, left the fork between his lips just a fraction of a second too long. Eventually, he managed to get Bruce's eyes back on him — on his lips. He smirked.

When he finished, Bruce's eyes finally came up to meet his, and the other man blushed, caught.

"So," Tony said, as casual as if he were discussing the weather, "the Avengers Initiative."

Bruce tensed. "I— I don't think I can help you. I've only just barely managed to control—" He stopped, looking around them again.

That just wouldn't do. Tony stood up, dropping a wad of bills on the table double the meal's worth. "All right. No Avengers, then. Can't say I didn't try."

Bruce stared, dumbfounded, like he couldn't believe it was that easy. Tony suspected he'd already had a run-in or two with a SHIELD member.

"I assume you have some place around here to stay?" He knew full well that Bruce was out of cash and didn't know anyone in the area.

"Not exactly," Bruce admitted, but he didn't look as embarrassed as he might have. It wasn't as though he had never been in that position before, anyway.

Tony made a "hm" noise in the back of his throat, as though he didn't care all that much. "I have a couple of extra rooms. You could stay for a night or two."

"I wouldn't want to—"

"Oh, you would." Tony nodded toward the door, and when Bruce stood he put a hand on the small of his back. "The guest rooms in my house — hell, my mansion — they're better than the most expensive hotel you've ever been in. Not that that's saying much, I'm sure, but really. Have you ever slept on silk sheets?"

In Tony's car — in Tony's impressive, sleek, sexy car, one that he drove himself because it wasn't really about flaunting his cash and status (even if that was fun) and because he just liked to — his bragging finally came to a stop when he noticed Bruce was looking out the window, probably tuning him out.

He cleared his throat. "So. I hear you have someone waiting for you when you get rid of the big green guy."

Bruce didn't look at him. "She's not waiting anymore."

Perfect. "Sorry to hear that. Well, no, I'm not. I've never been real interested in the types who wait. They turn into the types who stalk and the types who want two point five kids. You're better off free."

He didn't look, but he could almost feel Bruce's eyes on him, probably with a look somewhere between pity and annoyance. Or well-contained anger.

"So why'd she give up on you? Lack of progress, found a new man?"

Bruce sounded sort of tired when he answered. A lot of people sounded sort of tired after being around Tony for a few hours, though. "I told her to."

"Again, can't say I blame you." It would work in his favor, anyway. "Why, though?"

"I didn't want her to have to wait forever for something she might never get." Tony was starting to get the feeling that Bruce wasn't exactly the most cheerful person. "Plus, sex... isn't exactly an option for me."

What? Fuck. "Not an option? Sex is an option for anyone with a dick, Banner."

"Not if you turn into a rampaging green giant when your heart rate goes up."

"Hey, some women would probably like that." And men. He didn't say that, though; that would wait until his bedroom was within walking distance. "And what kind of freaky shit are you into that your heart rate goes up that much?"

Bruce shrugged. He looked sort of pathetic and pretty embarrassed. Tony tried to care.

"Look," Tony said, by way of apology, as his home came into view, "if you're about to go all Grinched out when you start the heavy petting, you're probably thinking about it too much."

Bruce didn't respond.

Jarvis greeted them as warmly as a house-wide AI could, apparently putting in some effort to make the obviously on-edge Bruce at ease. It worked, a little. If nothing else, he looked curious.

"You designed it yourself?" he asked, as though he couldn't believe someone like Tony was smart enough to develop anything of the sort. Tony wasn't entirely surprised; it wasn't as though there had never been rumors about others doing his homework for him. Most of the other geniuses he knew were sort of shy, anyway.

Still, though. He was fucking Iron Man, for God's sake — was it really that hard to believe he was smarter than the average billionaire playboy? "I've got this suit to show you, too. It's all shiny and red. I had my secretary make it for me out of glue and sticks."

Bruce muttered something like an apology. Or it sounded like one, anyway — sort of.

Right. Well. They were in his home, the bedroom was a mere stumble away, and Tony Stark was horny. Time to get to it. "Ever fucked a man?"

If Bruce had been drinking something, it would have been sprayed down the front of Tony's shirt then. As it was, he just stared, his mouth open slightly.

Tony shrugged. "Just making conversation."

Bruce didn't answer him, still staring.

Tony sat down on the couch, longing for a drink. It was sex or drinking, and if Bruce kept staring at him like he was the one who turned into the Jolly Green Giant with 'roid rage every time he got a bit unhappy, he at least deserved something that burned on the way down.

He looked over at Bruce, who hadn't moved except to turn toward Tony.

He could still make it work. Tony Stark wasn't about to give up that easily. He grinned. "Okay. I won't talk about your sex life any more."

Bruce looked like he had something to say to that, but he shut his mouth before anything came out.

Tony spread his legs apart in a mimicry of relaxation, letting his head fall onto the back of the couch, tilted just a little. He kept his eyes locked on Bruce. "It's just—"

"Just?" Bruce asked, distantly, and the way he seemed to be struggling not to let his gaze fall Tony was sure he had just about won.

"I have to take pity on a man who can't indulge in sex now and then, at least." He passed a hand over his face, then let it fall into his lap, his thumb moving slowly over his thigh. Bruce's gaze fell. "And it can feel amazing."

"Sex?" Bruce almost sounded as detached as Jarvis.

"Hm." It wasn't an answer exactly, but they both knew what he meant. He got up, walked to the still stationary Bruce. "Fucking."

Bruce breathed out, slowly, like he had been holding it in, when Tony touched his face. "Fucking men," Bruce clarified, because he wasn't stupid. He made mistakes, but so did everyone— he wasn't stupid.

"Oh, yeah." Tony's thigh was between Bruce's with barely-there pressure. "It's not something I make a habit of, but I've been told I'm good at it."

That was all the permission Bruce needed to stop thinking.

Down the hall, in Tony's bed — Tony's amazing, better-than-the-Hilton-or-any-other-fucking-hotel-ever bed, but Bruce isn't exactly focusing on the sheets — Tony climbed onto Bruce, one hand stroking his stomach and the other clutching a bottle of lube. He could feel Bruce's dick against his ass, feel the rise and fall of his chest as the man under him tried to regain control of his heartbeat. Tony had worried for a moment that Bruce was having some kind of a panic attack, and wouldn't that be the worst sex ever, but after he got a tongue down his throat when he asked he managed to figure out that Bruce was just sort of high-strung. Sort of really high-strung, and not without reason, of course. He'd managed to help that a little by putting a condom on Bruce with his mouth; he'd had a theory that once he started moaning, he might relax a little. It worked.

So there he was, straddling Bruce, doing things with his ass he was pretty sure Bruce had only had done to him in strip clubs — if he'd ever been in a strip club — and working out the best way to get fucked when Bruce finally, finally took control and grabbed the lube, slicking his fingers up. Tony grinned, bracing himself with his hands on either side of Bruce, groaning quietly when he felt one, then quickly two fingers enter him. By the time he felt the third one, he was writhing on top of Bruce, unashamed, and choking out all sorts of colorful swears.

He would have been disappointed when the fingers withdrew if he hadn't been so eager for the next part; he collected Bruce's wrists into one hand, holding them against Bruce's chest as he used his own other hand to guide his dick, slowly sinking down until he sat in the other man's lap, taking only a second or so to adjust before rising again, releasing Bruce's hands. They went to his hips, gripping, and when Tony sank again Bruce let out another breath of air, like before, anticipation answered. He wasted no time in picking up the pace, bracing himself against Bruce's arms and pushing up with his legs, letting Bruce push him up. There was sweat on Bruce's chest, but he wasn't concentrating on his breathing anymore, just feeling, his eyes closed and his head tilted back.

Tony reached out, traced his fingers along Bruce's collarbone, his lips. He wasn't quite able to bend enough for a kiss, but with his hand behind Bruce's neck, lifting, and if he just changed his angle a little—

Bruce's dick hit his prostate just as Tony buried his tongue in Bruce's mouth, muffling the startled, pleased noise he made. His other hand let go up Bruce's arm, letting Bruce support him more, but it was easier then, and Bruce's fingers were gripping his ass and he was thrusting up. Tony wrapped the hand around his own erection, pumping, matching time with Bruce's thrusts and his own drop down against him, and before long he was coming, semen spurted against Bruce's stomach.

They rolled; there was still enough bed for them to roll again, but Tony let Bruce take over, wrapping his legs around his waist. Bruce pounded into him, not holding back, not thinking, sucking his tongue and still lifting his ass, and Tony was pretty sure he would have bruises in the morning, but that was hardly anything new; at least these would have great memories to go with them when he sat down to discuss the day's plans with Pepper over breakfast.

Bruce's eyes were still closed, and Tony thought he might be thinking of someone else. He wasn't jealous, really, but he did like being acknowledged during sex. "Bruce."

Bruce opened his eyes for just a moment, then closed them again as he stilled, his grip tighter, filling Tony's ass with his come. He gasped out a breath, swallowed, and opened his eyes once more.

They were like that, Bruce looming over him, cock still in his ass, for long enough for Tony to get just a little uncomfortable. Maybe he should have let Bruce think about his girl.

And then Bruce pulled out, removed the condom, tied it off, and haphazardly dropped it somewhere near the garbage can he was sure he'd seen when he came in. He didn't turn back to Tony. He knew why; he wanted to escape, probably, but Tony's suit and Bruce's oversized pants were scattered through the hall and around the door. He either wished he'd just fucked the woman he left behind, or he felt like he wasn't welcome.

While Tony thought the former was more likely, he put an arm around Bruce's waist, laying pressed against his back. He normally didn't like to keep the touching up after sex, but he still had something to do, and he didn't want Bruce to leave just yet. If he could get him to stay long enough, he could get in a round two, anyway.

"So. The Avengers Initiative."

Bruce groaned, throwing an arm over his face and trying to pull away. Tony held him fast.

"Come on. We can put you up in a better place than — wherever you are now. Food, shelter, and the resources to work on getting rid of that thing inside you. All they want is for you to help them out with the major disasters now and then until you can get rid of it."

Bruce looked over his shoulder at him. "They?"

"We," Tony corrected.

"You're a slut for SHIELD."

"Nope. Just a slut."

Bruce might have smiled, but he still had his arm over most of his face and it was possible he was grimacing instead. "I'll think about it."

Tony grinned. Mission accomplished.

On the Practical Application of Rays

2008-07-21T06:30:23Z

Title: On the Practical Application of Rays
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dr. Horrible loves his rays. So does Captain Hammer. Dr. Horrible/Captain Hammer
Disclaimer: I do not own Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: ...yeah. Porn. Finally! It's not great, but it's porn. And slash! This fandom needs more.
Crosspost: none

The thing that set Dr. Horrible apart from everyone else was the rays. Dr. Normal wasn't a ray guy; he was actually a sort of medical doctor, creating armies of stiched and stapled monsters that could stumble really menacingly. And Dr. Horrible, he loved his rays.

He had a lot of them. Over time he'd perfected his Freeze Ray, Stun Ray, and Death Ray. He'd developed every sort of ray he could think of — everything from the Flame Ray (which was little more than a glorified flamethrower, though no one dared say that to his face) to the Cow Ray (which had proved to be a failure, but the president was a moose for a few minutes, and that was almost a cow). There had been unpleasant rumors about how exactly he used his Enlargement Ray, and he'd punished the gossipmongers with a Silencer Ray. To him, there was no problem that couldn't be solved with the proper application of the right sort of ray.

Of course, it had to be calculated. Certain situations were very delicate — without just the right sort of ray, just the right moment, and just the right evil laugh to accompany that moment, it could all fall to pieces.

And such was the nature of the Captain Hammer situation. The fool had recovered from his trauma — it almost made Dr. Horrible laugh to use the word, little as he thought of the man — and was back at work, if slightly less prominent on the heroing scene. He had tried to avoid Dr. Horrible at first, but he was his nemesis, and one had to seek the other out eventually. They were head-to-head again, and he wanted to be prepared. In true supervillain fashion, his greatest desire was to see Captain Hammer destroyed. Completely, utterly destroyed.

And that was how it hit him: desire. The best way to destroy him was to hit him emotionally, like he'd been hit; he had to find Captain Hammer's greatest desire and tear it to pieces.

And thus was born the Desire Ray.

He had to test it first, of course; this was one ray he couldn't have failing on him in action. He'd learned his lesson about that sort of thing.

"Moist!"

Well, what else were henchmen for?

"Moist! Get in here!"

A moment later the door opened, and there was his loyal assistant, almost damp enough to be dripping onto the carpet. "You called?"

"Yeah. Stand still a moment." Without any further warning, he turned, aimed the Desire Ray, and shot his best friend.

The effect was immediate; Moist's eyes went wide and blank, his jaw slack. He was still just a moment, and then his lips moved, loosely forming words; gradually his voice came to him, and he began to utter, "A moist woman. A moist woman. A moist woman."

Dr. Horrible cringed, turning off the ray quickly. As Moist shook his head, coming back to himself, Horrible asked, "How do you feel?"

"Horny," was the answer, immediate and clear. "I definitely feel horny."

Dr. Horrible raised an eyebrow, somewhat disturbed. "Uh, all right. That's probably because you were just thinking about moist women."

Moist nodded. "That would make me horny."

Dr. Horrible chose to tune him out at that point, instead reveling in his success. "This is it. I'm finally going to destroy Captain Hammer, once and for all, by rotting him from the inside out."

---

It wasn't hard to figure out where Hammer lived. The three most prominent members of the Dr. Horrible Fan Club had previously been stalking him, and Horrible was hardly afraid to exploit that well of information. Of course, Hammer would probably move right after he put his plan into action, but it wouldn't matter then. He only needed the one shot.

Standing at the end of Hammer's bed at midnight with only the light from the streets below to go by, Horrible considered the possibility of being unable to destroy Hammer's desire. What if it was something intangible? What if it was something he couldn't reach? What if, as was frighteningly likely, Hammer's greatest desire was himself? He had maintained a fairly big ego even after the Penny incident, and from what Horrible could see, most, if not all, of the pictures framed around his home — a fairly modest apartment, actually — were of himself. Occasionally there was another person in the image, but Hammer was always the most prominent figure. Other than that, his house was fairly sparse; he didn't seem to have much decorating sense, going for the barest design he could manage.

But that night wasn't about interior decorating, it was about revenge. With the words "no mercy" flashing through his mind, Horrible drew his ray, pointed it at Hammer's chest, and pulled the trigger.

Hammer's eyes opened and his body shook, almost as though he had been shocked. But he was no more resistant to the ray's effects than Moist had been, and after a moment his body went still, his lips active, moving until he could speak.

"You. You. You—"

Startled, Horrible turned off the ray, throwing it aside. It clattered on the floor, and if Hammer had somehow slept through getting shot with a Desire Ray, the noise would have woken him up.

But it didn't look like he had managed to sleep through it anyway; he pushed himself upright, looking a bit drowsy but definitely awake. He shook his head, then focused in on Horrible, narrowing his eyes. "You."

Oh, crap, Horrible thought, his greatest desire is to kill me.

"You," Hammer said again, and he was — crawling? Yes, crawling, crawling across his bed, like an animal stalking its prey, right toward him. Horrible backed away, but the ray was still there, and it was dark. He tripped, and for the slightest moment he was defenseless on the ground; that moment was all Hammer needed to pounce.

He was trapped, Hammer's big, meaty hands holding his shoulders down and his eyes leering at him from that big, meaty head. He was a mouse in the cat's claws, a snake in the mongoose's teeth, an armadillo in the snares of something armadillos feared. Why hadn't he thought to bring a back-up ray? But he had to keep his cool. "So, um, Hammer. We meet again. Or should I saaa— aaah, what is that?"

That felt a lot like Captain Hammer's dick hard against his leg. Not that Horrible had spent a lot of time with other men's dicks on his leg, but he was pretty sure that was what it felt like. That, or the Captain was keeping sausage in his pajama pockets.

Except he wasn't wearing pajamas. Or anything. "Oh dear God."

And Hammer's leer seemed... surprisingly not malicious. "That is the Hammer."

Horrible could feel his face burning. He was going to be killed by a naked idiot. How humiliating.

And then Hammer thrust down, rubbing against his crotch, and a light went on in Horrible's head. "I think it likes you," Hammer said, and Horrible groaned.

It was from the cheesy line. Really. Not from the erection he totally wasn't getting. "Well... well, I don't like it," he replied, as if that would make it true.

He could just see the outlines of Hammer's face, and saw him raise one eyebrow. "Oh, really? Because the Little Doctor seems to disagree."

"The Little Doctor has gone mad with— with madness," Horrible babbled, turning his head away. He tried to move, but he was still stuck in place by Hammer's hands, and by that point his legs as well. "If you'll excuse me, I think I can go fix that--"

A hand brushed up his shoulder and up his neck; when it came to his jaw, Hammer turned his head and kissed him.

It wasn't the worst kiss Horrible had experienced. He didn't have a lot to go against, really; there had Stacy Milo at prom, who threw up right after, and a few drunken fumblings at the Evil Academy, and after that most of his time had gone toward getting into the Evil League of Evil... and stalking Penny.

But he didn't want to think about that.

Hammer licked across his lower lip, which proved to be an effective distraction; Horrible squirmed, which achieved him nothing against Hammer's grip and made his half-hard dick brush against his captor's. He opened his mouth, dumbly, trying to think of something to say, but Hammer took the opportunity to plunge his tongue into his mouth. His quip came out as "mmmf uh-ruh" with the extra tongue.

Captain Hammer pulled away after a while, allowing Horrible a chance to gasp for air. "You know, I'm not normally this horny."

"You don't say," Horrible wheezed, still ineffectually trying to push Hammer away. "Get off me, you mongoloid... Neanderthal!"

Captain Hammer ignored him, still apparently lost in thought. "Although... I am normally this sexy. It's no wonder you can't resist me."

"Resist you?" Dr. Horrible sputtered, beating a fist against Hammer's chest. "I'm trying to destroy you!"

"Well, you're not doing a very good job." Hammer looked down, watching Horrible's blows. "That doesn't hurt."

Horrible stopped, ashamed. "If you had been a normal person, it would have."

Hammer stood up, and Dr. Horrible took the opportunity to scrambled backward until his back hit the wall. Hammer barely seemed to notice; he laid down on his bed again, propping himself up on his elbows. With that infuriating self-satisfied smirk of his, he crooked a finger, beckoning Horrible to join him.

Horrible shook his head. "No. Oh, no no no. There is no way I'm letting you—"

"Fuck me."

"Buh wha?" Horrible asked, eyebrows shooting up. "What I mean to say is — shammawha?"

"Fuck me," Hammer repeated, one hand on his dick, stroke slowly. He seemed almost casual about it. "Your dick. My ass. Please."

Dr. Horrible licked his lips nervously, standing up. Well, that changed — not a lot, really, but it changed something. Put it in a new light. "Well, if you put it like that..."

He walked up to the bed, watching Hammer's hand work at his cock. He pulled off his gloves, his eyes not leaving that wonderfully arousing sight, dropping them next to the Desire Ray. He climbed onto the bed, between Hammer's spread legs, running his hands up his nemesis's thighs. They were as muscular and tough as the rest of him, and Horrible's mouth watered at the thought of fucking someone so powerful. It felt like control, like power.

"Do you have anything to, uh, make this easier?" He didn't know a lot about sex through experience, but he'd spent a lot of time researching — or that's what he told Moist it was when he was interrupted, anyway.

"Under the bed," Hammer said, his free hand coming up to his chest, pinching a nipple. Horrible felt like his brain was short-circuiting. Hammer shot him a strange look. "Uh, Doc— Billy?"

He snapped out of it, hurrying to look under the bed. "Right, right." He stripped off his boots and pants hurriedly, and, after a moment's consideration, his coat and the thin shirt underneath; although the red did look striking on him, he had a strange urge to have Hammer see all of the man who would fuck him. Naked, he crouched and looked under the bed. There was one box there, labeled "sex stuff." He pulled it out, and — there were a number of weird instruments. He recognized most of them, at least, but some... he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He dug through it, careful not to touch the items that looked like they hadn't been cleaned in a while, and found a small tube wedged between a dildo and a pair of handcuffs near the bottom.

He dropped back onto the bed, uncapping the lube and coating his fingers with it. He settled between Hammer's legs again, staring hungrily at that hand again, moving his own to that firm, delicious-looking ass— "Don't."

"What?" Horrible asked, looking up and meeting Hammer's eyes. "But I need to— you need to be prepared."

"I'm always prepared," Hammer said. Horrible rolled his eyes. "No, seriously. Powers, remember? Just use that on yourself."

"Whatever you say," Horrible muttered, coating his erection with the slick stuff. There was too much, and some left on his hand; he had to wipe it off on the sheets. Hammer didn't seem to notice.

"No condom?" Hammer asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"I'm evil," Dr. Horrible scoffed, positioning himself. "I'm too edgy and wild for condoms. Do you think Bad Horse uses condoms?"

"I didn't think he could," Hammer said, and then Horrible was in, slowly sinking deeper until they were pressed together, and he moaned. "Oh, fuck yes."

"Yesss," Horrible hissed, and already he felt close. It had been too long. He paused, enjoying the feeling of having his cock in something other than his hand, and then took a breath and pulled out, out, almost all the way before thrusting in again.

"Harder," Hammer groaned, trying to meet his thrusts. "Fuck me hard."

"I am!" Horrible growled, adding more force to his thrusts; it nearly hurt him to push in so hard, but that only added to the sexual high, the intense pleasure of fucking the quasi-Adonis under him.

Hammer wrapped his legs around Horrible's thighs, pressing him in on every thrust. It made it feel significantly less like Horrible was doing the fucking, but he focused on the fact that it was his dick in Hammer's ass, which really shouldn't have been so hot, but— well. He'd blame it on the evil madness later.

"Take it," Horrible demanded, and he blushed a little, because it didn't come out as sexy as it had sounded in his head, but Hammer moaned anyway, his hand moving faster than before, his other hand sliding down his chest to his balls, massaging them.

Hammer threw his head back, his mouth opening to emit a noise that sounded like he was being burned, and Horrible swallowed, wondered if he'd done something wrong. The noise ended in a hiss and he could see most of Hammer's muscles working, could feel them inside his ass, around his dick, and then Hammer's fist and stomach were covered in white, thick come, and his muscles were still tense and--

Horrible hoped the sound he made as he came was more dignified-sounding than it seemed at the time, and lower-pitched, but he figured it didn't matter much, because the fact was that he was coming, deep in Captain Hammer's ass, and Hammer wasn't laughing, he was just looking sated, drowsy, smug, and so damn pleased Horrible couldn't imagine he would have cared if he had tried an imitation of Bad Horse's Death Whinny just then.

Dr. Horrible panted, swallowed, resisted the urge to collapse on Hammer's broad chest. He pulled out, slowly, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Wow," Hammer said, and it was Horrible's turn to feel smug. "So that's sex with a guy."

Horrible stared, dumbfounded. "Wait, you mean — you mean you've never slept with a man before?"

"No," Hammer replied, unconcerned. "What, you mean you have?"

"Well, not technically..."

The were silent a moment, and Horrible reached down to pick up his coat. He felt awkward in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of every time he'd seen Penny before speaking to her.

No, he didn't want to think about that.

"You know," Hammer said suddenly, and Horrible thought that at least he was good as a distraction, "I think I might be a little gay."

Horrible opened his mouth, but found that he had to response to that. And he was almost okay with that.

Captain Hammer was asleep again by the time he was dressed, and as he gathered up the Desire Ray he wondered if it had been worth it. Maybe the ray needed tweaking. Maybe he needed tweaking, because he didn't really feel like tweaking it.

He left through the front door with the disturbing thought that all his years of evil might have been nothing more than a really bad case of blue balls.

---

A week later, Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible squared off in the streets of LA. Horrible had a new ray — the Confusion Ray, which turned out to not have a focused enough beam and left Moist wandering around aimlessly when he should have been keeping Hammer from beating him senseless — and Hammer had nothing to say about their night together.

Horrible wanted to say something about it, and about the rash he was still trying to get rid of — he'd made a note to use a condom next time, evil or not — but he thought better of it and made a quick escape after he managed to stop Moist from walking in front of a moving bus.

The next day he used the Desire Ray on an old lady, and while he was less than fascinated to know that her greatest desire was to be young again, he was even more less than fascinated by her come-ons and her hand on his crotch.

He decided the Desire Ray was defective and scrapped it.

Three weeks after that, Moist pointed out that The Hammer seemed persistently over-interested in their battles.

Dr. Horrible was sure he had those Desire Ray plans still lying around somewhere.

Fool for Love

2008-07-21T00:38:44Z

Title: Fool for Love
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Penny's last relationship before Captain Hammer ended rather badly.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Um, yeah. This is more or less complete crack. One minor spoiler for Act III.
Crosspost: none

Penny drummed her fingers on the table, bored. It was just like the last four dates she'd had with him; he was preoccupied with work, barely even looking at her, and she felt almost as though she was alone instead of in a nice restaurant with her boyfriend.

To top it off, he'd begun the evening by kicking their waiter in the stomach. That wasn't exactly the right sort of set-up for a romantic evening.

She had had enough. She'd already finished her wine and had been pushing around the remains of her meal for the better half of an hour waiting for him to get off the phone. His own food was cold and uneaten. If he didn't end the call soon—

As if on cue — and maybe something had changed in her expression to give him the hint — the phone was snapped shut. "I'm sorry about that, Penny. You'd think they need me to remind them to breathe, the way they act. They rely on me too much."

She raised her eyebrows. It was only because he made it impossible for them to run anything on their own; he had called them, after all. "I wish you'd turn the phone off while we eat. I hate it when you make business calls on our dates. And can't you send those guys home?"

Bad Horse looked at his three cowboy henchmen, who shrugged and looked at each other. In Number One's hand, the cell phone rang again.

"Don't answer that," Penny warned, "or we're through."

Number One looked at his leader, who nodded. He tipped his hat and pocketed the phone.

She gave him a smile, but it was strained; she was growing weary of having to make demands for his time. She pushed, and every inch he gave he forgot, and the next day ended up a foot behind.

"Penny, dear," Bad Horse said, his voice soothing, "I have responsibilities. The Evil League of Evil can't just run itself, you know. Do you expect me to stop being a villain? What am I without that? Not Bad Horse — I'd just be Horse."

"Maybe I'd prefer Horse," she muttered, popping a tomato slice into her mouth. "Horse would probably have time for me."

"Don't be that way."

She swallowed, looked down at her plate. It did seem a little selfish to even say something like that, but she couldn't pretend she didn't want it. "I don't expect you to stop being you, Bad. I just want you to be you with me."

"I'm more myself with you than with anyone else, Penny," he said, putting his hoof lightly on the table. After a pause, she placed her hand over it. "I can't be so honest with Fake Thomas Jefferson or Fury Leika."

"That's not what I mean." She sighed, looking away. Not far away, another couple — a sweaty-looking dark-haired man and a woman with an hourglass figure — were staring into each others eyes, looking lost. She wanted that again. "I just need there to be time for us. We can't fix the problems we have if we don't take a moment to talk them out once in a while."

Bad Horse cast a sideways glance at his henchmen, who nodded and headed out — probably to wait by the car. He turned back to Penny. "What problems, exactly?"

Penny picked up her fork again, but there were barely any food scraps left to be pushed around. "Well, like that thing you do when we make love."

Bad Horse narrowed his eyes. "What 'thing'?"

"That thing," she repeated, waving her hand in a vague gesture. "The Death Whinny. I really wish you wouldn't do that when we're having sex."

Bad Horse stomped his hoof. "That's my staple, my signature! Asking me not to do my Death Whinny is like — it's like asking Johnny Snow to not be so cold!"

"It just makes it really hard to — you know. Stay in the mood."

Bad Horse snorted. "Anything else you think is wrong with us?"

Penny bit her lip, but couldn't keep herself from telling the truth. "You don't show any interest in the things I care about."

"Like what? Your little homeless pets?" he scoffed. "Penny, I'm evil. It would be blasphemous for me to give a damn about those pathetic little worms. Maybe if you took up some more interesting hobbies — like, say, laying off the frozen yogurt—"

"There you go again, acting like everything is somehow my fault!" Penny huffed, crossing her arms. "And I'll have you know I'm a very healthy weight! I've lost thirty pounds since we started dating!"

"You could stand to lose a few more."

"What?!"

Bad Horse, sensing he was heading in a bad direction, changed the subject abruptly. "Maybe things would work a little better between us if you were a villain, too. You could get into the ELE, I'm sure, with ease!"

"What, so you only date other villains now?" Penny stood up, collecting her jacket and purse. "And— and next you'll only date other horses, right? Well let me tell you something: I hope you can find a mare who can talk, because otherwise Death Whinnies will be all you hear when you have sex! And I bet you won't satisfy her, either!"

She turned and walked away, her pace quick. "Where are you going?" Bad Horse called after her.

"I'm leaving, Bad! And don't expect me to come back!"

"I'd rather you didn't!" he shouted, still at the table. "I was growing tired of you, anyway!"

Penny's jaw tightened as she tried not to cry, passing the three cowboys in the car. She had a long walk home, and she didn't like to cry on the streets.

A few blocks down, she slowed, shaking slightly, but she didn't let the tears fall. Another man had broken her heart. Sometimes she was afraid she would never find the stability and love she longed for.

"I'm never dating a villain again."

Captain Hammer's Tool

2008-07-17T16:29:28Z

Title: Captain Hammer's Tool
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: PG-13
Summary: With no tools at hand, how else was he supposed to work?
Disclaimer: I do not own Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: For horrible_fic's Act Two Flash Challenge.
Crosspost: none

It just wasn't working.

Captain Hammer stared at the mess around him. Most of the boards were broken in two, or had fist-shaped holes in them. It turned out that, although he had enough strength for hammering nails with his fists to not hurt him, it really hurt the wood.

So building a treehouse wasn't as easy as he thought. It had to be done, though — he was pretty sure his nephew would be damn disappointed if he didn't get his birthday gift after all, and the treehouse was already a last-moment, made-up-on-the-spot promise.

Maybe he wasn't the best uncle, but he tried. It wasn't his fault the kid cried and wet himself whenever he came around.

But half a bottle of Jack Daniels and a few dozen broken boards later, he was at a loss. He had yet to successfully put two boards together. If his fist wouldn't work, he needed — he needed something. Something he could handle and direct without putting too much force behind it. But not a hammer. How embarrassing would it be for Captain Hammer to actually need to use a hammer?

He sat down, looking around his basement. There wasn't a lot in the way of tools there. He had some weights — weights that he insisted he didn't need, but that he used just in case anyway — but those were far too big and heavy; he'd just break more boards for them. There was a washer-dryer, but that was out of the question, too, as was the chair he sat on. The boxes were filled with breakable stuff and much too weak.

There really wasn't anything there for him to use. He considered trying his fist again. Maybe his thumb, if he was very careful, or...

Or.

He blinked, then looked down at his crotch.

It could work. Hopefully. He'd never tried it before, but — hey, why not? He could even get some pretty good bragging rights from it.

He looked around. There wasn't anyone there, of course. It was his basement, after all, and he lived alone so as to be all stoic and secretive.

He set up a board, grabbed a nail, and unzipped his pants.

Evilologist

2008-07-17T15:35:59Z

Title: Evilologist
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: G
Summary: He's not that sort of doctor, really!
Disclaimer: I do not own Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog or any related plots and characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon and others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: For horrible_fic's Act Two Flash Challenge.
Crosspost: none

"I'll take out your appendix — painfully!"

No, no. Even with the growl and the threatening pose, it wasn't quite right. Billy adjusted his goggles, looking at himself in the mirror. There had to be something — aha!

He snatched up the knife from his plate, brandishing it as menacingly as he could. "I'll take out your appendix — paaainfully!"

Still no. Even with the gnashing of teeth, it just wasn't scary. He had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn't work with a butcher's knife instead, either.

He took out a notepad, crossing the line off. Number fourteen, and none of them were even half up to par yet.

He tried the next one, striking a slightly more doctor-y pose. "I'll give the world an evil-ectomy."

"What are you doing?"

Billy whipped his goggles off — they were a stylistic choice, really, and he couldn't see through them at all — and turned, ready to— well, apparently ready to stab someone with his butterknife. But it was just Moist. "Oh, Jesus Moist, I thought you were— someone else. Someone dryer."

"Most people are," Moist said with a nod. He glanced at the notepad. "Catchphrases, huh?"

"I'll need one for the Evil League of Evil. You can't get a locker until they hear your catchphrase, you know." Not that he'd keep anything in the locker (the place was filled with supervillains; they'd steal his stuff before he could even remember the combination, he was sure) but it was a status thing.

Moist nodded again, completely understanding. Good old Moist. "But wouldn't an evil-ectomy be, like, removing the evil? Isn't that the opposite of what you do?"

He considered it a moment. "You're right. But a good-ectomy just doesn't sound right." He sighed, stuffing the notepad into his pocket. He'd just have to think of something else.

"What about something not so medically themed? I mean, it might give people the wrong impression."

He was right, again; there wasn't much that annoyed Billy more than people who asked him for medical advice while he was on the job. He was sick of having to explain that he wasn't really that sort of doctor.

"What about 'You can's spell drastic measures without D-R'?"

Billy clapped him on the shoulder, sending drops of water — he hoped it was water, but he'd never quite worked up the will to ask — in all directions. "Stick to the moistening."

---

Once again, Captain Hammer was beating the daylights out of him.

"What about the Hippocratic Oath, huh?" Hammer asked, smashing his head against a car hood. "More like the Hippocrit's Oath with you, isn't it?"

"I'm not—" BANG! "—that kind—" CRASH! "—of doctor!"

"Really, now?" Hammer lifted him by the front of his white coat until they were eye level. "You probably don't have a degree at all, do you? I'll bet you never even finished college."

"I do!" he cried angrily, struggling. "I have a PhD!"

Hammer gave him a disbelieving look. "Oh, yeah? In what?"

"In — in Horribleness!" Okay, really it was in Evil Studies, but— wait! That was it! His catchphrase! He had to write it down — his notebook, it was in his pocket, if he could only reach—

Captain Hammer punched him in the face.

Speed²

2008-07-03T04:19:17Z

Title: Speed²
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Speed encounters his strangest opponent yet: himself. Speed/Speed
Disclaimer: I do not own Speed Racer or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: This is for a3lexi (who also beta read this, proving that she is awesome) because I am terrible and have yet to finish her first request. ANYWAY... yeah, it's crack. Yes, you read the pairing right. Edit: 0oraeraeo0 has made an awesome comic/sequel thing for this! Find it here and be sure to tell her it's lovely. :D
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

It was hardly the first time Speed had been kidnapped. Hell, he had celebrated his twenty-first birthday with his captors; he told that story at parties later, and by the time he got to the part where the strippers had stolen the muscle's pants, everyone was cracking up.

He'd been blindfolded and bound, too. He'd been kidnapped in every sort of way, really; he'd been knocked out, locked up, drugged, tricked, trapped, and dragged from the racetrack with a red sock in his mouth to keep him from screaming.

It really didn't bother him to be kidnapped any more. He knew that, soon enough, Racer X or Inspector Detector — or even Trixie or Pops — would show up and he'd be out of the place by sundown. So he sat, not in the least curious about who his captors were or where he was, humming to himself and trying to decide what he would have to eat later.

He sat on some surface that was plush and cushy, which, he had to admit, seemed a little odd. Normally when the blindfold was removed he'd find himself under a bare lightbulb in an almost-empty warehouse sitting on wooden chair. Sometimes the worst part of a kidnapping was when he couldn't sleep the next night for the pain in his back.

It wasn't the most comfortable kidnapping ever, though. He didn't like the lack of noise around him; he couldn't count his captors or judge the size of the room or anything. Actually, the most comfortable kidnapping had been when the Countess Zemed had stolen him away to her personal quarters; she'd had her servants feed him and set him on a comfortable bed. It had been great, in fact, until she tried to seduce him.

"At least this time I'm not naked," he said to himself, just to break the silence.

"What was that?"

He jumped, his elbows knocking together as he pulled unconsciously at whatever was tied around his wrists — not rope, it was too soft for rope... "Sorry. I thought I was alone."

"Sorry?" The voice sounded strangely familiar, but he couldn't place it. "You're actually apologizing to the people kidnapping you? Some backbone you've got there, Speed."

"Sorry." There was another moment of silence. "So, um, do I know you?"

"I'll say." He heard a slightly rustling; the floor creaked. "Let me guess: you have no idea what this is about, right?"

Speed shrugged. "I'm not really worried about that."

He heard a tsk and a low laugh. "You really shouldn't let your guard down like that, Speed. Who knows when you'll meet your match?"

"No offense, sir, but you hardly sound menacing. You haven't even threatened my life." Okay, maybe that was pushing it, but Speed wasn't about to back down to a challenge like that.

"I don't want your life."

"Then what is it? Money? Do you want me to promise to lose my next race?" The very thought put him on edge — he'd never promise it. Ever.

"What would be the use of that?"

Speed frowned. "Then why did you kidnap me?"

Another low laugh. "I didn't kidnap you. I'm just— Wait, here." There were hands on his face, deftly untying his blindfold, and he could see again. He could see—

Himself.

The room was just as comfortable as his seat felt; he was on a purple couch that he almost recognized, in a richly-furnished apartment of some sort. The walls were adorned with all sorts of art and pictures of races; the Mach 6 showed up in several of them. There was a bar in one corner, and a huge flatscreen TV nearby. Against another wall there was a bed larger than any he'd seen before, half-covered in pillows as big as the driver's seat of his car.

And in the center of it all was a mirror. It had to be a mirror. It couldn't be—

"Like what you see?" the man said, grinning predatorily.

He was an exact copy of Speed himself, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Or Speed assumed his toes looked the same; he was currently wearing a purple suit, much like the one Royalton had gifted him with years before. The only thing that was different was his expression, one he couldn't even imagine on his own face. It reminded him of the way Royalton had looked at him, a look he sometimes saw on Trixie, but he couldn't put a meaning to it.

"You're catching flies," the copy said, rolling his eyes.

Speed snapped his jaw shut, trying to clear his mind, but a moment later he opened his mouth again to ask, "How...?"

The copy sighed, sitting down beside him, throwing his arms up over the back of the couch. "Do you really want to know? It's a boring story."

"Of course I do! It's not like copies of me show up every day."

"Clone," he corrected. He paused a moment, then stood up and began pacing. "As I understand it, some years ago you and Arnold — that is, Mr. Royalton — went head-to-head. You... exchanged this suit. Since he was no longer in the racing industry, he had to devote that portion of his finances to something else."

He stopped, and held out his arms, presenting himself to Speed.

"And so, me. Some doctors, some scientists, and a lot of money later, and a hair and a few skin cells taken from this suit became an entire embryo. And as it turned out, the engines he'd been constructing weren't so far from cell acceleraters as you might think. Not the most humble beginnings to come from, but I've got no complaints."

Speed furrowed his brow. "I don't understand. I didn't think—"

"Look, Speed," the clone said, holding up a hand to stop him, "I'm only as smart as you at your best, and even the most intensive study sessions haven't gotten me further than that. You're going to have to ask Arnold himself if you want a better explanation."

There were still too many questions. "Why?"

The clone's grin changed slowly, secretive and superior at the same time. "It's strange to think I could be so naive."

Speed suddenly felt uncomfortable, shifting. He didn't respond.

The clone fingered the collar of the suit, staring over Speed's head and out the window at the darkening sky. "You know, all he ever really wanted was you, Speed."

"I know, he wanted me to—"

The clone cut him off. "No, not for racing. He wanted you. So he made me. I became you for him once he got out of jail; I couldn't race, because I had no way to get into the world and into a car. I never even learned to drive. So I did what he created me for, and I did it to the best of my ability."

The confused look didn't leave Speed's face; his clone rolled his eyes again, becoming frustrated.

"Sex, idiot. He wanted you for sex." He smiled again at the expression Speed knew he must have been wearing: horrified, or shocked, or something close to the two. "And, for the record, you're very good at it. Probably as good, with some practice, as you are at racing cars.

"But I'm not enough anymore. I probably never was. He wanted you, and everything that makes you who you are: your naive smile, your dedication to what you believe in and your family, your authentic youth. And that's why you're here now. I've just been waiting with you. I think we're in for a threesome."

"A three—?" Speed choked out, eyes wide. That had certainly never been a part of the kidnapping equation before. "No. I won't. X will be here any minute—"

"No, he won't," the clone said, circling the couch and putting his hands on either side of Speed's shoulders. "Your knight in shining armor isn't coming this time, Speed. Royalton's been playing it straight for years; no one's going to suspect a thing this time around."

He moved his hands closer, and Speed closed himself in as best he could; he couldn't stand, though, with his ankles tied together, and couldn't fend off the hands as they fell onto his shoulders, massaging slowly, as his own were similarly bound. He shuddered under the touch; it disturbed him, in a way, and in another it felt good. His clone seemed almost to be forcing him to relax, tension in his muscles from sitting there, tied up, melting away as those fingers rubbed in slow circles.

"It's not a bad life, you know. I have pretty much everything I want. And, until he decided he needed the real Speed Racer, Arnold and I had a very active sex life. At times it was very, very good." His hands stilled a moment. "At times."

"Um." Once again aware of the awkwardness of the situation, Speed wiggled slightly, trying to get away from his clone. "I'm sure it's, uh, great. If you're willing."

The clone made a hmmm sound, moving back to the front of the couch. "He can be very romantic, Speed. I don't think he'll do a thing to you that you don't want — and sooner or later, you'll want it."

"I'd never want somoene who kidnapped me. Or threatened my life." Wait, there was something else, too — something important. Oh! "I have a girlfriend."

"Huh. Trixie, right?" The clone's knees bumped his, too close and in his face. "I remember Arnold saying that he thought she was your sister from the way you acted with her."

"I love her," Speed insisted.

The clone didn't respond — he just dropped to his knees. Inexplicably, a shiver went up Speed's spine, and he braced himself — but the clone's hands stayed below his knees, toying with the cloth tied around his ankles. It was purple. "You'd probably prefer to have this off, right?"

He didn't wait for an answer, untying him quickly. Speed realized he might have tied those knots himself in the first place. As soon as he felt the hold on his legs gone, his knees fell apart. He hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to stretch his legs.

But the clone didn't move. "Are you even attracted to her?"

"What?" Speed asked, trying not-so-subtley to nudge the clone away. He wouldn't budge.

"Do you find her hot? Sexy? Has she ever seduced you?"

"Se— seduced? She's my girlfriend. She doesn't need to seduce me—ee!" He jumped, trying to escape the hand that was suddenly far too close to his crotch. "What are you doing?"

"Seeing how dedicated to her you are," the clone said, and without another word he put his face on Speed's other thigh, nuzzling. "And showing you what you're missing."

He couldn't help it; as the clone's right hand brushed over the front of his pants, his cock jumped, his back arching slightly towards the touch. "Stop! This is — not right. You're me."

"Then it'd just be masturbation, right?" the clone said, not lifting his head. He breathed over Speed's fly, running a finger around the outline of his cock. "You have masturbated, right? Wait — don't answer that."

"I have," Speed hissed, trying to fight the sensation of the too-familiar touch.

"Then what's wrong?" The clone's free hand stroked the inside of his right leg, and even that was distracting. "Is it not romantic enough for you?"

Speed couldn't respond; he was afraid his voice might betray him, so he clenched his jaw shut almost painfully. It was wrong, wrong, so wrong...

And then his clone's lips were on his, and he had to wonder if his own lips were that soft. The hand on his pants was working them open, pulling down his fly, stroking him through his boxers while the other hand moved up to his thigh. He was getting hard, it was all he could do to not respond, to stay still against the onslaught of heat and slow, sensual movements.

"Stop fighting it," the clone murmured against his lips. "Stop thinking about how wrong it is. Just go with it."

Speed remained still, but when the band of his boxers was pushed down with his pants just enough for his erection to pop out and that hand curled around it, he couldn't help but buck up. A tongue ran across his lips, and the clone peppered light kisses across his cheek, biting his earlobe. It was that — his ear — that did it, and he moaned, his lips parting just slightly. He could feel his clone's lips against his neck, that smug, victorious grin.

But he didn't care anymore.

He turned his face toward the one that mirrored his own, kissing him as best he could. His hands itched to reach up, to grab handfuls of hair and pull them closer together, but his wrists remained bound. The clone laughed against his lips and did it for him, and it was like his own fingers running through his hair, their placement backwards but still so familiar.

And then the lips were gone and the hands were on his arms, the clone pulling him up, away from the couch and toward the bed. It gave him a moment of clarity, a chance to say "no," but before he could find the breath to do it he was pushed back and covered with the body that was the same as his own.

The bed was huge, and he sank into it slightly as he was pressed down and straddled. He could feel and then see the clone's hard-on, finally; they seemed to be equally aroused, but the other was far more open about it, grinding himself against Speed's groin wantonly.

"Do you want this? Can the real Speed Racer let go like I can?" the clone hissed in his ear as he arched up, pressing them together.

He meant to say no, like he'd intended to before, but without consulting his mind he found his voice betraying him, gasping out a "yes" that was followed with a thrust up.

The clone slide off him, catching the waistband of his pants and his boxers as he went, sweeping them off. He unbuttoned his own pants, but did not remove them, letting them fall just below his hips. He kept the rest of the suit on as well, drawing from the breast pocket a small tube. He squeezed something Speed couldn't really recognize onto his hand, though it looked like lotion, and stroked himself a few times with it. His other hand pushed Speed's leg up, running up and down it, and then he paused.

"You've never done anything like this." It wasn't a question; the clone frowned. "Of course not. I'll bet you and Trixie are about as vanilla as they come."

Speed averted his eyes momentarily; it wasn't just the mention of her, but the fact that they hadn't actually really done this, in any way. Not that they hadn't pleased each other, but they were moving slow, and—

There was a tongue on his ass.

He jumped, struggling to sit up; with his hands bound it was impossible, so he craned his neck up, trying to see what was up. The clone was on his knees, pushing Speed's legs apart and licking, biting the flesh, running his tongue over his balls and then down, down, over—

"Jeez!" he said, wiggling, trying to move away. That was more wrong, so wrong — he couldn't do that to himself, had never even dreamed of doing it to anyone or having it done to himself. Hell, he hadn't even heard of people really doing it.

"Relax," the clone said, pulling his ass back toward the edge of the bed. He stopped, then pushed Speed's hips, rolling him over onto his stomach, promting him to groan as his cock finally something to rub against. He parted Speed's ass cheeks, running his tongue in a circle around his hole. His fingers dug into skin; they were likely to leave marks, red and telling. Speed wiggled, trying to move away again, and then—

The clone pushed his tongue in, just slightly past that first ring of muscle, and in a normal state Speed might have thought it was disgusting, but his cock was hard against the covers of the bed and he pushed back, thinking instead Oh God, Oh God.

And just as he was starting to enjoy it the tongue was gone, replaced by a finger covered in something cold and slick, and then another. It hurt for a moment, but the fingers were still, and when the other hand reached underneath him to stroke his cock, he moaned into the bed. He could feel himself relaxing, focusing on the hand on his dick instead of the fingers in his ass as they started to move in and out, and suddenly they felt good. There was another finger, and then they were both gone, and there were hands on the back of his shoulder and knees on either side of his legs, and something that was most definitely not a finger pressing in to him—

"Oh God," he gasped, muffled into the covers. The clone pushed in slowly, and he knew that in his hand he'd never felt that big, but it hurt. It hurt and he couldn't imagine why anyone would want it, especially a clone of himself, who couldn't possibly be built for being fucked. He took a deep breath and let it out slow, but even as he relaxed the burn didn't go away. He mind darted around, trying to ignore the pain, and hit something. "Did you— condom?"

His clone laughed, deeper and throaty than he normally did, and thrust in the rest of the way, his balls against Speed's ass. "I'm clean. Arnold's clean. I'm sure you're clean. Why bother?"

Speed knew there was a good argument against that, but as his clone pulled almost all the way out again he couldn't think of it. He grunted, wanting to beg for them to stop, but he couldn't find his voice any more.

And then he thrust in again, hitting something Speed couldn't place, and it changed. "Oh," he said, like a realization, writhing; it was amazing, and the pain mixed in with the pleasure in a way he didn't recognize, because they weren't supposed to be the same but it was so very good.

"Great, isn't it?" the clone asked, and picked up the pace of his thrusts, grunted every now and then and angling himself, judging his position by the way Speed writhed. He was ruthless, thrusting hard and quick and taking no time for sentimentality. He kept one hand by Speed's shoulder to prop himself up, snaking the other beneath him to stroke as best as he could, but it was the friction against the bed as Speed writhed and the senesation of the clone's dick against his prostate that did him in. It built up like a ball of fire in him, travelling down from his chest and up from his toes, centering in his groin. His toes curled and his hands fisted into the blankets, and he had to bite his lip from crying out as he came into the bed.

It was like a signal, because the next moment the door to the room slammed open, and Speed felt so boneless he couldn't even look up to see who it was, whether it was Royalton come to ruin the moment or the inspector and X to rescue him. He spared a moment for mortification, turning bright red and tensing slightly, and whatever that did to the muscles in his ass seemed to work for the clone, who came with a shout a moment later. In the back of his mind, he worried about latent exhibitionist tendencies.

"Speed!" he heard Detector shout, and he turned his head to look at the door. He could see X's back, his shoulders hunched slightly as the other racer looked away, and Detector just stared, his jaw hanging open.

Speed was pretty sure it was the most embarrassing moment of his life.

The clone stood, pulling out of him and buttoning up his pants.

"You called?"

---

"Royalton had nothing to do with it," Detector said, far away from Royalton's apartment as Speed sat with a glass of water, trying to put everything together in his head.

"What do you mean?" Speed asked, unable to keep the anger from his voice. The inspector looked somehow guilty, a look he'd been wearing since he handed Speed his pants. "He kidnapped me!"

"That's the thing," Detector said, not meeting his eyes. "It was the clone, actually. Royalton has alibis, and some of his guards admitted that he wasn't the one who told them to take you."

"Then who was it?"

"It was the... clone." Detector had been greatly unsettled by the clone's presence, eyeing him warily in a way Speed didn't think was just because he'd caught him with his pants down. "We think he might have been using you as a... as a gift."

"Oh." Speed wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. "What's going to happen to him?"

"Well, he'll see trial, and then most likely wind up in jail."

Speed imagined himself in jail. He didn't think it suited either of them — not that he was about to argue. "And after?"

The inspector looked surprised by that. "Well, I— I don't know. I suppose he's as free to go out on his own as anyone. He may go back to Royalton."

There were a lot more questions to ask, but Speed had the feeling Detector didn't have answers for most of them. He nodded, putting his glass down on the table of the Racer kitchen. "Um. Thank you, Detector."

The Detector gave him a tight, strained smile, patting him on the shoulder as he stood. He moved as if he was going to leave, and then stopped. "One more thing— there were cameras in the room."

Speed's eyebrows shot up. "You mean—?"

"The disc is on your bed. It's up to you to destroy it, if you'd like, or it could be used as evidence. I don't want to push you to display it if you don't feel comfortable with that. I think we probably have enough in other evidence and confessions to put him away anyway."

With one more pat to his shoulder, the Detector left, and Speed felt a strange sensation in his stomach.

The disc never saw trial, and Speed held Trixie's hand throughout it. He didn't look once at his clone.

He also did not destroy the disc.

Very Busy Man

2008-07-01T04:15:33Z

Title: Very Busy Man
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot, Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tony is a very important and busy many who doesn't have time for commitment, dating, or blowjobs. Okay, maybe he has time for blowjobs. Speed/Tony
Disclaimer: I do not own Speed Racer, Iron Man, or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Okay, so this is sort of dumb, but I had writer's block and needed to finish something and rekindle956 suggested something that I couldn't refuse, sooo... this. Yaaay! :D
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Tony — that is, Iron Man — he'd saved a lot of pretty girls. A lot of very pretty girls, who were very thankful, and who, were it not for the thick metal suit between them as he cradled them in his arms or covered them to protect them from explosions, would have been glad to show their thanks in a very physical way.

Sometimes, it made him really hate the suit. Other times, when people were around, it gave him the strength to step back, to reject them so that he doesn't embarrass himself in public or get chiding glares from Pepper. Not that that would have stopped him, really, but ever since that almost-kiss he did sort of feel bad whenever he makes his sexual exploits too obvious in front of her. Nothing had happened, of course; she wasn't too keen on being left alone for hours again, and they had a long talk that was mostly her babbling about how it was a bad idea for a employer-employee relationship and that she liked him a lot but she didn't want to be a fling and a lot of other things that he didn't really listen to, because they all meant "no" and he didn't really like being rejected that much.

In any case, he'd saved a lot of pretty women.

There weren't a lot of guys he'd saved that he would have called pretty — or handsome, or anything like "attractive." It either said something really weird about the universe or something really terrible about him, but it seemed like all the girls he saved were these Amazon types in high heels, whereas all the men were older, balding businessmen.

Because it wasn't that he didn't find men attractive. He just didn't find many of them attractive. He was open-minded. Okay, he was mostly "open-minded" when he'd had more scotch than he could really handle, and Rhodey still reminded him about that night he'd gotten a little too touchy years back. Still, there were occasions when he was sober and still interested.

So he did notice when one of his rescues, some racer whose car had been sabotaged and who was the target of assassins sitting just off the a track running through miles of almost-barren tundra, was a particularly attractive young man, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was a very busy man — a Very Busy Man, in fact — he might've gotten the kid's name, too.

As it was, he was busy, and the next day he'd rescued another buxom blond from a collapsing bridge who'd made his dick hit the inside of his suit and that hurt and made him forget all about the pretty boy.

Until he was heading out to his car, because he was a Very Busy Man with many places to be, and there, down at the end of the driveway, there was a white and red car, too streamlined and sleek to be just a sports car, with that same pretty boy sitting in the front seat. As soon as he looked up and saw Tony, he smiled, big and bright and just like all those pretty girls, and scrambled out of the car. Rhodey wasn't there and Pepper was still inside, so he couldn't help but tense a little, but the kid had nothing but that dopey grin on him. Well, he had his clothes, but— okay, Tony was picturing the kid naked.

"Mr. Stark!" he said as he came close, and Tony noticed he looked a little nervous, actually. "I'm really sorry, to bother you—"

"Look, kid—"

"—but I just wanted to—"

"I don't really have time—"

"—thank you. Please, Mr. Stark. You saved my life."

And something about that, the way the words "thank you" and "please" rolled off those lips, the wide eyes, made Tony pause for a minute.

He was young, but not too young; the lines of his face said he was at least legal. He hoped. His face was open and honest in a way that only naive kids could be, but God if it wasn't a nice face to look at. And his body — did a race car driver really need to be that fit?

He didn't get a chance at most of those pretty girls he saved, and they didn't come to his door, so even though he was supposed to be gone by then, he said, "All right, come on. I don't have a lot of time."

He pulled the kid into his car — the Stark 2 — because he didn't have time for bedrooms and taking off clothes. The seats went all the way back anyway; it was enough.

The kid looked sort of confused as Tony gently pushed him into the seat, reaching down to press the button that made it fall away under him, but he dismissed the look and asked, "What was your name, again?"

"Speed Racer," the kid said, still with that confused look up at him as Tony climbed in, too. "Mr. Stark...?"

"Call me Tony," he said, and thought, What sort of name is "Speed" for... well, anyone? but it didn't matter, because the kid was laid out under him and still looking disappointingly confused. What did he expect, roses and wine?

There wasn't time for anything overly complicated, and since Speed wasn't taking matters into his own hands Tony figured he might as well take them into his. He shut the door and opened Speed's pants, pushing them down with his briefs and ignoring a bit of incoherent babble from the kid, who put his hands on Tony's shoulders like he was maybe going to push away, but then Tony's hand was on his dick and he just squeezed them instead.

The unfortunate thing was that they weren't further down, but it wasn't as though Speed could have reached what he needed to, anyway.

"Mr. St— Tony?" Speed still sounded uncertain, his voice shaky, panting already. It was a little frustrating at that point that he didn't just get that Tony was a Very Busy Man who, although he enjoyed sex as much as the next guy, had places to be and had to hurry through some things.

"Just relax," he said, his free hand on Speed's hip as he began to stroke him, slowly. Speed's hands twitched and squeezed again, and except for a gasp, he seemed to be done talking — for the moment, anyway.

Tony's hand drifted up from Speed's thigh, under that just-a-little-too-tight shirt and over his stomach for a moment, his other hand building speed, his strokes rougher, his thumb brushing the head of Speed's erection. He added a twist, then used his free hand to pull the kid up into a kiss just as rough and quick, threatening to bruise those pretty lips until Speed gasped, letting him lick inside and swallow the moan that followed.

Speed's hands had moved from his shoulders to his back, not quite pulling Tony in, but clenched in the fabric, bunching up the fabric in a way that reminded Tony of what he was wearing and that even if no one would say anything about his disheveled, stained state, they'd whisper about it and Pepper would have some very stern words for him. Maybe a handjob just wasn't in order.

There wasn't a lot of space in front of the seat, but Tony untangled his hand from Speed's hair and reached down, pushing another button and then there was just enough space for him to slide down, a little uncomfortably, between the kid's legs. From there he could lean back just enough to admire Speed's dick, big enough to put a smile on Tony's lips. Speed propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at Tony, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and still with that frustrating confused look lingering in his eyes, even if they were clouded with arousal.

Tony wanted that look gone. He figured the best way to do it was to wipe it off himself; he bent forward and, without any hesitation, wrapped his lips around the head of Speed's dick.

It wasn't something he did often. Or at all, really; most of his sexual encounters with other men involved a lot of hands and rubbing and some ass-grabbing, but he'd been blown by enough women that he figured he had a pretty good idea of how to do it. Speed seemed appreciative enough anyway, making a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat and putting his hands, which he'd fisted at his side when he'd lost his grip on Tony's shirt, into the older man's hair. He wasn't pushing, though he obviously wanted to, the muscles in his hips and thighs twitching. He was just holding on, like it was all he could do, like he'd be lost at sea without something — someone to hold onto.

Tony had one hand on the base of Speed's cock, covering most of what he'd never be able to fit into his mouth — at least not with a hell of a lot more practice — while his other hand held Speed's hip much in the same way the kid held his hair, his thumb moving in a small pattern over his hip.

The feeling wasn't exactly familiar, and Tony sort of wanted to be on the other end of it, but he was hard anyway and he just didn't have the time, so he pushed forward, down, taking as much of Speed in as he could before pulling back, drawing his tongue along the underside, pressing it up slightly when only the head of his dick was still in his mouth.

Speed made that strangled, high-pitched noise again and tightened his fingers in Tony's hair, and Tony figured that was good, or good enough, and went to work, quicking his pace as best he could manage, curling his tongue, the hand on the base of Speed's cock stroking in time, and he wanted to touch himself, to be able to get off quickly too, but Speed couldn't seem to help bucking up and he needed his other hand to keep him down.

Tony looked up, and the confusion was gone from Speed's face, thank God, replaced with a look of reckless bliss, like he'd forgotten he was in the passenger seat of a car and he probably had, which was, really, for the best. His mouth was open, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were closed or just barely opened — Tony couldn't tell, but either way it was good, and his breathing was quick, erratic, and telling of a quick end.

A quick end that came barely a moment later, with little warning, and Tony hadn't really anticipated swallowing to be so difficult. He had a sudden great appreciation for a lot more of the girls who'd gone down on him. He fought back the urge to gag, swallowing one mouthful, but it was still coming, and he swallowed more, as much as he could, but it wasn't good enough and he had to pull away, closing his eyes and wincing as he felt it hit his cheek, come dripping into his beard. So much for this being the cleaner option. But at least it hadn't gotten on his suit, though there was some on the floor and some more on Speed's pants, which were still wide open, Speed still panting as he came down from his sexual high. Tony wiped off his face, then cleared his throat, and Speed jumped up so suddenly at that he might as well have fired a gun.

"I, um," Speed said, fumbling for words and blushing, his eyes on his hands as he jerked up his pants and buttoned them quickly. He looked up, just slightly, not enough to meet Tony's eyes. "Your tie."

Tony looked down. He'd used it to wipe off his face without realizing. Oops. He shrugged and lifted himself up, almost straddling Speed for a moment as he pushed himself into the driver's seat. As Speed fumbled with the chair's buttons, trying to set it upright again, he removed the tie, tossing it into the back seat. "Ties are overrated anyway," he said, and leaned over to get his sunglasses from the glovebox. Speed blushed as the chair shot up, bringing him — and, most important, his dick — that much closer to Tony's hand.

"I, uh," and Tony wondered what the kid could have to say at that point, if he was going to be like one of those girls who didn't get that Tony wasn't really a commitment kind of guy, but then he blurted, "I have a girlfriend."

Tony looked at him, raising an eyebrow because his eyes alone could not properly convey his that is not my problem look with the sunglasses on. "And yet you came here to thank me."

Speed didn't look up from his hands, didn't even add an accusing tone as he said, "Yeah. To offer you a Racer Motors custom, free of charge."

Tony froze, his thoughts coming to a screeching halt, and oh God he was an idiot. "A what?"

"A car, Mr. Stark," Speed said, "but if you don't want it, I—"

Speed looked like he wanted to say more, but his words seemed caught in his throat, and he scrambled out of the car suddenly, taking a few quick steps away before turning back, opening the door again and leaning down but most decidedly staying out of the car.

"You can call Pops if you're interested. In it, I mean. The car." His blush got worse, and he closed the door quickly, hurrying back to his red and white car. He was screeching away a moment later, probably still blushing just as hard.

A car. He'd wanted to thank him with a car. Tony let his head fall against the steering wheel. God, he was such an idiot. And a slut, because he was still hard, and he could barely dredge up any regret about it, and...

He sat there for a long time, and he was half an hour late to the appointment he'd been so intent on keeping.

Selfish Selfless

2008-06-18T05:19:36Z

Title: Selfish Selfless
Type: Fanfiction, One-Shot, Crossover
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Speed just wants to feel good. Speed/Tony
Disclaimer: I do not own Speed Racer, Iron Man, or any related plots and characters. They are the property of others who, as I have previously stated, are not myself. I am merely writing this for fun, and have no intention of using it for profit.
Notes: Written for the IJ Porn Battle, round four. Ficstrubation, 'cause it's for my own prompt. I just really, really wanted some Tony/Speed.
Crosspost: AdultFanfiction.net

Tony laughed as he hit the bed, his shirt gone and his pants undone. He had underestimated the kid.

He'd met Speed twice before; Tony liked fast cars and the competitive energy of the sport, and he had no problem admitting that his favorite parts were always when someone was breaking the rules. It happened often enough to keep him entertained, and he was important enough to be invited as a guest of honor to some of the Malibu races. He met the racers at the parties afterwards, and that was how he'd met Speed, who he had immediately thought of as innocent, naive, and inexperienced.

As it turned out, the only push the kid had needed really get going was a drink. He'd been reluctant to accept it, saying something about how he was underaged and wanted to keep his head clear, but apparently he and his girl had just split, and it didn't take long to convince him that it was okay.

Not that Tony had been trying to get him in bed, or that Speed was even really drunk. He'd only had one drink, after all, and that couldn't be enough for even him to be lost to it.

Tony normally didn't sleep with men — or with anyone who looked as virginal as Speed Racer did at that party — but Speed had asked to see his car, and when they were both there in the front seat, his hands were insistent and his lips were begging Tony please, please and how could he say no?

The thrum of the motor seemed to make Speed hornier, and by the time they'd reached the Stark home he was massaging Tony's thigh and breathing loudly through his nose, trying to keep himself contained.

Once they were through the door, he let himself loose, pushing and pulling Tony until he found the bedroom.

Most of Tony's lovers after Afghanistan had been disconcerted by electromagnet, or mildly curious at first and then uninterested. A few had pretended it wasn't there, as though it was a favor to him to pretend he didn't have a circle of glowing metal in the center of his chest.

But as Speed leaned over him, his hand working its way into Tony's pants, he licked at the edge of it, breathing over where metal met flesh. He seemed fascinated, fingers ghosting over it as his other hand held Tony's cock, stroking slowly.

"Kid," Tony said, trying to bring his attention back to more important matters than the battery in his chest. "Speed."

Speed looked up at smiled at him, apologetic and sly. "Do you have anything to...?"

Tony rolled over and reached into the top drawer of his bedside table — the easiest place to reach in an emergency, of course — for a small tube and a condom, which were quickly snatched from his hands.

For a moment he was afraid he would have to come up with some excuse, because as ready as he was to fuck the beautiful man in his bed, he was not quite ready to be fucked just yet, Speed put the condom on his dick, and after coating his fingers in the lube he smiled, looked up briefly, and reached back, inserting the tip of one finger into himself slowly.

Watching the kid fuck himself on his fingers was — well, it was amazing. Hotter than he might've thought. Not that he hadn't seen it before, with women who wanted to get to it fast, who were in too much of a hurry to put on a show, but Speed wasn't even doing it for Tony, he was doing it for himself and it showed on his face, in the twitch of his dick, in the clenching of muscles throughout his body when he inserted another finger, another yet, in the way he held his breath for a moment and then let it out in short, hard pants. Tony had to take himself in hand, wished he could feel what Speed was feeling, stroking himself and watching. Speed's head was bowed down, his hair falling into his eyes, and they were separate.

Then Speed looked up, caught his gaze, and they weren't.

He pulled out his fingers, batting away Tony's hand and replacing it with his own, slicking him with excess lube — beginner's mistake, he used too much, but at least it was smarter than using too little — and crawling over him, straddling his stomach and leaning down to breath those hot little pants over his lips. For a moment Tony thought he had something to say, but he just paused, licked his lips, and sat up, one hand on Tony's chest, the other guiding Tony's dick, and sank down, groaning.

It was relief, like a breath after being underwater, and Tony inhaled deeply, hands moving up to grab, touch, hold, but Speed stopped him, grabbing one wrist and silently telling him no. He rose on his knees, slowly, until Tony was almost all the way out of him, and then sank down again, quicker, and let go of the hand. Tony grabbed the back of his bed, preparing to be ridden, closing his eyes in anticipation.

Speed rode him like no girl had before; he had the constant reminder of his partner's sex through the bob of his cock, the strong thighs almost holding him in place, the low, guttural, masculine noises he made. Tony strained up, thrusting to meet him, but kept his hands in place, resisting the urge to put his hands on Speed's legs, stomach, cock, ass, anywhere on that body.

Speed was no sex god, but he was selfish in the most selfless way, focusing on his own pleasure almost like Tony wasn't there, but keeping his eyes open, watching every reaction, and God, what made Speed feel good really worked for Tony. Speed fed off that, and when Tony closed his eyes for a second and grunted, his knuckled going white, Speed grabbed hold of his dick, pumping himself in time to his motion on Tony's. Before long he was coming, but even as he started getting that tired, glazed, post-orgasmic look in his eyes, he rode Tony, clenching his muscles just there, running his hands up Tony's stomach through his own semen, brushing his nipples, leaning forward just slightly and clenching again, and—

"Fuck." Tony thrust up once more, and then he was done, or undone, and Speed kissed him for the first time since their clothes had come off, licking into his mouth and reminding him in yet another way that he wasn't just another girl. He rose up, off, and rolled to Tony's side.

Tony noticed his arms were a bit sore as he pulled off the condom and tossed it into the trash bin under the beside table, wondering, for a moment, if he was going to regret it all in the morning. Usually regrets only happened when he was really drunk, and usually in the form of a too-clingy girl.

"Wanna go again, Mr. Stark?" Speed asked, and despite the look in his eyes he wasn't really tired — not tired enough to not ask that, anyway. Tony pushed the possibility of regret aside, figuring he was screwed either way, and leaned over Speed.

"Absolutely."

---

Rhodey was already there when he woke up. Since Afghanistan and "I am Iron Man" and that whole fiasco, he'd taken to meeting Tony at home when he had to escort him somewhere. He waited with Pepper, passing the time by struggling to find something not related to Tony to discuss with her.

"You look like someone rode you like a cowboy last night," he commented, giving Tony a small smile. He allowed a little unprofessionalism in the mornings. Well, a little more than usual. "As always."

Tony Stark did not blush and he did not stammer, so he chose to ignore Rhodey's comment instead. "I won't be ready to leave for another hour. At least."

"Of course," Rhodey replied, rolling his eyes. "When are you ever on time?"

Pepper, who had long since packed everything for him, stepped forward, not looking up from the checklist she'd already gone through three times. "Would you like me to inform your guest that she—"

But she didn't have a chance to finish, interrupted by a too-cheery "Good morning!" from the vicinity of Tony's bedroom door. They all three turned, and there was Speed Racer, shirtless and mussed. Tony was pretty sure he heard something crack in Rhodey's brain, and even Pepper looked surprised.

"You're up," Tony said, simply, trying to not be disappointed. Somehow it wasn't that hard.

"I'm a light sleeper," Speed explained, pulling on his shirt and he came up to Tony's side. "And, uh, I should probably call my parents."

Tony could have sworn he heard another crack, but no one else seemed to have noticed. In another situation, he would have wanted photographic evidence of the look on Rhodey's face. He didn't think expressions like that were possible.

"And here is our cowboy," he said, clapping a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Pepper, Rhodey, I believe you're familiar with Speed Racer?"