White Collar. June/Neal. PG-13. ~500 words.

Not the least bit the shark, but more the hound, lean and earnest, eager for the chase and with just enough of a bite to make it prudent to run.

Sugar

“Good morning, Neal.” Though he’d hardly stirred when the coffee service had been set down or when June had taken her seat, Neal straightened at the sound of her voice. “I know Peter’s got you on a schedule, but up at the same time two days in a row? That’s not like you.”

His attention shaken free from the morning headlines, his smile dawned as dazzling as always. “Morning, June. Twice is coincidence.” He folded the newspaper crisply and set it well to the side, all his focus switching to the moment and her.

June’s heart beat a little faster as she slid a smile right back across the table. It was a dangerous game she played, riding the edge between being charmed and forgetting the fact, but there were some things that deserved the ‘just like riding a bicycle’ adage.

“Sugar for your coffee?” She nudged the dish forward with a fingertip. Neal seemed the type to have a sweet tooth, a vice he could indulge in amongst company and keep whatever other bad habits he had at bay.

“Thank you.” Neal forged sincerity better than anything. Soft in a way her husband never was, the truth leaked into his words to lend them weight and yet proved as damning as only the truth could. Byron had loved her, certainly, but he’d had the instincts of a shark and it showed in his every smile. In all her dealings with Neal, she hadn’t seen a glimmer of anything near as sharp. An entirely different sort of thrill, it was a bit refreshing, to be honest.

“Don’t hold back, take another.”

Neal’s gaze flickered away the dark mirror of the coffee and he grasped another sugar cube with the tongs, dropping it delicately into his cup. He watched her as he stirred. “You spoil me.”

“Of course I do.” June poured herself a cup to match, thanking Neal as he passed the sugar back. “And I enjoy it too, or else you wouldn’t be taking in the view.”

Neal raised his cup, smile lost in a sip. “That was a prime opening for flattery,” he said, attention still keenly fixed on her as if she were all that existed in his universe. Not the least bit the shark, but more the hound, lean and earnest, eager for the chase and with just enough of a bite to make it prudent to run. “June, I believe I’m starting to see your angle.”

“Not everyone needs an angle, darling.”

“But everyone has one.” Neal abandoned his coffee as carefully and precisely as he had the paper. He rolled his shoulders and ran his fingers down the lapel of the suit that had fit so keenly without needing any help from a tailor’s needle. “Unless you’re trying to tell me that all you’re looking for are a few trite words tossed across the table.”

June smiled demurely as he rose from his seat. She plucked a cube from the dish and popped it straight into her mouth, the too-sweet crunch of it dissolving quickly but not absent from her tongue when Neal leaned in, lips shivering near the corner of her mouth. His breath fanned warm across her cheek, inviting her to turn into a kiss, but her patience outlasted Neal’s and as expected he came begging for the sugar on her tongue.

Supernatural. John/OFC. NC-17. 650 words. Daddykink.

It’s furtive and anonymous in a way that makes his chest hurt with loss.

She Calls Him Daddy

She calls him daddy, wraps her arms around him and makes a little mewling sound when he drags down her panties to find her slippery wet. He spreads the folds of her cunt with his fingers and she wriggles, goes up on her tiptoes and gives him a dirty little smile.

She’s not that much younger than him, but he knows the past few years have weighed heavily on him. At the start, smelling smoke with every breath, he’d gone for long stretches without eating, went gaunt thin even while fixing three meals a day to keep his boys fed. Later, once he’d learned how to handle a knife against things that weren’t human, well, each of those hunts had left their mark, too.

This girl, she’s soft and smooth in his hands in a way that Mary had never felt, because back then, he’d seen war and horror but it hadn’t sunk into his bones. He’d been soft, innocent about what creeps around in the shadows, and a daytime fuck may have been rushed but never desperate like this: Furtive and anonymous in a way that makes his chest hurt with loss.

He wrenches his thoughts from that path, takes a handful of the girl’s ass and lifts her up easily to perch her on the edge of a battered old desk. The shades are drawn in the tiny office but light is still pouring in, bright slices of it striping across her prim little waitress dress.

“Ooh, daddy, you’re so big,” she says, her fingers snaking around his cock and tugging it free.

So innocent, he thinks. Not in the way she strokes him as she rolls on the rubber, definitely not in the way she teases the head of his cock near the slickness of her cunt, but for everything else. “Can you take me, babydoll?” he asks.

She licks her lips to a sheen and John almost doesn’t wait for an answer. “Start off slow,” she says.

“Always do.” Only like any first time, holding back is going to be a chore. He lets her settle his cock ready to enter, nudge her hips and hook her legs around him. He focuses instead on the buttons of her dress, tugging them open gently while every rise and fall of her chest seems to offer up her tits. They’re small enough to fit straight in his palm, and he already knows from feeling her up that she’s not even wearing a fucking bra.

“Ready, baby?”

A full-body shiver runs through her, and he pushes aside the open front of her dress as he nudges his hips forward, slides easily enough into the tightness of her body. Each successive thrust gets him deeper, and a pleasant sort of glow floods through him at the way she holds to him, muffles moans against his chest and shudders each time he rolls the pad of his thumb over a taut nipple.

“You want your daddy to get you off first?”

The girl nods, squeezes her cunt around him, and John doesn’t care anymore about trying to remember whatever had been on her nametag. Stops worrying about his boys wasting time in the arcade. Doesn’t give a shit about the bodies piling up in the woods outside town. There’s only this, and he hushes her with a kiss as he pulls out and drops down to his heels. Her skin is pale and smooth in contrast to his hands as he shoves her legs wide and tongues a kiss on the warm spread of her hole, fucked open and wet. He kisses up to her clit, sucks and licks, and breathes in the sweet scent of her.

She calls him daddy and he brings her off fast and hard, her thighs still shaking when he fucks back into her and finds his own moment’s peace.

*

End

She is everything that he is and everything that he is not.

The Push of Bones

With months since their last tryst, it is only fitting that Nuada spend a full day to learn his sister anew. He consecrates her to memory as she is at this moment and she is perfect. She moves like the sea beneath his hands, rising smoothly until her back is curved as sweetly as the trembling O of her mouth. With her lips parted just so, on a cry as high and clear as a bell, she slides back into the swirl of sheets.

“So very lovely,” he says. Milk-pale thighs close to trap his wrist and he lays kisses like a litany of prayers down the very centre of Nuala’s chest. Each fading shiver of her pleasure echoes inside him, and he holds to them like the most precious of favours.

The sheen of sweat graces both their forms, the smell of their repeated coupling heavy in the closed air of the bedchambers. His prick rests limp and spent between them with nothing left to give and still he is greedy for the softness of her. Her skin that should be no different than his own.

To know the discrepancies go deeper, into the push of bones that shape the base curves of Nuala’s form. It maddens him. Long has it been since they could swap clothes and play merry with guards; members of court; their own kin. That he can not slip on the mantle of her identity, makes her all the more precious to him.

“How pure you are.”

“No more pure than you.” She sets her hand upon his cheek, her smile as benevolent and welcoming as her body.

He mirrors the smile—lips in the same gentle curve, teeth as white and straight—while anger festers like a putrid wound beneath the mask of his face. How foolish she is, how very blind she must be not to sense the sick writhing of his rage. The consuming desire to pattern her with bruises so he might live with the ache of it for days.

Only the threat of her weeping holds him in check. With each passing year she grows more beautiful in ways he can not cultivate, and so he strengthens his swordarm and tempers his fury in the salle. She is everything that he is and everything that he is not, and she should not pretend otherwise.

“More so, dear sister,” he insists, renewing his waning smile. He nuzzles a kiss at the dip of her navel and closes his eyes to impress her upon his memory by touch and scent alone. “Pure as new fallen snow, or a twinkling star shining brighter than all the rest in the canopy of the nighttime sky.”

“Hardly,” she says. Her fingernails scratch along his scalp as she buries her fingers in his hair. She twists the strands around her fingers, and her eyes drift shut as the dully pleasurable sensation spreads to her own skin. “For if I rest amongst the heavens than you must not be far, shining with an equivalent light.”

Nuada lays his head upon Nuala’s chest, his hurt going unfelt by his sister. In the chiming echo of her laugh, he forgives her even her falsehoods.

*

End

The baby’s always so peaceful afterwards, she’s told him, and that’s something with how much the kid likes to kick.

A Glow and a Hush

The bed rocks gently in time with their bodies. Mary’s solid and warm in his arms, her back curved against his chest and her feet tucked up near his knees.

The baby’s always so peaceful afterwards, she’s told him, and that’s something with how much the kid likes to kick. The baby’s almost due, Dena for a girl, Dean for a boy, and it’s hard to think about that and about how her warm body clenches around him at the same time. Mary hasn’t lost her sex drive yet though, and she’s only grown more lush and beautiful with each successive week. In the tangle of post-coital sheets she glows like they say a mother should, and John looks forward to seeing that as much as he’d loved watching her before they got pregnant, when she’d sprawl panting and grinning after a rough go.

“Going to come?” he asks. He levers himself up enough to brush aside a messy lock of hair from her forehead and tease a kiss along the soft shell of her ear.

“Not if you stop,” Mary says, cheeks pinked. Now it’s easier for her when they spoon, but even a few short weeks ago, she preferred being on top of him, riding him at her own pace, her breasts and hair swaying.

“If I don’t stop for a bit, I’ll come,” John admits. The swell of Mary’s breast is heavy as he slides his hand to cup the fullness of it, and when a thin trickle of watery milk leaks from the tip, he rubs it into her skin. She twitches at that, hips jerking back to seat him deeper inside her.

He does it again, and she moans and twists, offers her mouth up for a kiss which he manages just barely. “Any day now,” he says, and feels her smile. She’s anxious too, he knows, but he’s never met a woman stronger than her.

“Give me your hand,” she tells him, and he slides his fingers over hers, tangles them together into a fierce knot. He holds his breath when she drags their hands down, brushing the roundness of her belly and the curve of her hip. “Use your fingers if you don’t want to move much.”

John knows an order when he hears one and slides his hand between the press of her thighs, wriggles his fingers between the wet folds of her cunt to rub them slick and find her clit. Mary sucks in a shallow breath, her hands fisting in the sheets. John feels her toes curl, the soles of her feet skidding down his shins, and the way it makes her shift against and around him sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his spine.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says. She laughs a little between a moan, not wanting to accept the compliment, but it’s true so he tells her again, murmurs it against the bare skin of her shoulder as he works his hips into the same rhythm as his fingers.

“John, I-” Mary jerks, her mouth falling open and a small sound forced out of her by the next thrust that gets John bottoming out, their bodies sealed together for a fraction of a moment.

“Almost there?” John can feel that she’s close with the way she’s gone tense, but he asks anyway, and she really is so goddamn gorgeous with her lips parted and the flush of sex tinting her cheeks pink. It’s tough not to just wrap his arms around her, crush her in a hug with her breasts plump and leaking under his arms. Tougher not to bite at her shoulder, fuck into her harder than he is, trap her arms and make her moan and squirm on his cock.

“No, John, I think I….”

“Baby?” he asks, going still, but his concern can’t stop the groan that had been building up his throat. For a heartstop moment Mary feels fragile.

“I think I, you know, peed a little,” she says.

John wants to laugh, but holds it back, kisses the nearest patch of Mary’s skin and slides his fingers down to feel where she’s so very wet that he wouldn’t be able to tell if she had. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. The baby pushes on her bladder so much that as long as he doesn’t have to do a full load of sheets every few hours, he doesn’t much care. “Really want to stop to take a bathroom break?”

“Not really.”

“That’s my girl.” He finds his rhythm again, and the interruption hadn’t been enough to kick Mary off her stride and leave her frustrated. She shudders as John strokes her to orgasm, cries out when it peaks, the sheets in a crumple next to her as she clutches to them and her cunt pulses around his cock.

John finishes a little harder than he means, hand slid away from the trap of her thighs to settle on her hip and squeeze fitfully as the slam of orgasm hits him. Breathless, he drops his head to the pillow before pulling out and getting ready to help her up and to the bathroom. With the sheets already a mess, he wipes off his thighs, and Mary has a tendency to get really wet, but this is definitely more than that. He’s about to tease her, trail his fingertips up the wetness on her legs and maybe curve his fingers inside her and feel the hot mess of his come still trapped in her, but she shifts and it’s not just a spill of his come spreading onto the sheets.

“Oh God,” she says, and it’s embarrassment in her voice and not panic.

Right now, John has the corner on panic. It’s about a one in ten chance, he knows, since he’s read all the same books with her, and gone to the classes with the breathing and the other first-time couples. “Your water,” he says, and as she sits up the wet spot spreads just a bit more.

“Oh God,” she repeats, and she’s as nervous as he is, but she’s laughing too, her hands curling over her stomach. This would be, without a doubt, one of those things that wasn’t going in the baby book.

*

End

Or download as a .mov (21mb).

Music by the Bon Savants whom I highly recommend. Clips taken from throughout season one.

Grim-faced, he stalks her in her dreams.

Dawn Approaches

Grim-faced, he stalks her in her dreams. Sansa flees through endless corridors of rough-hewn stone, down spiral steps that descend for miles, over fields cloaked grey with mist. Always she runs with only two feet beneath her, stumbling and never fast enough.

“Sing.”

As in waking, her voice eludes her, lodged frozen in her chest. She dreads the nights that the Hound catches her as much as the nights that stretch on, empty of everything save the terror that she can not bear to face in the light of day.

“Pretty as a peach,” he says, big arms swooping around her from behind. She squirms and his laugh is most cruel in the way it starts a shiver low in her body, warmth pooling in the wake and spreading like syrupy poison through her blood.

Sansa hazily remembers other dreams of running, when she flew with four legs that ate the distance and where she never felt alone.

“And how do you taste?” The Hound lifts her skirts and she falls, a dizzy descent from the cell where she had seen Lysa fly. How free she is for just this moment. How terrified of dying. Almost she loses her fear and welcomes the ground reaching up to swallow her. It is then that he catches her, saves her with his arms tight around her, solid and strong and real enough that wetness finds her face as easily as it finds her core.

Beneath the blankets, her body has woken before her. Her sex is flush, slick between her legs, and her breasts are tight and tingling. She aches and yet she can not risk pleasuring herself with Petyr nestled so close.

Quietly and carefully, Sansa wipes her face. Dawn approaches.

*

End

In the great big list of worst times to think of Walter, this holds the number one spot.

Tangled

He thinks of Walter at the worst times. It’s no surprise, but in the great big list of worst times to think of Walter, this holds the number one spot.

“Give me a second.” Peter opens his eyes to reorient himself to time and place. He flexes his hands, one after the other, and takes in slow, measured breaths. His skin feels two sizes too tight, and he thinks that if there is a next time, he’ll insist on restraints. They won’t help keep him anchored, but they’ll keep him from worrying what to do with his hands.

“Is it too much?” Olivia’s concern is enough to force up the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile.

“No, it’s fine.” It’s a lie in all the right ways, and he hopes Olivia recognises that. In some ways it really is too much–the crash of sensation, the way its difficult to untangle the mix of hard and soft that is Olivia on the best days let alone now when she’s got him pinned to the bed with a few inches of silicone thrust up inside him.

Just thinking it to himself starts getting him hard again. Initial penetration hadn’t been easy, but even if it pains him to admit that Walter had been right, Peter knew that he had trust issues. The smile threatens to develop into a laugh. Even now it’s too tough to let down all the walls, and besides, he’s busy mentally underlining number one worst time possible.

“It’s okay,” he says, and gets a glimpse in Olivia’s eyes of the same sort of uncertainty that twists in his chest. He reaches up to touch her face, stroke his thumbs over the flush of arousal that pinks her cheeks. “Keep going.”

Her weight seems slight and yet she bears him into the mattress. The rhythm she sets nearly sends him floating again, succeeds in turning everything around them hazy and indistinct. Peter keeps his eyes open, focuses entirely on Olivia and how he wants to kiss her so badly it stings in the back of his throat. This he knows she can read with the way her eyes scrunch closed. A whine rises in Olivia’s throat before a harsh gasp of pleasure cuts it short. She’s bottomed out in him, mouth finding its way from slack surprise to exhilaration. She stays for a moment at the peak of the thrust, harness grinding against her clit. Now more than kissing her, Peter wants to sneak a hand down to where she stretches him open and the slickness of lube mingles with her wetness.

He keeps his hands cradling her face, stays pliant beneath her and bites his lip. Olivia fucks him slow, with purpose, and her eyes open only to slide shut when she shifts to hold her weight on one hand to lift the other and clasp Peter’s wrist. Turning her face into his palm, Olivia presses a kiss there, folds his fingers down over it like a keepsake.

“Thanks,” he says, and is surprised when she curls over him, breasts warm and soft against his chest.

Olivia whispers, “You’re welcome,” straight against his lips. Her mouth hovers there, trembling, and Peter knows they’ve got a long way to go but unlike everything around them that’s one thing at least that’s natural.

*

End

There are moments when Sansa can be herself.

Small Pleasures

The deep hush of the Eyrie coupled with the rush of wind along banners that were ever in need of mending. She could think of herself as Sansa at these moments, defying Petyr and the cautionary logic of his plans. She couldn’t be two people at once, but here with only the hush and the wind, perhaps it would be all right.

She affirmed this in a whisper as she settled down on the hard stone floor of her bedchambers, the fine full skirts of her late aunt’s dress piled high around her in peaked folds, a rippled range of velveteen mountains that surrounded her as snugly as the Vale. In the morning her knees might be bruised from her carelessness, a pattern of ugly dark splotches that Arya wouldn’t care about showing the world but which would linger embarrassingly on Sansa’s fair skin.

Sansa closed her eyes tight, her lashes squeezed together so hard and so long she could feel her face aching from the strain. There might not be another night like this for a while, when Robert was asleep in his own bed and Petyr’s watchful gaze didn’t seem to peer past her skin. There would be no thinking of Arya tonight, not when she had such precious little time. Tonight was for no one else. One of the Stark daughters was lost for certain, she couldn’t bear for her mother to lose her Sansa as well.

The stone was not the same as Winterfell’s, but hollow and chill as it was, she could pretend. As meticulous as a row of stitches, she recounted all the best moments she could summon up. One by one she lost herself in memories that had remained unspoiled when everything that she had believed was right and true had shattered. Goodness remained, and not all stories could possibly be mired in falsehoods.

Tonight she found it more difficult to spin that delicate lattice about herself, the spots as bright as gems dulled by a restlessness she’d only just begun to associate with her flowering. In a week she guessed she would bleed again, and for days she would find her body a strange thing to be trapped in, full of sensations that lingered on the very edges of fulfillment. She should have felt like this upon her wedding night, her breasts aching for the touch of her husband as they lay upon the marriage bed.

Only they had married her to the Imp, who was more ugly even than the Hound.

The hand she’d moved from smoothing her skirts to petting lightly at the peak of her thighs stilled and she bit the inside of her cheek. Why should her own flesh betray her like this, with its sudden clench and rush of heat. To do so again when she couldn’t help but remember the way he had wanted to kiss her. Sansa’s teeth now caught her lip, how different such a kiss would be than the one Petyr claimed.

He could be gentle, she knew, and yet she still feared him. Would he take her by the arms and kiss her fiercely? She imagined he would, and hold her arms so tight to her body she could do nothing but squirm as he forgot her mouth in favour of her breasts.

The tips of her fingers fluttered between her legs, coaxing wetness from her. She rocked gently, no longer caring about the stones or the bruises it would bring. If the Hound had been her husband, if she was Sansa Clegane tonight she would have more to show than a few mottled marks. Her neck would be purpled by kisses, the high flush in her cheeks praised by kind words that he kept hidden. He would surround her and fill her and she would be less afraid.

She shuddered when the tightness in her grew unbearable and vanished all at once, euphoric and beautiful and perfect like everything that should have been.

“Were I your little bird,” she said, and her words seemed even weaker than when his blade had touched her throat. “I would sing for you now.”

Outside, the banners rippled and snapped and frayed in the endless wind. Tomorrow, Alayne would have mending to do.

*

End