alonimi
SciFi & Chill [Closed] - Printable Version

+- alonimi (https://alonimi.net)
+-- Forum: Contemporary (https://alonimi.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=71)
+--- Forum: Las Ballenas (https://alonimi.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=88)
+--- Thread: SciFi & Chill [Closed] (/showthread.php?tid=669)

Pages: 1 2

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - danixiewrites - 02-22-2016

Dudley could lose himself in this.

In the way Desmond's lips softened under his.
In the taste of hot spice.
In the taking, the giving.
Fuck.

He ground against the other man's thigh, shifting so the hot brands between them brushed, sizzled. Barely restraining himself from bucking harder as the jack-of-all-trades dug blunt nails into his flesh. A need-filled groan rumbled up from his chest. A tiny bite of pain, one tiny bite enough to get swallowed up by, enough to make his heart thunder in his ears.

What would Desmond think, if he knew how fucked up things could get? How fucked up his life was, how very much Dudley didn't deserve this, didn't deserve sinking in deep, didn't deserve anything special?

He shoved the doubts away as roughly as he twined his tongue around Desmond's, needing the other man closer still, and really fucking naked. Now. Dudley did a number on his center of gravity, leaning into Desmond as much as the other man had, his knees shaking from the intensity he poured into kiss after kiss. He dragged his teeth along Dudley's lower lip and pressed the heel of his hand into the small of his back. But no sooner had he positioned his fingers to massage scalp underneath those damned adorable x-ray goggles than he felt Desmond lose his footing.

Fucking shit, they were falling.

It didn't matter that there was a floor, that he'd take Desmond's weight and likely be in a delicious position with the dark-haired pilot sprawled over him and not taking so much as a bump. No, Dudley registered "loss of balance" as "danger". Instinct took over before he thought to ask permission.

Teleportation was not easy mid-heavy make out session, including another body, and aboard a moving object. There was the visualization, the calculation, the blasted worry that he'd fuck up and be embedded halfway in the control panel. The extra calculations took time, mostly because he'd been so desperately kissing Desmond he'd sort of lost track of the ship layout. So they were in pocketspace longer than he wanted. Microseconds, perhaps, but long enough that the ends of Desmond's hair crisped and his own spikes were probably solid again, too.

That shit was cold. It froze lungs, stole breath, and for anyone not used to popping in and out of it, it could be damned terrifying. Endless black, nothing under your feet, no way to tell up from down.

Out the other side, things were like searing heat. They tumbled into a padded chair, Desmond hugged tight to his front and spread to straddle his lap. Fuckfuckfuck it could've gone so wrong fuck. "Oh fuck, Desmond," he said, regretted the not-an-apology as his breath came out vapor. He gripped the other man's hips hard and pressed his forehead to his chest. "Not really the time to show off my badass superpowers."

Bravado instead of reassurance, cockiness instead of concern, and so much of it so Desmond wouldn't see how freaked out by the sudden transport Dudley had been. If they'd been in pocketspace for microseconds, it took less than that to realize his cock was completely unaffected by its pressures. It might even have been markedly happier, pinned as it was now by Desmond's crotch.

"Next time ask," he growled, as if his stumble hadn't been an accident. "Nothing tests a man's focus like thinking about sucking cock while he's trying to make sure he doesn't 'Port his lover into a damned parachute-less skydive."

Too much. He'd given away too much. Fuck, what if Desmond wasn't into it anymore, the pocketspace too jarring for him to handle? Reluctantly, he pulled his head back and electric blue eyes stared hopefully upward.

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - Blade - 03-05-2016

Desmond was not alien to reciprocation; however, to be fair, he was pretty limited on the whole ‘sleeping around’ thing. The fixer tended to prefer liaisons that lasted—that meant something in terms of a relationship. More often that naught he unintentionally happened upon the ones that didn’t last, didn’t mean something; however, like most everyone in the realm of the dating sphere, he like to pretend—if not attempt—that something more permanent was going on. It wasn’t his fault that everyone leaned toward serial monogamy. And damnit if he hadn’t been angling for Dudley for a while—hoping against impossible hope that something more might come of his carefully planned meetings—his insane reasons for keeping a job that paid far less than what he was worth just to interact with the barista. Silly? Delusional? Maybe. But... but... Desmond didn’t mind being the hopeless romantic type, the one that held onto little things. Not when the most revered aspect of his parents’ marriage had been all the little things—the glue—that held then together.

Yes, the stupid kissey faces and idiotic gifts.

He wanted that.

He couldn’t say he loved Dudley, but he be damning himself to lie if he said he didn’t want to. It would be impossibly easily to fall for him, to take care of him, to make life easier for him. For Dudley... he paused mentally... for Dudley he would forget about the rules he held himself him in—the desire to make a name for himself. He just... Desmond wanted to give him everything, as stupid, as simplistic, and as naive as that was; for him, for Desmond, that was love. And he was... he didn’t know. It was ridiculous and insane and he couldn’t help it. It was so hard to keep it in. There was just... something broken, beautiful, an enigmatic about Dudley. Desmond liked to silently think that the man, the one who held his admiration, really had no idea how amazing he was—how beautiful he was. He’d laugh at him, probably—that was his greatest fear.

To not have all that he felt for Dudley returned. He refused to admit the lump in his heart was love simply because he didn’t know enough and he needed more. Lust, sure, but Desmond needed to more to confirm all that his heart swelled with—all that it knew that he could not accept or admit openly just yet based on a few passing interactions—was real.

Surely, he would be denied—surely Dudley would laugh at the very idea of Desmond’s child-like passion of love at first sight. He... he couldn’t bear it. He was far too emotional, too expressive, too earnest to pretend that everything would be ok. And yet...

How long could he hold out without saying something?

Fuck, his mind breathed, they were falling. But not just falling to the floor of his ship—that might have been ok. He would have apologized with a few words and a dash of red across the bridge of his nose. Mostly because he was embarrassed and mostly because he should have been better.

He just... damn him if he didn’t forget common sense around Dudley. Machine-minded? Sure. Genius. Perfect etiquette. Dudley? Forget it. All wobble and no class. Maybe he should have asked his mother for advice during that call...

He felt the other man tense and immediately felt awful. Then he felt the shift from one realm to another. He inhaled sharply, taking in cold and embracing the man in his arms more so as a result. He couldn’t help it. He’d been here before, once or twice, but Desmond had issue with things he couldn’t ...control. Which wasn’t the best way to word it. He didn’t mind relinquishing control; rather, it was the utter lack of problem solving in the moment that set him on edge—made him tense. He just had to breathe—remind himself to breathe.

“It’s ok” he said automatically as the other man held him close—most effectively distracted by said closeness. “It was my fault—I think. I just... I didn’t... I didn’t calculate what might occur in terms of my own weight, motion, in relation to yours for...” he trailed off, half wondering if that was enough to explain and half thinking how he might have done it all better. Which was difficult to consider in math terms with Dudley’s head pressed against this chest—with his hard cock pressed to his very center.

Blushing—lots of blushing he had no way of hiding. More so, as it was with Dudley, his libido was equally unaffected. But the closeness... How he had dreamed... fuck. Ignore the romance novel drivel.

Ignore!

Emerald-amber hues became curtained, became draped in thick brown lashes as he embraced the other man with one arm---sliding it between the seat and his back to grip and hold. The other wove into oceanic blue strands, taking and digging into his scalp with soft scrape.

“Sorry...” he murmured against his forehead, lips pushing hair out of the way and half pressing into erratic strands. “I didn’t mean to...” he trailed off again, unsure, wanting, and scared. “I just...” The blush reached his ears as he dug nails into his back and didn’t quite meet his gaze when he pulled back; amber-green dashed to the side, downward.

“I’m ok,” he managed gently, inhaling once—more like a sniff than inhale. In a way he was terrified; not by the transport, cold and chilled as it made him for a moment, but by the very notion of rejection. The grip on Dudley’s scalp lessened. “I’m fine,” he promised again, not entirely sure who he was trying to convince in light of the scolding.

Damn... is this how he was supposed to feel? Lost, entwined, and entirely out of sorts? His heart on the verge of nose-diving into an abyss?

Maybe...

He shook once with it, eyes closing and jaw clenching.

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - danixiewrites - 04-15-2016


"You think so damned much," Dudley murmured against Desmond's collarbone, his lips brushing skin. A bite would've been quite nice--but not if he'd traumatized the other man with that fucking idiotic teleport.

The grip in his hair felt like a claim. No, more an anchor to the present space, not a continuation of kisses, though as he slid back in the chair he was pleased the impromptu trip hadn't dulled the other man's libido either. The way Desmond's lips brushed over his skin though...a cool compress. Grounding, somehow, though they were miles up in the stratosphere.

Comfort.

For who?

Dudley wasn't sure what comfort was, exactly, lacked experience with its concept in every way that counted, but whatever this was, here, with Desmond safe from destruction-by-teleport in his lap...it eased him. On the heels of what could've been a major screw-up the broken words made him come back out of his head. Dissolved all the what-could-have-happened worst case scenarios and calculations that hadn't happened--that would never happen, if he ever gave his instincts credit.

Thank everything good on the planet he hadn't fucked up his life even more and dropped them both into the clouds.

Fine, Desmond had said: fine, okay.

It wasn't a green light, not when his sweet jack-of-all-trades gave a little quiver. Fear? Not desire, not quite, no matter his own dick's thoughts on the matter. Yeah, Dudley had fucked this up. Still...they had all night. The attraction on his side sure wasn't going anywhere any fucking time soon and it sure as shit wasn't adrenaline that kept him hard. It could have been in Desmond's case though. If the other man needed a breather, he wouldn't push. Too much.

He let his head fall back on the chair as Desmond's grip eased. Rose tones burnished his cheeks and coasted up over the bridge of his nose. A faint trail that fired toward the tips of his ears, barely in sight under the edges of his curls. Cinnamon, spice, everything--Dudley cut his thoughts off even as his lips dragged upward in one corner.

"You're doing it again," he said, not specifying whether he meant the incomplete sentences, the blushing, or the way Desmond had of being too sweet for his own good. Any other man in Dudley's life would've been cussing him out for the lack of warning, not curling into him like this. Not apologizing for something that wasn't even his damned fault.

One hand slid under Desmond's soft blue t-shirt and kneaded cords of muscle, tight with tension, skin he really wanted to taste. The other hand brushed over a reddened cheek as he stared into his eyes. "Easy, babe. We're good."

Fine, okay.

Good.

Take a fucking breath, Dudley.

As if he'd take his own advice. His hand dropped, looped into Desmond's denim waistband. As his thumb toyed with the metal button, he pressed his lips to Desmond's throat and kissed up the taut column of muscle. "Let me show you how good."

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - Blade - 06-12-2016

He blinked at that, at the accusation that he lived in his own head too much. Hadn’t Seb said as much many times before? Hadn’t his other exes? His mind wove into half a dozen other scenarios as it was wont to do—innately made to assess, resolve, and execute the best solution. But relationships, people, they weren’t like fixing a broken pipe or rewiring a panel. Those were much more complex, weren’t they?

He didn’t even try to stop himself from blushing, only laughing a little brokenly at the comment, still looking away. A grin lit up his features, uneven. He drew his hands away from Dudley, partially calloused pads of his fingers tracing down what bare skin was available on his neck and upper chest. They settled on his abdomen; though he wasn’t entirely aware of where he’d placed them on Dudley. “You wouldn’t be the first to accuse me of that,” he got out, voice cracking nervously at the half-joke.

His gaze flashed to the other man’s as he was accused once more, green-amber eyes seeming spooked and uncertain. Should he apologize? Desmond was staring at Dudley’s chest then, caught somewhere between a frown and a mouth-wobble. Wouldn’t it just be grand if he weren’t such a damned spaz? Why in the hell did he have to the poster-boy for the gay super nerd? Why couldn’t he be better? Better spoken?

“S-sor—,” he started, stuttering only when Dudley’s hand slipped under his shirt, when the other caressed his cheek. By the time he was meeting the other man’s gaze again he was speaking and slipping in—kneading flesh as he kissed and tugged at his waistband.

A gasp; one hand coiled around the material of Dudley’s shirt between them; the other snapped up and gripped his left bicep.

He wasn’t upset? Dudley... wasn’t? He’d seemed pretty upset before. Angry. Scolding. Not anymore and Desmond couldn’t say he was totally against switching gears despite the need to catch up.

“Y..you sure?” he managed, eyes shutting—curtaining and cutting off his vision. But damn that felt good. This... this he could get used to. You didn’t need words to do this. And damnit if it hadn’t been a while. As his mind phased between sensation and coherence, the hand tugging at Dudley’s shirt between them uncoiled. Both hands were back, palms now flat against the other man’s abs. Skin on skin. His thumbs were hooked on the hem of the shirt and he slid them upward, kneading in return—wanting it off.

Wanting it all off.

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - danixiewrites - 08-01-2016


"Am I sure?" Dudley would've laughed if Desmond hadn't sounded so sweetly serious, his eyelids shuddering closed. The amusement would come through anyway. It wasn't like he could get any fucking harder here.

Hadn't taken long for his would-be lover to jump back on board, and he'd gone near indecipherable with his words again. At least, that's what Dudley hoped was happening, as he was very much on board himself. The piece of confidence that had shaken loose with the unexpected teleport tried to demand an immediate reinstatement. It warred with the thought that Desmond was only into this because he felt he must. A thought Dudley ruthlessly crushed as fingers tugged at his shirt and shoved it upward.

Dudley simply wasn't a good enough man to stop things in motion. Had never been.

Need pulled at him and he let his thumb slide over the button harder, working it through its loop, the fastenings undone on Desmond's pants in a flash, sagging on his hips. He braced his arm behind Desmond as he sat forward, desire resurging through his veins. It was much less suave to remove a henley than a t-shirt, but fuck if he cared. He only knew he wanted those talented hands exploring every inch of him, wrapped around his cock...Dudley released the other man only long enough to reach back with one hand and tug the soft fabric over his head and down his arms. He let it fall.

A cocky smile aimed up at Desmond. "Don't tell me you need some fancy-ass engraved invitation here."

It should have been Desmond's shirt next, his pants, briefs if he had 'em, and all of that between one breath and a second, but Dudley wasn't patient enough. They'd been in the middle of something delicious. It'd been interrupted, and he wanted the sensation back now. Immediately. He ground his hips upward as he reached with both hands instead and pulled the other man to his lips. He nibbled on a pouty lower lip, and considered a compromise even as he plundered.

Too bad his superpower didn't let him teleport their outfits somewhere else.

Super strength would be nice too--but then, Desmond's clothes were too fine to rip free, to destroy, even in passion. Dudley groaned. The image of his lover's clothes strewn about and rent to pieces while he thrust into him, both of them naked and entwined on the bridge of his ship...fuck.

He'd thought he couldn't get any harder.

His fingers bumped the strap that pressed into Desmond's hair and froze there. The goggles...It would be his luck something so endearing and valuable to the man in his arms would shatter on the floor. A million pieces he'd never be able to fix, patch, or otherwise replace.

"Xray. Gizmo. Off," he pulled back almost not enough to grunt the words. At least, he thought he managed them, before gently lifting the pair free of the curling strands, dangling it from one finger as his tongue mimicked what he intended them to do in short order. He felt a shudder ripple through him, a mix of guilt over something that hadn't even happened and his attempt to drown it in pleasure from Desmond's touch, his lips, this, all of this. Lips, teeth, tongues, and skin, yes.

Yes.

More of that.

Though he slid the goggles safely over the arm of the chair there was nothing delicate or careful in the kiss, as hard and needy as it had been earlier in the day. A kiss designed to demand and coax and tempt. And burn. A match set to a pool of gasoline. His fingers plunged under Desmond's shirt, rough palms eating up tantalizing skin, nails scraping inch by inch down his spine. Desmond would arch under the onslaught--inevitable and so fucking gloriously perfect--and Dudley would finally get his chance to nibble on the other man's collarbone, edges of pain soothed by swirls of his tongue. Damn it but the things he needed to do to this man...the desperate ways he wanted to take and be taken...

It took more willpower than he thought he had. Dudley leaned back, heat etched across the planes of his face and a wicked grin sliding across his face. "Naked, sweet cheeks. Right the hell now."

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - Blade - 09-24-2016

There was something euphorically electric about another man breathing hot words against his throat, especially when they had a hint of ego in them. A little ego was good. It was no wonder his favorite characters tended to be ones like Kakashi or Dick Grayson—Nightwing. And damn him if it didn’t make him shudder, shake just once in Dudley’s lap. Even so, his hands continued to tug upward—to pull at the other man’s shirt.

All he wanted at that moment was skin.

Thus, when Dudley had finished undoing the top button his pants and pulled away to bend forward slightly—to tug the shirt off—Desmond continued to aid. Impatiently. Once gone, on the floor in a pile of red fabric, Desmond exhaled and the idea of a complete thought left him. His brain shut down as his gaze dropped to Dudley’s chest--beautiful. He didn’t bother with embarrassment, but he couldn't help the way his mouth fired off an auto-response to ‘fancy-ass engraved invitation’.

“If I wanted that I’d still be in LA,” he breathed.

But it didn’t register. There were better things to think about than the special printing business his mother hired to make and send out similar invitations for her events. He had a whole stack of them at home under a pile on one of his work tables.

His brain was anywhere but that though. Which was good, because that was around the time Dudley was grinding upward—that he was grinding back unashamedly; and Desmond absolutely did not need to be thinking about his mother or her parties. He was groaning against Dudley’s mouth, into it. In that time he shifted, letting the bomber jacket fall from his shoulders—his arms. The leather hit the floor behind with a solid thunk. Satisfying, in a way.

A pang of something sweet swept through him as Dudley thought to remove the googles, as soft fingers slipped through his strands and along his scalp just so. Desmond wanted to tell him they’d be fine. His goggles were one of the few things that could take a beating. But it didn’t really seem pertinent. Not when he was grunting out the order, an action that in any other situation might have made Desmond laugh.

As it stood, he was too busy returning that kiss—hard, sharp, a little messy, and promising so much more. He was only starting to reach for Dudley’s pants when he felt nails scraping along his back—a sensation that made him hiss and arch at the same time.

“Fuck.” Wait, had he said that out loud? Yes. He didn’t care, not when Dudley’s mouth was on his collarbone... warming... Desmond hands were on his shoulders, nails digging in return.

And then he stopped.

Which left Desmond reeling, heady, and coming back to earth just barely. Why...? He caught the grin and the words. His only response was to exhale, close his eyes, and stand. The back of his thighs brushed the edge of the control panel as he kicked away the jacket that had been in his way, as he bent forward slightly and grabbed at the top back of his shirt. In one smooth motion he removed it and dropped it onto the pile Dudley had created with his own shirt.

Without looking at Dudley, he lifted a booted foot onto the chair, the space between the other man’s legs. Then he slid the zipper that was built into the inside of the leg down. He did this again for the other foot; both shoes, and socks, were added to the pile without a glace. Jeans came next, his underwear in the same motion; those he kicked towards the pile forming on Dudley’s left.

It was then Desmond finally met Dudley’s gaze. The blush hadn’t gone away; even so, sex wasn’t exactly one of those things Desmond felt too shy about. It came with its own awkwardness, but he was too turned on to give a damn. You didn’t have to talk to fuck, so he figured he was mostly alright.

He couldn’t deny the internal shiver of fear that Dudley might find him wanting. Desmond wasn’t ripped, but the kind of work he did hadn’t left him without at least the hint of abs or that ever-elusive v-cut, bare as it was. He was still hard; that part of him wasn't impressive or unimpressive either. He supposed, based on numbers and comparisons, all of this he wasn't doing in his head right now. Circumcised too; and partially shaven because he didn't like too much hair down there on his own body when he'd never had any on his chest and... it didn't matter, he told himself, pushing down the nervousness.

Still, despite a fragment of fear doing a dance in his chest, he watched Dudley for a moment before reaching for him—pulling him up. Damn he needed to be taller, he told himself as he tip-toed up to press a kiss to his mouth once more, while at the same time busying his hands with undoing and jerking Dudley’s own pants down.

He really needed to find out if Dudley worked tomorrow; at least, if this was any indication of what he had to look forward to. Because he sure as hell didn't want to think about the other man slipping out in the middle of the night.

RE: SciFi & Chill [Closed] - danixiewrites - 03-15-2017


Dudley let his head fall back against the chair and he grinned. His fists clenched as Desmond stood, halting the near-reach to pull the sweet thing before him back between his knees. He hid them further, stretching his arms nonchalantly behind his head--no desperate need here, just enjoying the show--while Desmond tugged his shirt over the soft brown strands that Dudley wanted to bury his fingers in once more.

He gripped his own hair instead, mussing the electric blue hair at the back of his head as he stared. His smile slipped as his lips parted. Fucking hell. His gaze tripped along the newly exposed skin of Desmond's chest, danced down lines of muscle forged from real work, not some for-show gym or granted by some mystical space rock. He clenched his jaw, biting back the words. Now wasn't the time to hide his desire behind bitter snark--now was the time to shut up and fucking enjoy the damn show.

Touching the show would be nice.

Real fucking nice.

Bright blue eyes suddenly focused downward, where a boot pressed between his thighs. Dudley was working his way up the leather, watching in a damn near trance while slim fingers hissed a zipper down.

The tease of it, one zipper and another, neither even on the damn jeans, had his lips parting again, a shuddering breath leaving without his notice. Dudley swiveled his gaze to the top of the other man's head, the slight fall of hair that obscured his face. He wanted to touch, to grab Desmond's ankle and startle him enough that he'd look up, see the hunger that prowled through Dudley's veins and no doubt had stamped itself across his face--

--but if he did, it would stop.

And it was fucking slow enough already, the whisper of fabric slipped from skin, over and over again, the gentle thudding of clothes being lost somewhere. The knowing, knowing that neither one of them cared where. His hands gripped the arm of the chair and he blinked, not remembering when he'd moved them there. Needing them to stay, so they didn't simply take control, turning Desmond and taking him right down next to wherever those clothes had strayed.

Denim made a coarse sound, hauled over a lover's thighs, shoved down his calves and across the floor. A groan caught in his throat, forced its way to a rough grunt, the only other sound in the tight space of the bridge.

No commando for Desmond. Dudley's smile returned with a pleased curl. Of course not. Nothing so primitive for his delivery--the thought was unfinished, abruptly dismissed as he took in the rock-hard, full-attention, mouth-watering view.

"Fuck, look at you," Dudley swore.

His smile spread. "Now," he murmured, "How long you gonna let me look my fill before I see that blush spread all over?" And he gestured to the fine naked skin before him, not just the curves of one adorably anxious face. "Hmm?" How far would it bloom? How much of his skin would flush with desire when they sated this rush of need?

How long wasn't long enough. But Dudley was too busy plundering the cinnamon-flavored warmth of Desmond's mouth to mind. "I see," he said into the kiss, before biting hard on Desmond's lower lip. "Not long at all."

This time.

It didn't make him pause, the thought of a next time. Far from sweet declarations on its heels though, because Dudley wasn't--couldn't be--sweet nothings when his short-trimmed nails were scraping over slight hips, the thoughts that followed "next time" were born of desperate need and selfish lust. "Fuck, you taste like--" He cursed into the kiss, not finishing the comparison to pastries and spicy blends of alcohol and other delicious things as he toed off his shoes and kicked out of the pants Desmond had tugged down his legs in a hurry. Dudley's nails came back up, digging lightly into Desmond's ass. His teeth grazed the hard-earned muscle of a bare shoulder. "This," he grunted, stepping in to feel every inch of Desmond's more supple skin against his own coarse patches of dark blue hair. He groaned then bit down. Laving the spot with his tongue for a moment, he added almost as eloquently as Desmond, "I--This."

Even the bruises forged from after-hours "work" didn't bother him here, not in this space. He ran his thumbs in circles over the crescent-shaped indents in Desmond's skin. "Could fuckin' eat you up."