#writindirty

[amysnotdeadyet]

Villain

Steve/Tony, MCU, first kiss and I don’t even know, man.

"You know, queer-coding villains is pretty offensive even if you're the villain," says Tony, and Steve suddenly gets that the lady they've been fighting is actually a guy.

"I could be queer," replies the Purple Marauder, one hip cocked and heels taller than Natasha's. "You don't know."

"You've spent this entire fight staring at Black Widow's tits instead of Captain America's perfect ass. You're just an asshole," says Tony.

Steve takes advantage of the distraction to bean the guy with his shield, while Natasha winks at Tony and fiddles with the device she'd just pickpocketed. A dozen weird purple golems dissolve into sweetly-scented puddles, and Steve sags.

"Why did you say that?" asks Steve later, after the debriefing and a congratulatory message for Tony from HR.

"Because it's true?" says Tony. "Equating queerness with-"

"Not that," says Steve, face going hot. "I knew that. I meant about my, uh, me."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Your ass is, in fact, perfect. That's the entire point of your ass, to be perfect. Your entire body is perfect." His hands are waving near the parts of Steve in question, but he carefully doesn't touch.

Steve is as red as his uniform now, he just knows it. "If that was true, I could get a date," he blurts, and then he just gives up and hides his face in his hands in the hopes that Tony will let him die here in peace.

"Steve, I could get you 17 dates just by raising my voice in this hallway," says Tony, eyes twinkling. "Have you asked anyone?"

Steve sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know how anymore."

"Just ask someone out." Tony's hand finally makes gentle contact with one of Steve's shoulders. "No one's gonna slap Captain America for asking."

"You would," Steve retorts, the words coming out of his mouth before his brain can properly panic over them.

"Nope," says Tony, popping the 'p' obnoxiously. "I'd take you out for burgers and not let you leave my bed for four days."

That shorts Steve's brain out a little bit. He wasn't a virgin or anything, he'd been in art school for goodness' sake, but he still wasn't sure what he'd do with four whole days of naked Tony at his disposal. He really, really wants to find out.

"Okay," he says, before he can overthink things and, what's the word Clint uses, cockblock himself. "Yes. All of that."

A slow grin blossoms over Tony's face and he tugs Steve in for a kiss, right there in the hallway where one of the guys from admin runs into a doorway for looking too long. "Square deal," says Tony with a wink. "I know the perfect place."

"Let's get cleaned up first?" asks Steve, aware of the state of himself, his uniform, and now, acutely, his penis. "I promise no khakis."

Tony laughs and takes his hand, and Steve wonders if he should send that villain a thank you note.

Maybe on day five.

Also on AO3 here.

[guiltypuknowme]

Writin’ Dirty April — Day 29: Self Control

(Smut! There’s smut in them there hills.)

The problem, mainly, is that Peter can’t keep his fucking hands to himself.

And then, of course, there’s the never being able to shut up. There’s the always having to have the last word. There’s the never leaving well enough alone. And then, actually, on top of that, there’s the fact that Thor can’t seem to do any of that either.

Okay, so maybe there are a handful of problems, a handful of obstacles between them and managing to keep this whole thing to themselves.

And Thor thinks, maybe, that the only reason they’re even still keeping it to themselves is that both of them are really getting off on it, the hiding, the secrecy. That element of somebody-could-walk-right-in. In fact, they’ve even said as much to each other, said those words, and more than once.

Because even if it started out in those rare and wonderful opportune moments, glorious stretches when they were the only ones on the Benatar, or when they were on the Statesman or on-planet and miraculously far enough from everybody else… Even if that’s how it started, both of them proved too impatient, too hungry to wait for those rare opportunities to roll around.

They take whatever they can get, any fleeting window where they find anything remotely resembling privacy. They force themselves to keep the encounters brief, they tell each other to stay quiet, they grip and grab at each other in passing in any moment that there aren’t eyes on them.

And currently, Thor’s up against a wall beside an open doorway on the Statesman, and he knows they’re playing with fire already. The vessel is massive, but it’s still crawling with Asgardians, and the Guardians must be somewhere on board.

He mentions as much, as usual, the way one of them always does, some false attempt at protest that never means stop.

“Can’t help myself,” Peter groans against his neck, and the front of his body is pressed close against Thor’s side, and Thor’s fly is open, and Peter’s got his hand in Thor’s pants, palming his cock. “God, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Thor nods, runs his hands over Peter’s back. “Me too,” he admits. “Just—” his breath hitches as Peter pulls his cock out and starts stroking him. “God, just, quick. Quick, okay?”

Peter’s nodding beside his head, breath hot on Thor’s ear, and it sends chills through him. It feels so good. He feels so good. Fucking everything that Peter does always feels so good. “Whatever you want,” Peter mutters, and he holds Thor’s cock a little tighter, jerks him off a little faster. “Jesus, whatever you want.” Thor tips his head back and groans too loud, tries to stifle himself, tries just to breathe, but even his breath sounds deafening.

“I—” he whimpers, no fully formed thought in mind, but it doesn’t matter. “Someone,” he stammers as quietly as he can, “someone’s coming.”

Peter doesn’t stop, but he pulls back, glances tentatively through the doorway. “Shit,” he mutters, then looks back at Thor. And Thor pleads with his eyes, but he’s not entirely sure what for. “Just,” Peter starts, kisses him, pumps his fist faster.

It’s too good. God, it shouldn’t be this good. Thor bites down on his lip, tries to quiet himself, but his mouth whimpers “Peter,” anyway.

Peter widens his eyes, puts his free hand over Thor’s mouth as he looks through the doorway again. “They aren’t coming in,” he says, under his breath, just mouthing the words, “but they aren’t leaving.” Thor nods. “You let me know when, and I’ll swallow it.”

Thor groans. Peter widens his eyes again in warning.

“You have to be quiet,” he says. “You’ll make a mess if you come like this, so I’m gonna give you my mouth.” Thor’s eyes flit shut as he tries not to moan again. “But I can’t do that unless you keep yourself quiet once I take my hand away.”

Thor nods furiously, trying to make his eyes promise, because he will, he can, he has to.

Peter leans in and licks a stripe up Thor’s neck, bites at his earlobe, whispers, “You close?” And Thor nods some more, and he needs Peter’s mouth, thinks he could come any moment, just knowing there are people so close by, knowing they could hear, knowing they could walk right in and see. “You let me know. I don’t want to let go of you until you’re right there.”

Thor nods, and nods, and nods, and he slips his hand down the back of Peter’s pants and digs his fingernails into the flesh of Peter’s ass, and Peter gives him this look that’s a big mix of reproach and arousal and Thor’s there, he is, he’s right there.

He brings his free hand up and grabs Peter’s face, and he nods, and then he grabs Peter by the shoulder and pushes him down, forces him down, using an unfair amount of strength, really, strength Peter couldn’t resist if he wanted to.

Peter puts his finger to his lips, offering a near silent shhh before he takes his hand off Thor’s mouth, slides down to his knees and wraps his mouth around Thor’s cock.

Thor gets one hand over his own mouth, the other tangled up in Peter’s hair, and Peter’s barely swallowed him down before he’s coming down his throat.

Once he’s finished, Peter climbs back up his body, kisses him, helps to tuck him away.

One of these days, their luck will run out.

Thor doesn’t think either of them will actually mind. If the threat of being caught hasn’t stopped them, the act of being caught never will.

[queuebird]

Writin’ dirty april 5: imposter

Inception, Arthur, Eames

The first time Arthur kisses Eames, Eames isn’t himself.

They’re on a job. Obviously. Some sort of seduction thing was supposed to happen--Eames as the CEO’s boytoy and Arthur as a man sweeping him off his feet. In practice runs it was a bit of touching and suggestion, a bedroom look or two--Geoff, the CEO, was a paranoid man, so it wouldn’t have taken much for him to leap to conclusions the moment Ariadne led him into the hotel room.

But he and Arthur are snogging. It’s sweet and warm and wonderful and this is not how Eames meant for it to happen.

Arthur slides a hand up into Eames’s blond, longish hair, tilting Eames’s angular face down towards his own, and Eames has never hated a forge more. Two years of strategic flirtation and dancing around Arthur, treating him with the most delicate kid gloves because god damn Eames but he actually likes him, and some model twink who’s probably never had an independent thought in his life gets to taste those lips before Eames. Who knew Arthur’s type was so...Aryan.

He kisses like nothing Eames expected. Sweetly, like a lover. Eames feels dizzy with the gentle, repeated press of Arthur’s soft tongue against his own. When they eventually break, Eames is almost breathless, clutching at Arthur’s lapels.

When he opens his eyes, Arthur isn’t even looking back at him. He’s facing Geoff and Ariadne, who are framed in the light of the doorway, Geoff’s soft face is openly betrayed, Ariadne’s solemn. When Arthur turns his dark gaze on Eames, something burns in the pit of Eames’s stomach.

Then Geoff is stalking forward, face pale, and Eames doesn’t have time to indulge that train of thought.

...

“Perfect,” Cobb says as they wake up and pull the IVs out of their sleeves.

Eames flicks a glance to Arthur. He’s busily winding the lines back into the PASIV, saying “alright, let’s get outta here” without looking up.

Joy has already cleared the room, her bejeweled backpack gone from the table. Geoff is stirring worriedly on the chair, so Eames grabs his folders and makes his escape, close behind Arthur, with his messenger bag and the PASIV bouncing against his leg.

“Darling,” Eames says under his breath, hurrying to stay level with Arthur.

Arthur shoots him a disbelieving look and walks even faster through the bookshelves, bursting through the back door of the library, right by a conveniently illegally parked car.

“I just have a couple of questions,” Eames continues, sliding into the passenger seat and tossing his files into the back, where they scatter over Arthur’s bag.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Arthur says. They pull away from the curb, Arthur’s forehead wrinkling as he checks four directions for tails.

He’s right, of course. Eames has booked a plane straight to Hong Kong. But that was before the fabulous kiss. What can he say, he’s adaptable.

“No,” Eames says earnestly. “I can’t spend a moment with you? Darling,” he adds, just as a reminder.

Arthur scoffs. He jerks the car into traffic and breezes through a red light. “What are your questions, then,” he says.

Eames didn’t expect to get this far. “Well, em.” Buildings zip fast the window. “Prefer a blond-haired, blue-eyed bloke, hm?”

“Christ,” Arthur says, “really?”

Eames shrugs and settles back into his seat. “I mean, whatever, you know. I’m not judging.” He’s judging. “Just. Nobody that thin and useless could protect you when you needed it. Hypothetically.”

Arthur sighs. They turn into a parking garage, and Arthur kills the engine. In the darkness of the windowless building and the crackles of the cooling car, Eames thinks Arthur has finally reached his breaking point. He’s going to snap and stab Eames in the kidneys, and Eames might even deserve it.

Arthur clambering over the center console and into Eames’s lap comes as a surprise, to say the least.

“I was just...experimenting,” Arthur murmurs. His hands come up to cradle Eames’s face.

“...And what did you find out?” Eames is feeling a little breathless again. Probably from fear. Prime kidney-stabbing position for Arthur.

“Hmmm,” Arthur says instead of any sort of useful response. “Need more data.”

The second (and third, and fourth, and fifth...) time Arthur kisses Eames, Eames is very, very himself. All two kidneys intact.

[kate2kat]

One phone call

Arthur.” Eames’ voice is tinny, lost in static. Arthur, jolted awake by the phone — the ringtone some notes of a tango he allows himself only when Eames is away — sits up, snaps on the lamp.

“Eames? Where are you? Are you alright?”

“Arrrrthuuur.” That is profoundly reassuring, Eames would not speak like that if he was under duress.

“Why did you call?”

“Relax, darling. It’s not my one phone call. I’m at the airport. Just wanted to hear your voice. I’ll be home soon.”

“About time.”

“Missed me?” Eames voice is warm, amused.

“You know I have, dammit.”

WritinDirty, day 18: Arthur

Also on AO3: Quick and dirty

[teacuphuman09]

It’s time for Writin ’ Dirty April!!!

Here it is! Tag your drabbles/art/watever with #writindirty and I will reblog them! 

[amysnotdeadyet]

Sunrise

Steve/Bucky/Tony, MCU, PG, first kiss.

"It's been awhile since I partied until sunrise," said Tony, hearing Steve's footsteps behind him. The buildings of New York shone as the sun broke over the horizon, gems of cut glass and ambition rising up to start another day.

"Fifty is a big year, I'm told," said Steve, sounding wistful. "I missed mine."

"I guess a hundred wasn't so great for you, either," said Tony, thinking back to the state of the world in 2018. Thinking about it now.

Steve chuckled. "This wasn't too bad, though. Your taste in parties has changed a lot, I hear." Tony had invited just superheroes and their loved ones and not a single hanger-on or random stranger in the bunch. Barnes had cooked, with Steve as his sous chef, and Bruce had tended a mostly-virgin bar.

Tony shrugged; it had been a very different kind of celebration for the man he was now. He'd enjoyed it more than he thought he could after Pepper had dumped him for good and he was back to living alone in a tower full of robots.

"Everyone else cleared out?" asked Tony, not actually all that curious. He'd come out here to get away from the endless parade of goodbyes, not a single person so far taking up his invitation to stay in one of the many empty guest suites.

"Just Bucky and me left."

"Your bots won't let me clean," said Bucky, leaning his elbows on the railing on Tony's other side so he was boxed in between gorgeous, ageless specimens of male perfection. Just what his fifty-year-old ego needed.

"That's their job, freezer pop." Tony nudged him. "You guys wanna stay on Steve's old floor or what?"

Steve and Bucky exchanged glances over Tony's head. "We were hoping to stay in a different bedroom," said Steve tentatively.

"Bad memories, I got it," said Tony, filing away that small hurt with the rest. "Well, pick any bed you like, then."

Bucky gave Tony a grin that could have charmed the pants off stronger men than him. "How about yours, dollface?"

Tony looked from him to Steve. "Aren't I a little young for you two?"

Bucky cracked up, and Steve huffed, scooping Tony up into a princess carry. "If you're saying yes?"

Tony sighed, settling against Steve instead of fighting it. He knew they weren't drunk, so he asked, "Why?"

"We've wasted enough time," said Bucky, taking a kiss from Steve, then giving that kiss to Tony before letting Tony pass it back. Their mouths felt different but both lush, gentle. Knowing.

"We want as much time with you as we can get," said Steve. "So, yes?"

Tony swallowed. "We're all going to regret this someday," he said, "but I'm not going to start just yet. Yes, go on, you know where I sleep."

"We're not havin' you in the workshop," said Bucky teasingly.

Tony was still laughing when the elevator opened. "Not this time, anyway," he said, just to watch Steve blush.

Also on AO3 here -- happy birthday, RDJ!

[amysnotdeadyet]

Faith

Supernatural, Destiel, very lemony lemons.

Dean used to joke that the only time he prayed to god was in bed with a lover. He'd found and lost faith in a dozen different ways since then, but with an angel spread above him, pushing into him, he felt like he'd come full circle when he gasped out, "Oh, god, yes!"

"Don't pray to him, Dean," demanded Castiel, voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Pray to me."

Dean moaned and laughed, the last inch of Cas stuttering into him, his legs wrapped easily around slim hips. "Cas, Castiel, f-fucking, ohhh, angel, my angel."

Lights flickered as the image of Castiel's wings spread out above them. "Yes, perfect," he purred, bending Dean in half for a kiss worth every future ache.

"Fuck, yeah." Dean rocked his hips as much as he could, getting a fierce, deep thrust from Cas in response. They started up a rhythm together, the call and answer of two bodies, two beings, seeking more than just pleasure in one another. "Castiel, Cas, oh, Cas," Dean kept trying to get his full name out but Cas loved to interrupt with thrusts and kisses and bites, as though the nickname was his preferred form of prayer.

"Dean, my human," Cas ground out, his voice like sex and faith all in one as something shivered through the air, grace and awe and things Dean couldn't ever see without going blind from the beauty of it. "Mine."

"Yours, fuck, C-cas, fuck, fuck!" Dean swore like it was worship, profanity as devotion to his angel, to this thing they'd found in each other beyond everything that the universe had tried to force them to be. Dean slipped his hands up Cas's back, half expecting to feel feathers against his skin. The whisper of grace that brushed against his soul was just as soft, and something in him reached out for that touch, felt it reaching back.

Castiel sealed their mouths together, enveloped them in the shadow of his wings, and shifted so that their thrusts were deeper, harder, more frantic. Dean felt pleasure unspooling all through him, filling him up, and he wondered if he'd be able to come just like this without a hand on him. He was so ready, cock hard and wet in the humid, human space between them, balls tight and heart pounding.

Dean was so on edge that when Castiel closed his hand around Dean's cock, it only took a few thrusts through that warm fist for his orgasm to sweep through him. "Cas!" he cried, this one definitely a prayer of thanks as his toes curled and fingers clawed across Castiel's bare back.

Cas gasped and let himself go, pouring more than just come into Dean, pleasure feeding back into pleasure through the magic of his grace. He brought his forehead to rest against Dean's, panting, and whispered into the still air, "Pray one more time."

"My Castiel." Dean's voice held worship and belonging and, most of all, love for his very own angel.

Also on AO3 here.

[guiltypuknowme]

Writin’ Dirty April — Day 28: Mixed Tape

“You do realize,” Stark impatiently explains, “how impractical this is?”

Peter just rolls his eyes and says the same thing he’s been saying all day. “Yeah, I get it. But I want to make it anyway.”

Stark gives in, of course, eventually, because he’s always game to help Peter pursue whatever project he expresses any interest in. Always game to help Peter, generally, to feel happy and content on Earth, after everything that’s happened.

And Peter actually really loves Pandora, and he loves Spotify. He loves that all the music in the god damn world is at his fingertips. And he happily compiles playlists for himself, day-in and day-out. But for something like this, for a gift, he wants it to be the real thing. He thinks about his most prized possessions, his mother’s Awesome Mixes. That’s what he wants it to be like.

So Stark helps him. He has Happy drive all over to find a pack of blank tapes, which Happy complains about at great length. He swears Peter to secrecy when he pulls an old tape deck out of storage, one from when he was a boy-genius at MIT. He shows him how to set it up with the laptop first, and then the stereo, and then he leaves him to it.

Peter spends the next couple hours hunched over the laptop, recording each song from the playlist he put together on Spotify, carefully writing out the title and all the songs on the tape case’s insert.

When Thor gets back later that night, Peter hands it over, and Thor takes it and smiles.

I Hope You Don’t Mind By: Peter      For: Thor

It’s a big smile, a gut-wrenching smile, something deep and adoring. Because he knows exactly what it is, because Peter’s told him all about what his own mixtapes and what they mean to him and how much he cherishes them.

“Can you play it for me?” Thor asks, and Peter nods, and he puts it on and turns up the stereo. They sit on the bed together, and Thor throws an arm around Peter, and Peter rests his head on Thor’s shoulder, and they sit there and listen to the whole thing.

(I made this mix back during Thorquill Week last summer. This post has a track list and a link to the Spotify playlist.)