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shananagin.
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
So, umm, here are some fics in various states of completion and suckiness. Some of them are just waiting for betas, others are waiting for the Not-Suck Fairy to come by and make them real fics. And I haven't even started on the Life On Emma fic where Emma gets hit by acar crazy psychic thing and awakens in 1973 the Marvel universe ten years ago. Then she does things that will only make sense to people who have read either the short-lived Emma Frost series and X-Men: First Class. Ah, mass-market appeal.
The next time Felicia saw Peter was… the next day. She went to the trouble of knocking, twice, before she picked the lock. The place was a pig sty. Apparently, Mary-Jane had left and taken the maid with her. Felicia made a few clean-up attempts before remembering her dignity. No Hardy would clean up after failed webbing experiments.
“Don’t move!”
Felicia ducked, fast enough to evade the baseball bat with its sights set on making her head a home run ball. “It’s me! It’s me!”
Peter stood over her, gradually lowering his bat. “You broke into my apartment?”
“I knocked! Twice!” she added defensively. “And how many hot babes with white hair do you think there are in New York?”
“There’s Storm,” Peter said unhelpfully. He belatedly gave Felicia a hand-up.
“New York City, not New York the state.” Felicia brushed some empty sandwich bags and assorted crumbs off her back. “What the hell happened here? Did Venom trash your place?”
Peter looked around. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.” He set the bat down and flopped onto a couch. “So what’re you doing here? S’not like I have anything worth stealing.”
She ignored that hilarity. “I was worried. Last time you and Mary-Jane parted ways, you wound up living on the streets. How do you think that reflects on me?”
“Good point.” He started a staring contest with the ceiling.
Felicia sighed. “Okay, normally I wouldn’t do this but—“
“Cat, a pity screw would only make me feel worse.”
“Normally I wouldn’t do this. I was talking about cleaning.”
“Is this a fetish thing?” Peter rolled over to look at her. “Like that time you wanted to try bondage, made me slap you, then cried for thirty minutes?”
“One, it was ten minutes, and two, would you stop making everything about sex?”
Peter looked at her. Then he burst into laughter so loud she couldn’t help but join in. They laughed so hard, Felicia almost didn’t notice when Peter started sobbing. She held his hand and waited until he stopped, not daring more than rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb.
“So, you clean, I’ll help, we’ll have this place spotless in no time.”
Peter nodded, fretful. “Yeah.”
“It was glorious!” Barda said with an enthusiasm Scott had never seen before. “We swooped in on them from all side, riders at their flank, Parademons from the skies, ramming through their defenses like they were tissue--“
“How many died?” Scott asked quietly.
She sneered and returned to cleaning her weapons; she didn’t trust anyone else with them, especially not Scott. “Who cares what you think?”
Misfit was totally cool with Cass moving into the Clocktower. Why wouldn’t she be? After all, it wasn’t like she’d been working hard to be a Bird while Cass had been playing supervillain, then, say, Cass had gotten bored of killing people and waltzed onto the team and became an operative without even lifting a finger. Oh, wait, it was exactly like that!
But that was cool. Misfit didn’t mind. But was it too much to ask that while Cass stole Misfit’s spot, her friends, her life, and probably the next boy she liked with her do-me-riffic fetish costume, she let Charlie have a bathroom!
Stupid Batgirl. Stupid Batman. Stupid Miss Gordon.
Misfit banged on the door again. “Open up! I need to use the shower!”
“Use another one.”
“All my moisturizer is in there! I have a very exotic skin tone, I cannot just use some crap from Lex-Mart!” Besides which, that was the only shower with a massaging showerhead other than the one Miss Gordon and Miss Lance shared, and they weren’t letting Misfit use theirs. Not after last time…
“Your skin tone isn’t that exotic. I was here first. Leave me alone.”
Misfit backed up. “Tell me you did not just diss my café au lait skin, ho! Alright, that’s it, it’s time for daaaark veeeengean—“
She was getting better. A month ago, she would’ve bounced right off the door. Now, she just had the breath driven out of here. She landed in the tub, at the feet of a blood-covered Cassandra Cain.
Cass tried to finish the stitches on her side, but the needle slipped through her fingers. “Now look… what you made me… do.”
“The way you move, it’s not…” Natural, right, correct, perfect. “Pretty.”
“I can move pretty,” Cameron said, chin jutting up like Sarah’s, a challenge. Then, her arms rose slowly. The fingers interlaced. Cameron’s body spun as if turned by the wind. She wasn’t dancing to any music, but Cass could see the music in the way she moved. It wasn’t pretty. It was beautiful.
Cass backed away.
Dinah woke up with heat still running through her. She was overheated, really, her nice cool bed off-balance by the addition of two warm bodies to the ecosystem. In front of her, Dick slept with an adorably loose facial expression, his hair sticking up against her pillow like a wave had crashed against the shore. Behind her, to her side as Dinah rolled onto her back, Barbara slept equally naked, the sheets drawn self-consciously above her scar, one arm pinned below Dinah, the other hanging off the edge of the too-small bed. Dinah’s wounds tingled where Barbara had rubbed Amazonian healing oils into them. Dinah looked over; Dick’s were gone too. Barbara had had no cuts on her breasts or ass, but the lotion still looked amazing where it gleamed there like liquid diamond.
“You’re awake?” Barbara whispered. Her eyes were closed.
“Yeah,” Dinah whispered, equally low to avoid waking Dick.
Barbara opened her eyes and rolled on her side, sweaty hair brushing Dinah’s shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Dick tossed in his sleep, slumping against Dinah’s back. His cock was sticky against her thigh.
“He followed me home, Oracle, can we keep him?” Dinah said in a precocious voice.
“I’ll have to find more excuses to send you on missions together. Maybe with Helena too.”
Dinah grinned, remembering the last time three people had been cramped into this bed (which Barbara had promised to upgrade to a king-sized), one of them had had olive skin which looked lovely sandwiched between Barbara’s paleness and Dinah’s tan.
“Think Dick will be okay with you pimping him out?”
“Are you kidding? I think it’s his lifelong ambition. Can I have my arm back?”
Dinah pulled herself up the headboard a bit to free Barbara’s hand. Barbara took advantage of the opportunity to kiss Dinah’s breast, slurping the nipple with such precision that Dinah was flooded with pleasure. She flopped down to the bed and Dick groaned, saying “I don’t wanna go to school, Bruce, I wanna fight crime with you…”
Barbara looked at Dinah’s saliva-shiny nipple with acute disappointment. “It wouldn’t be fair to the boy to wake him. He needs his beauty sleep.”
“Okay then.” Dinah felt more than saw Barbara’s hand travel over her hip, take a firm hold of Dick’s manhood, and with a consistently wet noise begin to pump in. “Babs!” she said, scandalized.
“I can’t just leave him having bad dreams about Batman.”
“I think he might still be having dreams about Batman. Really weird dreams.”
“Nah, my hands are softer.”
“I think, if this is going to work, we should sleep under one roof,” Scott announced.
Jean, who’d been leaning against the wall of their kitchenette, turned to look at him, automatically holding out her carton of take-out to see if he wanted any. Emma didn’t even look up from her salad.
“It’s a mansion. We always sleep under one roof.” She paused thoughtfully to examine a crouton. “Except for that one night in the greenhouse.”
“You know what I mean. Like a family.”
“How incestuous.”
“No, Scott’s right.”
Emma rolled her eyes as Jean took Scott’s side, as per usual.
Jean sat down across from Emma in her smiling peacemaker guise. “I know it’s a little cozy in here, but we could make room for you.”
“Jean? Scott? I don’t do cozy. I will not be joining your sewing circle or your book club, I don’t want a puppy for Christmas, and although I may ruefully admit to enjoying time spent with you, the primary purpose of us sharing a bed is deviant sex.” She picked up her New York Times and checked the stocks. “End of discussion.”
Scott put his hands down heavily on the table when he leaned there. Their little arrangement was inherently instable, the conflict over who was king of the hill never stopped. Though, of course, Emma wasn’t sure any of them wanted it too. But Scott particularly didn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. Jean was nice enough to sidle up to him, be cajoling about it. Emma didn’t have that kind of time.
“There have been more than one occasion when you’ve crashed on our couch.”
“I don’t crash--“
“And are you really going to keep hiking back to your own room when you don’t spend the night?”
Emma put the newspaper down. She hated when Scott was right. It gave him all kinds of ideas. “What are you suggesting?”
“We could build a bigger room. You could have your own space—“
“Whirlpool setting in the bathtub.”
“Done.”
They didn’t shake on it, but that was the overweening mental image in Scott’s head. Emma shook her head as Jean and Scott went off, hand in hand.
Emma Frost always hated the end of team-ups. Scott thrived on them, the hero community-building, but she could sense the suspicion. Directed at mutants in general, her in particular. How did Jean “Dark Phoenix” Gray put up with it? Did she even have to?
There was one member of the Initiative who didn’t look at her with fear. In fact, Black Cat was looking her over mainly with lust. That was why Emma didn’t immediately stamp ‘be somewhere else’ on her subconscious when she approached. Emma missed inspiring lust. It was the single biggest perk of being a bad girl.
“Hey, pussycat.” Cat’s voice was friendly, with an undercurrent of erotic interest that manifested itself in the occasional timbre purr. “You as bored out of your skull as I am?”
“I can astral-project, so quite a bit more, really.”
shananagin.When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
So, umm, here are some fics in various states of completion and suckiness. Some of them are just waiting for betas, others are waiting for the Not-Suck Fairy to come by and make them real fics. And I haven't even started on the Life On Emma fic where Emma gets hit by a
The next time Felicia saw Peter was… the next day. She went to the trouble of knocking, twice, before she picked the lock. The place was a pig sty. Apparently, Mary-Jane had left and taken the maid with her. Felicia made a few clean-up attempts before remembering her dignity. No Hardy would clean up after failed webbing experiments.
“Don’t move!”
Felicia ducked, fast enough to evade the baseball bat with its sights set on making her head a home run ball. “It’s me! It’s me!”
Peter stood over her, gradually lowering his bat. “You broke into my apartment?”
“I knocked! Twice!” she added defensively. “And how many hot babes with white hair do you think there are in New York?”
“There’s Storm,” Peter said unhelpfully. He belatedly gave Felicia a hand-up.
“New York City, not New York the state.” Felicia brushed some empty sandwich bags and assorted crumbs off her back. “What the hell happened here? Did Venom trash your place?”
Peter looked around. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.” He set the bat down and flopped onto a couch. “So what’re you doing here? S’not like I have anything worth stealing.”
She ignored that hilarity. “I was worried. Last time you and Mary-Jane parted ways, you wound up living on the streets. How do you think that reflects on me?”
“Good point.” He started a staring contest with the ceiling.
Felicia sighed. “Okay, normally I wouldn’t do this but—“
“Cat, a pity screw would only make me feel worse.”
“Normally I wouldn’t do this. I was talking about cleaning.”
“Is this a fetish thing?” Peter rolled over to look at her. “Like that time you wanted to try bondage, made me slap you, then cried for thirty minutes?”
“One, it was ten minutes, and two, would you stop making everything about sex?”
Peter looked at her. Then he burst into laughter so loud she couldn’t help but join in. They laughed so hard, Felicia almost didn’t notice when Peter started sobbing. She held his hand and waited until he stopped, not daring more than rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb.
“So, you clean, I’ll help, we’ll have this place spotless in no time.”
Peter nodded, fretful. “Yeah.”
“It was glorious!” Barda said with an enthusiasm Scott had never seen before. “We swooped in on them from all side, riders at their flank, Parademons from the skies, ramming through their defenses like they were tissue--“
“How many died?” Scott asked quietly.
She sneered and returned to cleaning her weapons; she didn’t trust anyone else with them, especially not Scott. “Who cares what you think?”
Misfit was totally cool with Cass moving into the Clocktower. Why wouldn’t she be? After all, it wasn’t like she’d been working hard to be a Bird while Cass had been playing supervillain, then, say, Cass had gotten bored of killing people and waltzed onto the team and became an operative without even lifting a finger. Oh, wait, it was exactly like that!
But that was cool. Misfit didn’t mind. But was it too much to ask that while Cass stole Misfit’s spot, her friends, her life, and probably the next boy she liked with her do-me-riffic fetish costume, she let Charlie have a bathroom!
Stupid Batgirl. Stupid Batman. Stupid Miss Gordon.
Misfit banged on the door again. “Open up! I need to use the shower!”
“Use another one.”
“All my moisturizer is in there! I have a very exotic skin tone, I cannot just use some crap from Lex-Mart!” Besides which, that was the only shower with a massaging showerhead other than the one Miss Gordon and Miss Lance shared, and they weren’t letting Misfit use theirs. Not after last time…
“Your skin tone isn’t that exotic. I was here first. Leave me alone.”
Misfit backed up. “Tell me you did not just diss my café au lait skin, ho! Alright, that’s it, it’s time for daaaark veeeengean—“
She was getting better. A month ago, she would’ve bounced right off the door. Now, she just had the breath driven out of here. She landed in the tub, at the feet of a blood-covered Cassandra Cain.
Cass tried to finish the stitches on her side, but the needle slipped through her fingers. “Now look… what you made me… do.”
“The way you move, it’s not…” Natural, right, correct, perfect. “Pretty.”
“I can move pretty,” Cameron said, chin jutting up like Sarah’s, a challenge. Then, her arms rose slowly. The fingers interlaced. Cameron’s body spun as if turned by the wind. She wasn’t dancing to any music, but Cass could see the music in the way she moved. It wasn’t pretty. It was beautiful.
Cass backed away.
Dinah woke up with heat still running through her. She was overheated, really, her nice cool bed off-balance by the addition of two warm bodies to the ecosystem. In front of her, Dick slept with an adorably loose facial expression, his hair sticking up against her pillow like a wave had crashed against the shore. Behind her, to her side as Dinah rolled onto her back, Barbara slept equally naked, the sheets drawn self-consciously above her scar, one arm pinned below Dinah, the other hanging off the edge of the too-small bed. Dinah’s wounds tingled where Barbara had rubbed Amazonian healing oils into them. Dinah looked over; Dick’s were gone too. Barbara had had no cuts on her breasts or ass, but the lotion still looked amazing where it gleamed there like liquid diamond.
“You’re awake?” Barbara whispered. Her eyes were closed.
“Yeah,” Dinah whispered, equally low to avoid waking Dick.
Barbara opened her eyes and rolled on her side, sweaty hair brushing Dinah’s shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Dick tossed in his sleep, slumping against Dinah’s back. His cock was sticky against her thigh.
“He followed me home, Oracle, can we keep him?” Dinah said in a precocious voice.
“I’ll have to find more excuses to send you on missions together. Maybe with Helena too.”
Dinah grinned, remembering the last time three people had been cramped into this bed (which Barbara had promised to upgrade to a king-sized), one of them had had olive skin which looked lovely sandwiched between Barbara’s paleness and Dinah’s tan.
“Think Dick will be okay with you pimping him out?”
“Are you kidding? I think it’s his lifelong ambition. Can I have my arm back?”
Dinah pulled herself up the headboard a bit to free Barbara’s hand. Barbara took advantage of the opportunity to kiss Dinah’s breast, slurping the nipple with such precision that Dinah was flooded with pleasure. She flopped down to the bed and Dick groaned, saying “I don’t wanna go to school, Bruce, I wanna fight crime with you…”
Barbara looked at Dinah’s saliva-shiny nipple with acute disappointment. “It wouldn’t be fair to the boy to wake him. He needs his beauty sleep.”
“Okay then.” Dinah felt more than saw Barbara’s hand travel over her hip, take a firm hold of Dick’s manhood, and with a consistently wet noise begin to pump in. “Babs!” she said, scandalized.
“I can’t just leave him having bad dreams about Batman.”
“I think he might still be having dreams about Batman. Really weird dreams.”
“Nah, my hands are softer.”
“I think, if this is going to work, we should sleep under one roof,” Scott announced.
Jean, who’d been leaning against the wall of their kitchenette, turned to look at him, automatically holding out her carton of take-out to see if he wanted any. Emma didn’t even look up from her salad.
“It’s a mansion. We always sleep under one roof.” She paused thoughtfully to examine a crouton. “Except for that one night in the greenhouse.”
“You know what I mean. Like a family.”
“How incestuous.”
“No, Scott’s right.”
Emma rolled her eyes as Jean took Scott’s side, as per usual.
Jean sat down across from Emma in her smiling peacemaker guise. “I know it’s a little cozy in here, but we could make room for you.”
“Jean? Scott? I don’t do cozy. I will not be joining your sewing circle or your book club, I don’t want a puppy for Christmas, and although I may ruefully admit to enjoying time spent with you, the primary purpose of us sharing a bed is deviant sex.” She picked up her New York Times and checked the stocks. “End of discussion.”
Scott put his hands down heavily on the table when he leaned there. Their little arrangement was inherently instable, the conflict over who was king of the hill never stopped. Though, of course, Emma wasn’t sure any of them wanted it too. But Scott particularly didn’t take kindly to having his authority challenged. Jean was nice enough to sidle up to him, be cajoling about it. Emma didn’t have that kind of time.
“There have been more than one occasion when you’ve crashed on our couch.”
“I don’t crash--“
“And are you really going to keep hiking back to your own room when you don’t spend the night?”
Emma put the newspaper down. She hated when Scott was right. It gave him all kinds of ideas. “What are you suggesting?”
“We could build a bigger room. You could have your own space—“
“Whirlpool setting in the bathtub.”
“Done.”
They didn’t shake on it, but that was the overweening mental image in Scott’s head. Emma shook her head as Jean and Scott went off, hand in hand.
Emma Frost always hated the end of team-ups. Scott thrived on them, the hero community-building, but she could sense the suspicion. Directed at mutants in general, her in particular. How did Jean “Dark Phoenix” Gray put up with it? Did she even have to?
There was one member of the Initiative who didn’t look at her with fear. In fact, Black Cat was looking her over mainly with lust. That was why Emma didn’t immediately stamp ‘be somewhere else’ on her subconscious when she approached. Emma missed inspiring lust. It was the single biggest perk of being a bad girl.
“Hey, pussycat.” Cat’s voice was friendly, with an undercurrent of erotic interest that manifested itself in the occasional timbre purr. “You as bored out of your skull as I am?”
“I can astral-project, so quite a bit more, really.”
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Date: 2008-10-22 04:05 pm (UTC)LOL ahahahaha that's great. :)
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Date: 2008-10-22 05:26 pm (UTC)Misfit has waaaaay more milk than coffee in her cup if she has any coffee.
> “I think he might still be having dreams about Batman. Really weird dreams.”
Is that the one where you are naked at school and there is a test and you haven't studied at all, and Batman is the teacher but he is only wearing the cowl and the cape and nothing else, and then the dancing midget comes in, and he speaks backwards and tells you to solve the murder of Laura Palmer? Cause that one always freaks me out. And the pills don't work.