yes, still here
Some other things: might be going to England again in September! China Mieville-themed conference in London. I want very badly to go, but the state of our finances may prevent it. We'll see. Also, am giving a guest lecture on Welsh mythology and popular culture next week. To science fiction scholars. I'm still not quite sure how that happened.
Three quick fic recs, all different fandoms, followed, at the end, by an excerpt of the next thing I'm working on, under the cut:
Erik/Charles (X-Men): This Is The End, My Only Friend, The End by
alernun. Maybe R-rated for the intense thematic elements, but not for language or sex or anything. Beautiful, lyrical, post-movie, post-apocalyptic piece in which Erik and Charles are the only survivors, and Erik tries his best to be there for Charles, and the ending will make you cry. But in a good way.Hawkeye/Coulson (Avengers): In The Backseat by
sirona_gs. NC-17. Am copying her description here, because it pretty much covers everything, but you should read if you love character-exploration stories; anyway, elements of D/s, bondage, subspace, object insertion, discussion of death (in the line of duty) and trust, freely given, and fluff.Sam/Dean (Supernatural): Into The World Breathes Life by
checkthemargins. Eventually NC-17, for content and sex. This one is a bit long; set aside some time, but for everyone who's been unsatisfied by this season, SO worth it. Author's description says sex, language, mass angst, implied non-con (Lucifer/Sam), suicidal ideation (Dean), crazy!Sam, spoilers for 7.13 and 7.14; I would add: love in so many forms, Sam and Dean trying to protect each other, emotions, misunderstandings, love.And now, with preemptive apologies that this STILL isn't finished, on my part, have a bit of the missing story from the Epic James/Michael Porn-and-Emotional-Trauma Saga, which I've FINALLY gotten back to (for the record, this is the one that fits in between Need and Touch):
“Any other extra-secret purchases you’ve not told me about?” James paused, amused and teasing and curious, and leaned over to peer into the depths of the box, sitting innocuously beside the bed.
“N—wait, yes, actually, don’t—” No. Oh no. Please no. Damn.
James had already stopped in place, looking at the scrap of leather in his fingers. “Really?”
“Oh, god, no, you don’t have to—I wasn’t going to ask—” He’d bought it just because. Because they’d been filming in different locations for far too long, and he’d been browsing the dangerous depths of the internet, which he should never do ever again, and thinking terrible thoughts, missing James like hell and waking up every morning from very detailed fantasies involving things he would never, ever ask for in real life, and he’d just seen it there and added it to the other purchases out of some dark and perverse impulse, picturing black leather against pale skin, the line of the collar encircling that graceful throat and trapping all the golden freckles in place, and he’d bought it along with everything else because he couldn’t help himself, with that image swimming in the depths of thoughts that had nothing to do with his brain.
He hadn’t ever meant to ask. He’d swear to that if James would like him to. He couldn’t make James do that. He’d never even known he wanted to. Had never known he could want anything like that.
He might hate himself, a little bit, he decided.
“Well…” James drifted over to the bed and sat down, slowly, contemplating the streak of blackness, the small buckle that would hold leather in place, around his neck. “You really did buy everything…”
“I’m so sorry.” He still couldn’t tell what James might be thinking; the too-blue eyes hadn’t glanced up, or anywhere near his direction, yet. He wanted to sit down, too, to put an arm around those astonished shoulders, but James wasn’t looking at him, and so he couldn’t. Instead he just hovered there, standing beside the bed, gazing at that bent head.
He felt too tall, abruptly, for the abruptly-encroaching walls of the formerly luxurious hotel room. And awkward, in a way he could never remember being, ever, around James. And terrified, but that one went without saying.
“I think—I just—I’ve never done any of this before, you know that, never except for you, and you’re so amazing, you are, you already let me—I mean, everything we’ve already done has been—and I don’t fucking know why I bought that, I’m sorry, I promise I wasn’t going to make you—”
“But you thought about it?”
“I—maybe I did. Once. Or twice. But not seriously—I would never actually ask you to—”
James took a deep breath, slid off the bed, settled down on both knees in front of him, and held it out.
“You can, then. If you still want to.”
For a second he couldn’t answer. But he had to. He had to say something. “James. No. You can’t—I can’t make you do this. Not for me. Please get up.”
James sighed. Stayed in place. And, amazingly, even smiled, a tiny hint of amusement creeping in despite the seriousness of those depthless sapphire eyes. “You’re not making me do this. I’m offering. And that’s why I’m offering, you know.”
“You…I think you might have to explain that one for me. Please.”
“I do believe you. I know you wouldn’t ask me for this. So you don’t have to. I love you. And I trust you. And it’s all right. All right?”
“No…” He couldn’t. Could he? James was still smiling and still on both knees waiting for him and Michael wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think, now, or to want. What he might be allowed to want.
“I mean it. I promise I’ll tell you, if I feel uncomfortable at all. Ever. The second I’m the least bit nervous.”
At which Michael had to laugh, hollowly. “You’re not now?” He was.
The infinite blue of those eyes turned thoughtful for a second, and then James said, sounding a little surprised, “Not really. Maybe a little. But I do trust you. And, ah…” The pause contained a tiny lip-lick; Michael held his breath, because that was a very recognizable little motion, and James couldn’t really be about to say what Michael was imagining, could he?
“I might not be entirely opposed to…I mean, I think I could…I’m not explaining this well, am I?”
“Not exactly…no…I think you could explain more.” Please. One of them had to.
“Oh, fuck,” James muttered, almost under his breath; he’d started blushing, pinkness spreading sneakily across all the freckles, even to those perfect ears, or what of them was visible beneath all the hair. “All right, well…this is one hundred percent your fault, you know, because I’d never even imagined doing this before, except now I am imagining it, and you make me want to trust you and I love you and you love me and I’m wondering what it would feel like to have you put this on me, and I think I might like to find out, not in public, obviously, but with you, right now, here, and so, will you please say something before I die of embarrassment admitting this to you?”
“You…you want me to…”
“I just said so!”
“You—James—you know I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
“No, I mean…I really, really love you. I—you wanting to do this for me, you wanting this, just—you, and I don’t know how to—you’re incredible, James, and I love you so fucking much, always. You do know that, right?”
“Yes,” James said, and grinned at him, “I do. And now can you hurry up and do this, before I decide I’m going to be embarrassed after all?”
“Are you sure—”
“Michael, will you just stop talking and come here and put the damn collar on me?”
“Jesus,” Michael said, once he could remember how to shape words, and then, “James,” and then, “Okay, all right, we can do this. Stand up, please.”
“You—”
“I’m not doing this with you on your knees. Stand up.”
“Mmm. Is that an order?”
“Yes?”
“Then all right.” James got up, one smoothly graceful motion, as if he’d just been waiting for that. As if he were perfectly relaxed, all supple limbs and the scattered punctuation of freckles, mysterious undiscovered countries outlined on the map of all that adventurous skin by the moonlight.
“Here.”
They could do this. He could do this. He wanted to do this.
Oh god, he so very much wanted to do this.
He reached out. Lifted rumpled hair out of the way. It flicked up to play with his fingers, impudently. James was watching his face, in the pale yellow light, not his hands.
Just one buckle. Simple, really.
He didn’t ask whether he’d made it too tight, or tight enough. Somehow they both just knew. It fit.
He stood there for a second, hand resting on the collar, after. And then, very slowly, moved that hand away. Tried not to let it shake, on the way.
James swallowed. Didn’t speak. Just brought his own hand up and traced fingers along the line of black leather, freckles shining in the amber light.
“Are you—all right?”
“Yes.” James shut his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them. The blueness framed black pupils, dark and astonished, moonlight falling over midnight oceans. “Can I see? What this looks like, I mean?”
“Of course you can.” He didn’t know why he was whispering. But so was James; the familiar coziness of that accent, even hushed, lit up all the silent corners of the room. “Yes. Of course. Come here.”
He walked them both over to the mirror, over the table at the side wall, and stood in front of it, next to James. Their reflections gazed back, silver-tinted, spellbound. James touched the collar again, white skin and black leather and auburn hair curling around the base of his neck, over curious fingertips.
The light, behind them, cast wavering shadows, backlighting like old golden portrait frames, and Michael couldn’t tell, watching those endless eyes, what James might be thinking.
He wanted to touch, too. Wanted to run a finger along that new decoration, joining James’s curious own explorations, or at the very least to put a hand on one shoulder, inches below his. But he just didn’t know.
Blue eyes met his, in the mirror. “Funny…”
“What?”
“I didn’t…I’d not thought it would make that big a difference, honestly. I mean, we’ve—you know all the things we’ve done. Practically everything else either of us could think of. I thought—we both already know I’m yours…”
“But?”
“But it does make a difference.” James turned around to look at him, in person this time, not through the outwardly-imposed distance of the mirror. “I feel…I don’t know how to explain. I’m sorry. It’s just…different.”
Michael abruptly became aware that he’d been holding his breath; his lungs were starting to protest the lack of air. But he couldn’t quite remember how to fill them again. “Is different…good?”
James smiled. Licked those lips, in the topaz shine of the light, and just looked at him, for a second, eyes bright. “Yes.”
“…yes?”
“Really yes.”
“Really?”
At which James sighed, ran a slightly exasperated hand through his hair, glanced down and then back up, and then touched the edge of the collar one more time, a reminder, running a fingertip along the line where leather met skin. Michael followed the movement, enchanted; James watched him watching, smiled again, and said, quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“Oh my god.”
“No, still me.”
“You—you—I fucking love you. Okay. Um. On your knees?”
This got him a raised eyebrow; Michael reviewed his sentence, and, with some effort, located a more appropriate tone. “On your knees, James. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” James said, and dropped to his knees, promptly. Michael swallowed. Stared. Looked at James looking up at him, wide-eyed and bathed in golden light, kneeling in front of him on the horribly floral hotel-room carpet. His. His in every single imaginable way.
James was still smiling. Leaned forward, a little, and licked Michael’s cock once, a single sweep of that talented tongue. And then stopped.
“James…”
A grin. Another lick. Another pause.
“Are you doing this on purpose?”
James laughed. “Maybe. You didn’t sound very assertive, about it, just now. I thought I should help you figure out whether you really wanted—”
That sentence got cut off, because Michael plunged one hand into his hair, yanked him closer, and thrust, hard.
James moaned once, softly, around his cock, but it wasn’t in protest. Pleasure, Michael thought. At the roughness.
He wound fingers more deeply into the hair, wrapping it around his fingers. Held James in place, and thrust more deeply, this time. And then again, when James gasped. “You fucking tease, James. You knew what I was asking you for. So now you don’t get to move.” Jesus, was that his voice, saying those things? Wanting to claim James as his, to prove exactly what that collar meant, for both of them? The words echoed around the room, like an impact, like a seismic shift, the weight of his hand on James’s head.
But James didn’t seem to mind; the eyes were wide, shocked but not objecting, and not trying to get away, or push back, at all. If he had, Michael would have stopped, instantly; would have stopped everything, if James wanted that, or moved on to something else.
But he didn’t. And when Michael pulled back, giving him a chance to speak up, to say no, or stop, he didn’t do that, either. Just licked those lips, tongue sweeping out in enticing invitation.