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.porny thing: Martin vs the Towel - D/M NC17
As the conclusion to a successful evening, I bring you... porn I wrote on the spur of the moment a couple weeks ago, and completely forgot to post.
Title: Martin vs. the Towel
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M.
Ratings/Warnings: NC17 for the PWPness.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to other people. If Martin and Danny belonged to me, they'd be having a lot more fun right now.
Advertisements: Vaguely sequel-ish to Inside-Out and Across, which you'll be relieved to know is also a PWP. Dominant!Martin, TowelClad!Danny. No towels were harmed (badly) in the making of this fic.
Notes: Eep! As I say, I forgot that I had this finished, all tucked away in my 'Completed' file on my hard drive. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lillyjk, who wanted a sequel to Inside-Out, and requested it eons ago at that. *blush* Sorry, Lilly... I am slow and dumb, and don't know when I've finished things, apparently.
MARTIN VS THE TOWEL
Martin likes Danny’s towels. Most of the time.
These are, quite seriously, the best towels on earth. Unbelievably soft and fluffy, navy blue, and they only seem to get softer, and well, he could wax poetic about them, he really could.
Except times like now, when Danny’s wearing one of them.
Danny’s right out of the shower and smelling like his soap and warm, damp skin, and God wherever the light falls it gilds him at the edges – bicep and arc of shoulder, the flattened line of his chest and the fine bones of his face – and he moves like water, liquid and swift, and Martin can’t do anything but stare at him, trying to absorb every inch of flesh.
And the damn towel. Is. In. The. Way.
Wrapped low and carelessly secured, riding on the bony hitch of Danny’s hips, and how it’s defying the laws of physics, Martin doesn’t know.
While the towel may be able to defy the laws of physics, it’s not about to defy the law of Martin, which requires that for the action of wet, nearly-naked Danny waltzing around his bedroom there must be the reaction of Martin propelling himself out of bed, latching onto said towel, and yanking it off.
Danny has the nerve to look surprised as Martin pushes him back against the dresser, and okay maybe he’s allowed to be surprised because the edges are sharp and unforgiving and Martin’s being a bit rough, but when he opens his mouth it’s not to protest – or if it is, whatever he has to say is swallowed by Martin’s mouth.
Bite of mouthwash on Danny’s tongue when Danny kisses him back, and Martin can taste the soft, pleased sounds in the back of Danny’s throat. His hands are braced on either side of Danny’s hips, and Danny’s have crept around to grip Martin’s ass, pulling him closer, and it’s pretty obvious that Danny’s not planning on complaining about being ravished against his dresser.
This is good, because Martin’s not planning on stopping.
Kissing and nipping Danny’s neck is also good – and hell, better than good – warm, soft skin and surfaces that shift – vein and tendon, muscle just beneath, reacting to the tease of tongue and teeth, and Danny’s scent everywhere, making Martin drunk with it, drowning, and Martin doesn’t ever want to come up.
There’s a mirror over the dresser, and when Martin opens his eyes he can see himself, eyes wide and dark, peering over the curve of Danny’s shoulder. Mesmerized by the play of light across Danny’s back and shoulders, and he traces the path of muscle and sunlight with a finger, watching light and flesh react, Danny shifting back into the touch like poetry, hypnotic.
Danny makes him a bit crazy.
Okay, maybe more than a bit crazy.
Or maybe more himself, and that kind of freaks him out if he thinks too much about it. Fortunately, Danny doesn’t let him think too much, and how could he – why would he want to, for God’s sake? – with Danny laughing and letting himself be pulled along, directed backward by the force of Martin’s mouth against his, and his laugh is low and warm, thick, oozy like honey, metamorphosing into a kiss pressed to Martin’s jaw.
Martin almost trips over the discarded towel and kicks it away with an impatient curse. Danny laughs at that, and Danny… doesn’t get to laugh right now. Right now, Martin doesn’t feel like laughing, only feels like pushing Danny flat on the bed, the bed that’s still a wreck from last night, the bed that sometimes he comes perilously close to calling theirs, considering the two of them spend so much time in it.
Not to mention Danny’s couch, the kitchen counter, the table once, the front door, and pretty much any other convenient surface. Maybe they should set up a rotating schedule. And maybe the anal-retentive part of Martin’s brain should shut up because there’s better things to do.
Better things like staring down at Danny, frozen unexpectedly, just looking, filling himself up with Danny’s smile and Danny’s body. And not too long ago even the sight of Danny like this would have been enough for Martin to die happy, more than enough, but now that he knows what Danny naked feels like, what he sounds like when he’s breathless and gone with it, he’s never going to be able to have enough.
And Danny lying there, spread crosswise atop rumpled sheets, is almost too much for Martin to take, naked and aroused and unashamed, grinning up at him with dark eyes alight, smile knowing and inviting, one hand out to pull Martin down atop him.
Scarily easy, sliding against Danny like this, and it’s a good thing Martin’s Not Thinking right now. Because Danny knows all about him, knows the places to touch to make him shudder and the things to say to make him blush, knows what to do to get Martin to do what he wants.
Like this, right now, Danny’s lips and tongue flirting at the corners of his mouth, teasing kisses that have Martin forcing them into something deeper, maddened by the hint of Danny’s taste that wasn’t strong enough until he could have it all, every inch of Danny’s mouth. And just like that he’s pressed hard against Danny, grinding down into him, feeling the satisfaction in every inch of the body beneath his.
Danny’s smirk has a flavor, hot and spicy, heavy in Martin’s mouth like wine. Martin wants more – he always wants more, and when he got addicted to this he doesn’t know – but he also wants Danny to know he can’t get away with this. That he can’t pull Martin out of himself, no matter how hard he tries.
He breaks away and reaches for the lube, not missing how Danny’s eyes narrow, heat and light flashing across those dark eyes before the lids slide shut, quickest flicker of a blink, and when Danny opens them again there’s open challenge in them.
Before he knows it, Martin’s answering, sliding low across Danny’s body, forcing him down into the mattress, and if he’s not coordinated enough to get the lube open the first time he’s going to scream, or find and kill the idiot who made the tops too complicated for lust-blinded, uncoordinated people to manage. The top pops open on the first try thank God, and he’s so surprised he spills too much over his fingers and Danny’s belly, the liquid pooling in Danny’s navel, the ridges of his stomach muscles, a thin stream of it running down one hip.
Danny’s on the verge of making a smart remark – that wonderful mouth open just so, smirk hovering at the edges of it – so Martin shuts him up the best way he can: vicious kiss, teeth and tongue and no mercy in it at all, knees pushing Danny’s roughly apart so Martin can get between them. Hell with the lube because he needs both hands for this, one to maneuver Danny’s thigh over his hip, the other to scrape up the lube spilled across Danny’s stomach and slick it over his cock.
Working Danny open is an exercise in torture, because Martin’s mind is already skipping ahead to what it’ll be like, being inside Danny, memory and anticipation mixing and making his heart race and his breath come short. Can’t get it back and he breaks the kiss, fighting against the encouragement of Danny’s body, Danny’s low voice – tumble of Spanish and English and breath –, makes himself wait, concentrating on the heat and pressure around his fingers.
His resolve lasts all of two seconds, burnt out of him when he realizes that Danny’s going to wait him out. He forces Danny’s hips up and pushes his way in, pressure barely on the wrong side of painful, but Danny’s moving into it, moving into him, smirk gone now and replaced by concentration, soft whine in the back of his throat that Martin can feel, low reverberation in Danny’s chest.
Danny’s hands are slipping down his hips to grip his ass, awkward and not placed well enough to make Martin do anything he doesn’t want to do, like come way before he wants to come. Incremental movement, flexing deeper into Danny’s body as Danny opens for him, the sudden pleasure of it incandescent, so bright he has to shut his eyes against it.
“Christ,” he says, the word shocked out of him, choky and thick in the air between them. Danny’s looking right at him as he says it, and when he smiles it isn’t teasing.
Danny’s eyes can catch and hook him, hold him, strip him bare of any cover, like they’re doing right now. Martin tears himself away, buries his face in Danny’s neck as he moves slowly in and out, Danny still tight around him, pressure and friction spiking along his spine. Teeth glancing across skin, down Danny’s neck, lower as he draws himself out, down across the ridge of collarbone, the plane of Danny’s chest, pressing harder into the muscle there, hard enough to feel the thunder of Danny’s heartbeat under it.
“Ow!” Danny quivers against him, muscles tightening in protest, and one of the hands on Martin’s ass comes up to rub involuntarily against the new bite mark just above his left nipple.
“Shut up,” he growls against Danny’s neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there to emphasize his point. He’s so close to losing it, to having this be over way too soon.
“Then fucking hurry up,” Danny says, shifting impatiently, trying to find the leverage that Martin isn’t giving him, hips twisting sweat-slick and elusive against Martin’s hands, cock brushing against Martin’s stomach.
And of course he gives in, because it’s Danny, because if he doesn’t move he’s going to explode with wanting to, and never mind that it’s giving in, never mind that this is what Danny wants, what he’s been angling after with that stupid towel of his, this loss of control that has Martin thrusting mindlessly into Danny’s body, beyond restraint and pride, beyond even knowing about such things.
He can feel everything, every fucking thing, the silk-smooth patches of Danny’s skin where he’d spilled the lube, the friction of Danny’s thighs against him. The scent of the two of them together has a texture, and the words tumbling from Danny’s mouth have a weight to them. And Martin’s saying something, or breathing it, and he doesn’t know if it’s obscenity or prayer, only knows that the breath scraping along his throat has been shaped into words, can see Danny reacting to them, feel the fine body underneath him tensing up into him.
When Danny comes it’s sudden and sharp, no warning as he bucks up into Martin’s hand, intake of breath that’s amazed and disbelieving. All of him tightens around Martin’s cock, subterranean ripples of Danny’s muscles like earthquakes in Martin’s body, catastrophic.
Orgasm pitches him out of himself, white light and darkness, drowning, flying, all the time in the world to coast on it and not enough. Coming back is rediscovery of sensation, Danny’s fingers drifting across his shoulders and neck, soothing at his cheekbones, brushing away a drop of sweat at his temple. Warm breath and kisses pressed along his jaw, dim awareness that he’s still inside Danny, echo of Danny’s heartbeat everywhere in him.
Thought is a hazy uncertain thing, and he’s glad for it. He can move enough to pull himself out of Danny, off him so he’s not crushing him, to sprawl crosswise atop the bed and stare. And stare and stare, for the rest of the day he hopes, because Danny’s staring sightlessly at the ceiling, abandoned and beautiful, and there’s the beginnings of that smile, and Martin could tape this and watch this forever.
And that’s what you get for falling for a person, Martin decides. Never being able to have enough, even lying here with all the time in the world to watch Danny stretch and hum contentedly, not bothering with cleanup beyond a few half-hearted swipes with the towel that Martin pulled off him not too long ago.
“Good thing it’s Saturday,” Danny observes, words coming lazy against Martin’s chest as he turns over to plaster himself against Martin’s side, subtle shift of his hips a not-so-subtle reminder . “I think if we had to go into the office today I’d be in trouble.”
Glow of male pride that manifests itself in a smile before Martin can stop it, and Danny snickers. Martin’s too satisfied to make him sorry for it.
“Sleep now,” Danny decides after a moment, settling himself into the curve of Martin’s body and draping one leg across Martin’s.
Martin agrees with this, but doesn’t say so, only nods and lets the rhythm of Danny’s breath, warm, smoothing into a quieter pace, draw him off.
-end-
Eeg. I always feel ridiculous when I post porn, and I have no idea why, especially because I have memories of composing this in the library. At school. God only knows how many undergraduates have looked over my shoulder and been corrupted. *cackles pleasurably to self at this thought*
It also occurs to me that, something like six years ago or very nearly, I started writing fanfic. Dear lord. I should dig up the HF ur-fic one of these days and do some good, old-fashioned writhing.
In other news: My God is it windy out right now. 40mph with wind and clouds streaming by like crazy O.o A very von Birkenstockian evening.
Title: Martin vs. the Towel
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M.
Ratings/Warnings: NC17 for the PWPness.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to other people. If Martin and Danny belonged to me, they'd be having a lot more fun right now.
Advertisements: Vaguely sequel-ish to Inside-Out and Across, which you'll be relieved to know is also a PWP. Dominant!Martin, TowelClad!Danny. No towels were harmed (badly) in the making of this fic.
Notes: Eep! As I say, I forgot that I had this finished, all tucked away in my 'Completed' file on my hard drive. Written for
lillyjk, who wanted a sequel to Inside-Out, and requested it eons ago at that. *blush* Sorry, Lilly... I am slow and dumb, and don't know when I've finished things, apparently.MARTIN VS THE TOWEL
Martin likes Danny’s towels. Most of the time.
These are, quite seriously, the best towels on earth. Unbelievably soft and fluffy, navy blue, and they only seem to get softer, and well, he could wax poetic about them, he really could.
Except times like now, when Danny’s wearing one of them.
Danny’s right out of the shower and smelling like his soap and warm, damp skin, and God wherever the light falls it gilds him at the edges – bicep and arc of shoulder, the flattened line of his chest and the fine bones of his face – and he moves like water, liquid and swift, and Martin can’t do anything but stare at him, trying to absorb every inch of flesh.
And the damn towel. Is. In. The. Way.
Wrapped low and carelessly secured, riding on the bony hitch of Danny’s hips, and how it’s defying the laws of physics, Martin doesn’t know.
While the towel may be able to defy the laws of physics, it’s not about to defy the law of Martin, which requires that for the action of wet, nearly-naked Danny waltzing around his bedroom there must be the reaction of Martin propelling himself out of bed, latching onto said towel, and yanking it off.
Danny has the nerve to look surprised as Martin pushes him back against the dresser, and okay maybe he’s allowed to be surprised because the edges are sharp and unforgiving and Martin’s being a bit rough, but when he opens his mouth it’s not to protest – or if it is, whatever he has to say is swallowed by Martin’s mouth.
Bite of mouthwash on Danny’s tongue when Danny kisses him back, and Martin can taste the soft, pleased sounds in the back of Danny’s throat. His hands are braced on either side of Danny’s hips, and Danny’s have crept around to grip Martin’s ass, pulling him closer, and it’s pretty obvious that Danny’s not planning on complaining about being ravished against his dresser.
This is good, because Martin’s not planning on stopping.
Kissing and nipping Danny’s neck is also good – and hell, better than good – warm, soft skin and surfaces that shift – vein and tendon, muscle just beneath, reacting to the tease of tongue and teeth, and Danny’s scent everywhere, making Martin drunk with it, drowning, and Martin doesn’t ever want to come up.
There’s a mirror over the dresser, and when Martin opens his eyes he can see himself, eyes wide and dark, peering over the curve of Danny’s shoulder. Mesmerized by the play of light across Danny’s back and shoulders, and he traces the path of muscle and sunlight with a finger, watching light and flesh react, Danny shifting back into the touch like poetry, hypnotic.
Danny makes him a bit crazy.
Okay, maybe more than a bit crazy.
Or maybe more himself, and that kind of freaks him out if he thinks too much about it. Fortunately, Danny doesn’t let him think too much, and how could he – why would he want to, for God’s sake? – with Danny laughing and letting himself be pulled along, directed backward by the force of Martin’s mouth against his, and his laugh is low and warm, thick, oozy like honey, metamorphosing into a kiss pressed to Martin’s jaw.
Martin almost trips over the discarded towel and kicks it away with an impatient curse. Danny laughs at that, and Danny… doesn’t get to laugh right now. Right now, Martin doesn’t feel like laughing, only feels like pushing Danny flat on the bed, the bed that’s still a wreck from last night, the bed that sometimes he comes perilously close to calling theirs, considering the two of them spend so much time in it.
Not to mention Danny’s couch, the kitchen counter, the table once, the front door, and pretty much any other convenient surface. Maybe they should set up a rotating schedule. And maybe the anal-retentive part of Martin’s brain should shut up because there’s better things to do.
Better things like staring down at Danny, frozen unexpectedly, just looking, filling himself up with Danny’s smile and Danny’s body. And not too long ago even the sight of Danny like this would have been enough for Martin to die happy, more than enough, but now that he knows what Danny naked feels like, what he sounds like when he’s breathless and gone with it, he’s never going to be able to have enough.
And Danny lying there, spread crosswise atop rumpled sheets, is almost too much for Martin to take, naked and aroused and unashamed, grinning up at him with dark eyes alight, smile knowing and inviting, one hand out to pull Martin down atop him.
Scarily easy, sliding against Danny like this, and it’s a good thing Martin’s Not Thinking right now. Because Danny knows all about him, knows the places to touch to make him shudder and the things to say to make him blush, knows what to do to get Martin to do what he wants.
Like this, right now, Danny’s lips and tongue flirting at the corners of his mouth, teasing kisses that have Martin forcing them into something deeper, maddened by the hint of Danny’s taste that wasn’t strong enough until he could have it all, every inch of Danny’s mouth. And just like that he’s pressed hard against Danny, grinding down into him, feeling the satisfaction in every inch of the body beneath his.
Danny’s smirk has a flavor, hot and spicy, heavy in Martin’s mouth like wine. Martin wants more – he always wants more, and when he got addicted to this he doesn’t know – but he also wants Danny to know he can’t get away with this. That he can’t pull Martin out of himself, no matter how hard he tries.
He breaks away and reaches for the lube, not missing how Danny’s eyes narrow, heat and light flashing across those dark eyes before the lids slide shut, quickest flicker of a blink, and when Danny opens them again there’s open challenge in them.
Before he knows it, Martin’s answering, sliding low across Danny’s body, forcing him down into the mattress, and if he’s not coordinated enough to get the lube open the first time he’s going to scream, or find and kill the idiot who made the tops too complicated for lust-blinded, uncoordinated people to manage. The top pops open on the first try thank God, and he’s so surprised he spills too much over his fingers and Danny’s belly, the liquid pooling in Danny’s navel, the ridges of his stomach muscles, a thin stream of it running down one hip.
Danny’s on the verge of making a smart remark – that wonderful mouth open just so, smirk hovering at the edges of it – so Martin shuts him up the best way he can: vicious kiss, teeth and tongue and no mercy in it at all, knees pushing Danny’s roughly apart so Martin can get between them. Hell with the lube because he needs both hands for this, one to maneuver Danny’s thigh over his hip, the other to scrape up the lube spilled across Danny’s stomach and slick it over his cock.
Working Danny open is an exercise in torture, because Martin’s mind is already skipping ahead to what it’ll be like, being inside Danny, memory and anticipation mixing and making his heart race and his breath come short. Can’t get it back and he breaks the kiss, fighting against the encouragement of Danny’s body, Danny’s low voice – tumble of Spanish and English and breath –, makes himself wait, concentrating on the heat and pressure around his fingers.
His resolve lasts all of two seconds, burnt out of him when he realizes that Danny’s going to wait him out. He forces Danny’s hips up and pushes his way in, pressure barely on the wrong side of painful, but Danny’s moving into it, moving into him, smirk gone now and replaced by concentration, soft whine in the back of his throat that Martin can feel, low reverberation in Danny’s chest.
Danny’s hands are slipping down his hips to grip his ass, awkward and not placed well enough to make Martin do anything he doesn’t want to do, like come way before he wants to come. Incremental movement, flexing deeper into Danny’s body as Danny opens for him, the sudden pleasure of it incandescent, so bright he has to shut his eyes against it.
“Christ,” he says, the word shocked out of him, choky and thick in the air between them. Danny’s looking right at him as he says it, and when he smiles it isn’t teasing.
Danny’s eyes can catch and hook him, hold him, strip him bare of any cover, like they’re doing right now. Martin tears himself away, buries his face in Danny’s neck as he moves slowly in and out, Danny still tight around him, pressure and friction spiking along his spine. Teeth glancing across skin, down Danny’s neck, lower as he draws himself out, down across the ridge of collarbone, the plane of Danny’s chest, pressing harder into the muscle there, hard enough to feel the thunder of Danny’s heartbeat under it.
“Ow!” Danny quivers against him, muscles tightening in protest, and one of the hands on Martin’s ass comes up to rub involuntarily against the new bite mark just above his left nipple.
“Shut up,” he growls against Danny’s neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there to emphasize his point. He’s so close to losing it, to having this be over way too soon.
“Then fucking hurry up,” Danny says, shifting impatiently, trying to find the leverage that Martin isn’t giving him, hips twisting sweat-slick and elusive against Martin’s hands, cock brushing against Martin’s stomach.
And of course he gives in, because it’s Danny, because if he doesn’t move he’s going to explode with wanting to, and never mind that it’s giving in, never mind that this is what Danny wants, what he’s been angling after with that stupid towel of his, this loss of control that has Martin thrusting mindlessly into Danny’s body, beyond restraint and pride, beyond even knowing about such things.
He can feel everything, every fucking thing, the silk-smooth patches of Danny’s skin where he’d spilled the lube, the friction of Danny’s thighs against him. The scent of the two of them together has a texture, and the words tumbling from Danny’s mouth have a weight to them. And Martin’s saying something, or breathing it, and he doesn’t know if it’s obscenity or prayer, only knows that the breath scraping along his throat has been shaped into words, can see Danny reacting to them, feel the fine body underneath him tensing up into him.
When Danny comes it’s sudden and sharp, no warning as he bucks up into Martin’s hand, intake of breath that’s amazed and disbelieving. All of him tightens around Martin’s cock, subterranean ripples of Danny’s muscles like earthquakes in Martin’s body, catastrophic.
Orgasm pitches him out of himself, white light and darkness, drowning, flying, all the time in the world to coast on it and not enough. Coming back is rediscovery of sensation, Danny’s fingers drifting across his shoulders and neck, soothing at his cheekbones, brushing away a drop of sweat at his temple. Warm breath and kisses pressed along his jaw, dim awareness that he’s still inside Danny, echo of Danny’s heartbeat everywhere in him.
Thought is a hazy uncertain thing, and he’s glad for it. He can move enough to pull himself out of Danny, off him so he’s not crushing him, to sprawl crosswise atop the bed and stare. And stare and stare, for the rest of the day he hopes, because Danny’s staring sightlessly at the ceiling, abandoned and beautiful, and there’s the beginnings of that smile, and Martin could tape this and watch this forever.
And that’s what you get for falling for a person, Martin decides. Never being able to have enough, even lying here with all the time in the world to watch Danny stretch and hum contentedly, not bothering with cleanup beyond a few half-hearted swipes with the towel that Martin pulled off him not too long ago.
“Good thing it’s Saturday,” Danny observes, words coming lazy against Martin’s chest as he turns over to plaster himself against Martin’s side, subtle shift of his hips a not-so-subtle reminder . “I think if we had to go into the office today I’d be in trouble.”
Glow of male pride that manifests itself in a smile before Martin can stop it, and Danny snickers. Martin’s too satisfied to make him sorry for it.
“Sleep now,” Danny decides after a moment, settling himself into the curve of Martin’s body and draping one leg across Martin’s.
Martin agrees with this, but doesn’t say so, only nods and lets the rhythm of Danny’s breath, warm, smoothing into a quieter pace, draw him off.
-end-
Eeg. I always feel ridiculous when I post porn, and I have no idea why, especially because I have memories of composing this in the library. At school. God only knows how many undergraduates have looked over my shoulder and been corrupted. *cackles pleasurably to self at this thought*
It also occurs to me that, something like six years ago or very nearly, I started writing fanfic. Dear lord. I should dig up the HF ur-fic one of these days and do some good, old-fashioned writhing.
In other news: My God is it windy out right now. 40mph with wind and clouds streaming by like crazy O.o A very von Birkenstockian evening.
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That's what defines this. Because it's never about the sex with them. It's always, always about what lies beneath it and you managed to capture that perfectly. Perfectly.
So much love.
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And just fyi, in the 15th (I think) paragraph it says "backward y the force" and I'm pretty sure the "y" should be a "by."
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While I too agree on the wonderfulness of porn, I hope your week had a few more high points *hugs*
Thank you, though :)
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My favorite moment is:
“Then fucking hurry up,” Danny says, shifting impatiently
That made me laugh and humor and sex go great together.
And Martin’s saying something, or breathing it, and he doesn’t know if it’s obscenity or prayer, only knows that the breath scraping along his throat has been shaped into words, can see Danny reacting to them, feel the fine body underneath him tensing up into him.
Lovely. Just lovely.
I really like "Inside-Out and Across" too.
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And yay for porny sequels to porn! Love this. So much love right now.
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Beautiful. :o)
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Martin would have something to say about that *g*
*hugs* And thank you!
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The depth of emotions is also really nice, PWP with heart
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Sensual, descriptive, the imagery transports you from your present to their world. Where you are right there with them. Feeling what Martin feels and seeing what Martin sees. You could practically reach out and touch. You truly forget that you are not there. Now that's good porn.
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:D
You could practically reach out and touch.
Oh, how I wish..!
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I loved that. Like I think someone else already commented, this whole story was lyrical. Hot and poetic, and heartwarming (b/c I love D/M love scenes).
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Who doesn't?!
And I'm thrilled you liked this. Thanks for reading! :D
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The scent of the two of them together has a texture, and the words tumbling from Danny’s mouth have a weight to them.
This is just perfect, I can't even explain why it touches me so deeply. Perfect way of transforming senseless porn in something beautiful. Thanks for writing it.
A very von Birkenstockian evening.
I can't help it, now everytime there is bad weather I'll think of it as "von Birkenstockian weather", that I miss a bit, by the way, considered the desert-like temperatures we are still having.
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that I miss a bit, by the way, considered the desert-like temperatures we are still having.
Eek! And here it is, the end of November... we can't have that! *sends some von Birkenstockian weather your way*
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Though I read the stories, I'm not really in the WaT fandom so my posts will probably bore you to death, but would you mind very much friending me back so that I could read your stories? I'll understand if you don't, but I just had to ask.
*re reads story while it's still unlocked*
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Oh, and btw, all my stuff is (eventually) posted at Pretty FBI under aesc36, though I tend to forget things for a few days before I remember again :D Still, everything goes up somewhere for permanent storage at some point.