A collection of the fics I wrote for Porn Battle XI.




Undisclosed, Tron: Legacy, Sam Flynn/Edward Dillinger Jr., history, secretive

The desk of the Encom CEO isn’t the lite-bright, monolith monstrosity that his father enslaved himself to, that desk is long gone, along with Betamax and leg warmers and, hey, his father, but it’s still a damn big desk.

Sam Flynn looks good behind it.

Edward can admit that. He doesn’t lie to himself.

Sam Flynn looks good behind the desk, if a little out of place. He’s a man who’s comfortable in his own skin but holds himself stiff in a suit like he’s afraid he’ll move wrong and wrinkle the deliberate creases.

Edward does not have this problem. Edward Dillinger Jr. is too sharp for his own suits. He wears them like he’s barely aware of their existence.

“Someday,” Flynn tells him, “Someday you’re gonna cut yourself on the edges of your own façade.”

He says this as he slides to his knees, tugging expertly at Edward’s belt, so Edward mostly ignores him.

“Points for noticing,” he says, running his thumb along Flynn’s lower lip, slipping inside to flick a nail against his teeth. “Few people do.”

It’s possible Flynn tries to say something to that, the man never knows when to shut the fuck up, but Edward is done listening and he chokes off whatever comment was coming with three fingers sliding slow over Sam’s tongue. He sucks at them without complaint and Edward shivers in anticipation.

He shivers again when Sam gets his pants open and flattens one broad, callused hand over his cock. He fits his thumb under Sam’s chin and presses down with the fingers in his mouth, controlling. Sam, Flynn, makes an unhappy noise but he doesn’t bite.

“Dillinger,” he says, annoyed, when Edward finally slides his fingers free.

They call each other by last names. Makes this sound like the continuation of some antique feud that went out with the Trapper Keeper.

As if this had anything to do with their respective fathers.

Edward rolls his eyes at him. “Flynn,” he says in response. He leans back a little, the CEO’s desk, Flynn’s desk, a hard line under his ass.

Flynn shuffles on his knees to follow and Edward would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy that image.

“Really, man,” Flynn says, sounding so much like old press conference recordings of his father that Edward narrowly resists the urge to strangle him, “you need to loosen up.”

He grins like that’s actually clever but the next thing he does is put one hand on Edward’s hip, wrap the other around his cock, and take him down deep enough that he can’t be breathing in one long slide.

So rather than tell him that the last thing on earth he’ll be doing is loosening up, Edward slides his hands into Flynn’s hair and tips his head back, groaning. He stares at the ceiling for a minute because he can’t watch this, not if he wants to last.

When he finally trusts himself to look back down, Sam is looking up at him through his ridiculous lashes, lips wrapped wide around Edward’s cock. The sight of him, on his knees behind his own desk, sucking Edward off like he could do it for days, is a giddy, punch-drunk high better than any pharmaceutical the junior programmers slam in the restrooms.

“God, you look good like this.” Edward’s voice is half an octave lower than normal, scratchy and ragged like it’s being dragged out of him. Sam drops his eyes and hums in response as Edward uses his grip in his hair to pull him closer, sinking deep until his airway is choked off with cock and holding him there ten, twenty, thirty-five seconds.

He lets Sam pull off and gasp for breath. Combs his fingers through his hair until Sam leans in again, goes back down without a qualm.

This would be fun even if Sam wasn’t so good. But not nearly as much.

Edward runs his fingers along Sam’s cheek, feeling the blunt weight of his own cock though the muscle and skin. “You’re so good,” he murmurs. He slips his thumb into Sam’s mouth alongside, pulling a little at the corner, making everything sloppier and a little more desperate. He’d bet his stock options that Sam’s hard. Untouched and frantic. He always is.

Sam Flynn looks good behind the Encom CEO’s desk.

He looks even better bent over it.





Stuff of Legends, Chronicles of Narnia, Caspian/Peter, sword, if, death, promise


The How is a cave, and caves are dark. Caspian squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them. There is no discernable difference.

He goes back for a torch.

The How is dark and dry and mostly silent, deep into the third watch of the night when Caspian comes across the High King. Or, more precisely, when he wanders down a seemingly deserted passage, realizes belatedly that perhaps he should not be wandering alone in the wake of recent events, and comes around a corner with his dagger drawn to find the High King waiting for him, sword of legend in hand.

“Out for a stroll?” the High King asks coolly. He sheathes the sword without waiting for a response and props himself back against a ledge in the wall where he was sitting, Caspian realizes, and staring at one of the painted murals

He looks as though he may have been crying.

“Your Majesty, is… is everything alright?”

He is golden in the torch light, and it seems jarring and awkward to ask a myth about his feelings. Too late, Caspian spots the empty wineskin on the floor at the High King’s feet. Drinking, not crying. Possibly both.

Peter, the High King, a boy half a decade younger than Caspian himself, spares Caspian a bare glance and says only, “I fear Aslan has deserted these lands.” There is true despair in his voice, and more than a little… guilt?

The part of Caspian that is a Telmarine prince born of a long line of Telmarine kings and an even longer line of backstabbing Telmarine warrior-politicians thinks, ‘He is weakened by the shame of rejection from his barbarian lion-god.’ He files this information away.

Caspian considers the empty wineskin and decides it’s as good a time as any for a test. In truth, he was raised with more political deft than to call a man’s god false to his face, but Peter does not know that. “I thought Aslan was a legend born of the great talking cats,” he says, mostly to see what Peter will say in response.

Peter moves with a speed that shocks him. Caspian has three inches and twenty pounds of muscle on him but Peter forces him hard back against the wall and pins him there with his body.

His teeth are very white in the gloom.

“You are a fool to dismiss legends,” he says. “Have you not yet seen enough of your long forgotten myths walk and speak and fight for you? This army is made up entirely of things you once called legends, do you think you have seen all that is to come?”

The High King’s body is hard against his and he’s looking up into Caspian’s face from a scant inch away. Caspian has held his own uncle at sword point and yet this is the most tense moment of his life.

His eyes drop, just for an instant, to Peter’s mouth and the quality of the tension changes. Peter uses the hand clenched in his shirt to shake him a little, thumping him lightly against the wall at his back as though for emphasis.

“If you destroy this country,” he says with a deadly seriousness that prickles the hair on the back of Caspian’s neck, “I will kill you.”

They are so close that Peter is practically whispering the words into his mouth. Caspian has never paid such attention to anything in his life.

“Whatever else may fall between us, I will kill you before I watch you fail Narnia.”

Caspian wets his lips to reply and Peter’s pupils dilate sharply. “I will not fail this country,” he swears in a voice far from steady. “On my life and honor I promise it.”

The High King is golden in the light. A burnished summer god.

Caspian keeps his eyes open.





Darker Things, Dorian Gray, Dorian/any, poison

There are monsters of all kinds in the world, Dorian finds.

In the bazaars of Istanbul he becomes obsessed with the fashionable application of poison. The way a beam of light will strike through a cut-glass ampoule, illuminating the murky contents, raising the dark liquid briefly to a thing of unbearable beauty.

Gentlemen sport large intricate rings with hidden compartments filled with mysterious powders. Some are snuff, some are perfume, some are cocaine. A few are more sinister things. Ladies wear cut glass baubles whose color shifts with the light.

There are potions that promise a man unending pleasure, cheap at the price in the stalls of perfume sellers and spice merchants. The British ambassador tells him that these are almost always fatal to the user.

Dorian tries them all. And then he tries the ambassador’s son.

He catches his reflection, a thing he is alternately obsessed with and fearful of, in the faceted glass of a large decanter. His face, multiplied a hundred times as though in the eye of some small insect.

A hundred versions of himself watch him. He imagines each of them to be worse than the last.

He is beautiful, of course. The way a statue is beautiful, if a statue could walk with Dorian’s insouciant grace, banter with barbed double entendres in his light voice. The way all poison is beautiful, really.

Dorian Gray is a ravishingly lovely monster.

An endless onslaught of lovers gasp and sigh and rot at his touch. He claws his nails down a thousand unblemished chests.

The cultural attaché’s wife slinks, sated, from his bed tugging her teenage nephew along behind.

He turns heads wherever he passes, and why should he not? He is a god of marble and silk among the dust and strain and cloistered pettiness of British life abroad. He exudes a sense of well-tailored intrigue, the scent of sandalwood and fire, of the dangers he has sought out drift behind him on the air though they leave no mark on his body.

Powder dropped into a glass disappears in seconds. Care to gamble on what it is?

In Morocco, for the price of a good pair of gloves in London, he buys two women and a man for a night. They tie him to the bed with Chinese silk scarves. When they’re done with him he smiles. There is blood on his teeth from where he nearly bit through his own lip. His body hums with sensation, his mind spins with drugs.

“My turn,” he says.

In the morning, one of the women is dead. The man will never work again. Dorian’s injuries fade and disappear. His skin is smooth, unmarked, unflawed.

He glimmers like poison in a Waterford crystal wine glass.

A toast, to intoxication.





Striking Bargains, The Covenant, Caleb/Chase, sting, reason


“I’m Chase Collins. I have everything I could possibly want.”

Chase does not consider this a lie. He wants Caleb, true. But he has Caleb, in every way that counts. He holds everyone Caleb loves hostage; there is nothing he couldn’t do. Couldn’t have.

“Just think of yourself as a sacrificial lamb,” he whispers against the corner of Caleb’s mouth.

Caleb takes a slow breath, watching Chase’s face from less than an inch away. The breath hitches and drags. He hit the mirror pretty hard. Chase’s weight on his chest probably isn’t helping.

There’s glass all over the floor, silvered and sharp. Caleb can feel it catch and drag in his hair when Chase uses the hand on his face to turn his head a little, studying him with an intensity that shivers over his skin.

He holds Chase’s eyes and he says, “You’ve been hurting the people I love to get to me.” His voice is rough, deeper than usual.

Chase slides his hand slowly down Caleb’s neck, tracing his fingers along his pulse, dipping his thumb into the hollow of his throat. “Yes,” he says, in a tone of admission. He raises his eyebrows and nods a little. “Yes, I have.”

Caleb swallows hard, feeling the muscles in his throat work under the press of Chase’s hand. Chase looks dangerously fascinated, shifting back to smile down at him. Caleb lets his thighs fall open on an invitation and says, “Hurt me instead.”

There’s a slight pause where Chase looks surprised, and then he pretends to hesitate, considering. Any hesitation on his part is a lie. They’re pressed too close to sell that one. Caleb moves a little and Chase tightens the hand around his throat reflexively.

He hums quietly to himself, thinking. “Deal,” he says, and he leans back in fast, catches Caleb’s mouth in a kiss that violates the rules of common decency. He keeps the hand around Caleb’s throat, holding him against the floor while he pulls his lower lip into his mouth.

Caleb lets Chase suck at his lower lip until his vision starts to go black around the edges. Oxygen deprivation making him dizzy and slow and fucking hard and Caleb thinks, the hell with this, and lifts one hand from the glass strewn tile to grab Chase’s belt loop and pull him down, hips pressed tight to his own.

Chase hums into his mouth, scrapes sharp teeth across his lip, and lets up a little on the hand around his throat. “It’s like that, huh?” he says, as though that makes any fucking sense. He rocks his hips against Caleb’s and drags his nails down his chest to slide up under the edge of his shirt.

His hands are cold and his hips are rough and Caleb’s coat is tangled beneath his shoulders so when Chase drags his shirt up, and rocks his weight down the mirrored glass cuts a thousand stinging scratches into his skin.

Caleb props himself up on one elbow, sliding over the tile in a tinkling wave of broken glass, and presses his mouth back to Chase’s. Chase swears around Caleb’s tongue, digging his fingers into his ribs to pull him closer.

He finally, finally (god, put it back) takes his hand from around Caleb’s throat to slide down his stomach and grab him through his jeans. Caleb rocks up into his grip and moans. He drags his mouth away for a moment to gasp for air, for clarity. Chase bites him for it.

Hard and sudden, his teeth just under Caleb’s jawline. A sucking, wet bite that’s going to leave a mark as obvious as a house fire.

Caleb swallows down a shout and fumbles, blind and one handed, for Chase’s belt buckle. Chase leans back with a last teasing bite at Caleb’s mouth and watches him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You’re so perfect like this.” He hisses as Caleb gets a hand around his cock, and then he laughs. “God, if your family could see you now. Your little girlfriend. Your brothers.” He squeezes down hard with the hand between Caleb’s legs. “Or would our brothers not be so surprised? Have they seen you like this before, Caleb?” His breath hitches as Caleb strokes him, rough and fast. “Do they get down on their knees for you?” he whispers, and he slips his own hand inside Caleb’s jeans.

Caleb jerks up into him on a gasp. Their mouths collide, messy, off center. A sharp drag of teeth and there’s blood in the kiss. Caleb shifts until he can get their cocks together, wrap his hand around both of them and Chase makes a sound that’s half laugh and half groan. “Definitely had some practice,” he mumbles, bites Caleb’s cut lower lip.

Caleb hisses, and shifts higher, presses them together harder, the glass cutting rivets into his back, his hand and forearm braced on the tile. He’s panting against Chase’s mouth now, long past the control to kiss, or speak, or think.

“Wanted this,” Chase manages, his voice stripped down to bare wire. “Since I first heard your name.”

He makes a sharp, strangled noise and squeezes. His eyes are black and bottomless.

The world goes white.

When his senses come back Caleb is lying alone on the bathroom floor, his clothes and hair and body in complete disarray. Blood, mostly his, smeared across the tile and the shards of mirror; his cuts sting and burn; his mouth throbs with pain.

Chase is looking down at him from the doorway, pleased and sated. He smirks. “Better than I ever imagined,” he says.

Glass crunches in the tread of his boots as he leaves.
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