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Birthday fic for Kate
A very happy birthday to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mskatej, who is one of my favorite people in the world. She is the very first person to ever write porn especially for me. And not only that, but for my past two birthdays she has not only written me porn, but she's actually written pairings that she herself finds strange and weird, because she's such a wonderful person.
So I wanted to reciprocate, somehow. As everyone knows, I am not a writer (of fiction, anyway), but after much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth and handholding bybop_radar (who deserves many thanks for a very last-minute beta), I have committed fic. Well, it's really more like a ficlet, but at 700 words it is the longest thing I've ever written, and probably the first non-parody story I've ever actually finished. So, happy birthday, Kate!
Title: Natural Sense
Fandom: Smallville
Character/Pairing: Lois-centric, sort of Cloisy, with mentions of other Lois/m pairings
Set sometime between "Crimson" and "Prototype"
Summary: Lois is not attracted to Clark, regardless of what that wannabe psychic thinks.
The bell jangled discordantly as she slammed the door of the herbal shop, provoked by Harmony Mayflower and her patchouli-scented psychic bullshit. "I usually have a sixth sense about these things." Right. Like a hippy-dippy matchmaking complex gave a person the right to test unlicensed pharmaceuticals on an unsuspecting public. Lois knew she could sell her editor on an expose on Natural Sense and its proprietor who lacked any, as long as she framed the magical element correctly. "Wicked Wiccan wields weird weapon." Or "Kisses that kill." Well, maybe something less alliterative. It was hard to think through the headache caused by an allergic reaction to sandalwood and soothsaying.
She stomped her way up the stairs to her apartment, relieved to discover that Chloe was gone, probably working another night shift at the Planet. She might have been unable to contain herself from ranting about the complete ridiculousness of the idea that she could fall for Smallville--hell, that anyone could. It was one thing she could never understand about Chlo', why she had ever pined over that big clumsy doofus. Sure, he could be a good guy, but he seemed to break girls' hearts on a regular basis, and really she didn't understand the nature of the attraction.
Okay, he did have nice hands. But other than that.
She decided to lie down for a while, since her head still hurt. Still, it was hard to turn off the inner monologue. Why, oh why had she ever brought up dreams with that woman, anyway? Dreams of flying do not have anything to do with sex. Clearly they're about freedom. And anyway, she had never dreamed of Clark, not in that way. Clark was like an annoying younger brother--kind of a male version of Lucy, always needing to be rescued.
His hands, though. Well.
She didn't dream of them. She liked big guys with big hands. Those hands around her waist last night could have been Oliver's, or Wes's, or any those of a number of guys she'd known over the years. And flying didn't have to be about sex.
Ok, so maybe she hadn't told Witch Mayflower about the other part of the dream, but dreams morph into different things all the time, right? And it was private. The pseudo-psychic didn't need to know about the way those hands had drifted from her waist upwards, cupping her breasts, teasing her with the tips of his thumbs. And then, God, ripping her bra off. That was so damn hot.
She started letting her own hands follow the pathways of her dream, but she definitely was not thinking of Clark as she caressed herself, rubbing her fingertips across her nipples, mentally flipping though faces. Not Oliver--too soon, it still hurt to think of him. Wes, maybe, back in that storage warehouse at Fort Addleson, kissing her with whiskey-scented breath. His hands were shy at first, tentative fingers moving from her neck down to her chest, but then grew bolder, cupping her breasts and stroking and stroking the sensitive places until she was writhing against his leg.
She had a hand down her own panties, now, stroking her clit as she remembered fourteen-year-old Wes doing the same as he bent forward and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking and nibbling while his hands slid down her pants--though he had been awfully clumsy when it came to below the belt, she remembered wryly.
She mentally switched his hands for A.C.'s. They hadn't gotten to do much but she had always wondered what it would be like; she pictured his enormous fingers slipping under the side of her panties, teasing, spreading her wetness around, sliding up and down her clit with one hand while the other squeezed her nipple, hard, and he was whispering something in her ear—
"You like that, don't you Lois, you love when I fuck you with my fingers"—and that was IT, she was falling, like a leap off a building into the unknown, the combined action of those hands and the deep voice rumbling in her ears-- but the voice wasn't A.C.'s, it was more familiar, and suddenly the dream memory snapped into focus, and it was Smallville’s enormous hands sliding inside her, and Smallville’s voice saying "Come for me, Lois"—and she looked up into those gorgeous green eyes, and shuddered and came and came, so blissed out she felt like she was flying.
Damn.
Well, fuck. So much for not thinking of him that way.
mskatej, who is one of my favorite people in the world. She is the very first person to ever write porn especially for me. And not only that, but for my past two birthdays she has not only written me porn, but she's actually written pairings that she herself finds strange and weird, because she's such a wonderful person.So I wanted to reciprocate, somehow. As everyone knows, I am not a writer (of fiction, anyway), but after much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth and handholding by
bop_radar (who deserves many thanks for a very last-minute beta), I have committed fic. Well, it's really more like a ficlet, but at 700 words it is the longest thing I've ever written, and probably the first non-parody story I've ever actually finished. So, happy birthday, Kate!Title: Natural Sense
Fandom: Smallville
Character/Pairing: Lois-centric, sort of Cloisy, with mentions of other Lois/m pairings
Set sometime between "Crimson" and "Prototype"
Summary: Lois is not attracted to Clark, regardless of what that wannabe psychic thinks.
The bell jangled discordantly as she slammed the door of the herbal shop, provoked by Harmony Mayflower and her patchouli-scented psychic bullshit. "I usually have a sixth sense about these things." Right. Like a hippy-dippy matchmaking complex gave a person the right to test unlicensed pharmaceuticals on an unsuspecting public. Lois knew she could sell her editor on an expose on Natural Sense and its proprietor who lacked any, as long as she framed the magical element correctly. "Wicked Wiccan wields weird weapon." Or "Kisses that kill." Well, maybe something less alliterative. It was hard to think through the headache caused by an allergic reaction to sandalwood and soothsaying.
She stomped her way up the stairs to her apartment, relieved to discover that Chloe was gone, probably working another night shift at the Planet. She might have been unable to contain herself from ranting about the complete ridiculousness of the idea that she could fall for Smallville--hell, that anyone could. It was one thing she could never understand about Chlo', why she had ever pined over that big clumsy doofus. Sure, he could be a good guy, but he seemed to break girls' hearts on a regular basis, and really she didn't understand the nature of the attraction.
Okay, he did have nice hands. But other than that.
She decided to lie down for a while, since her head still hurt. Still, it was hard to turn off the inner monologue. Why, oh why had she ever brought up dreams with that woman, anyway? Dreams of flying do not have anything to do with sex. Clearly they're about freedom. And anyway, she had never dreamed of Clark, not in that way. Clark was like an annoying younger brother--kind of a male version of Lucy, always needing to be rescued.
His hands, though. Well.
She didn't dream of them. She liked big guys with big hands. Those hands around her waist last night could have been Oliver's, or Wes's, or any those of a number of guys she'd known over the years. And flying didn't have to be about sex.
Ok, so maybe she hadn't told Witch Mayflower about the other part of the dream, but dreams morph into different things all the time, right? And it was private. The pseudo-psychic didn't need to know about the way those hands had drifted from her waist upwards, cupping her breasts, teasing her with the tips of his thumbs. And then, God, ripping her bra off. That was so damn hot.
She started letting her own hands follow the pathways of her dream, but she definitely was not thinking of Clark as she caressed herself, rubbing her fingertips across her nipples, mentally flipping though faces. Not Oliver--too soon, it still hurt to think of him. Wes, maybe, back in that storage warehouse at Fort Addleson, kissing her with whiskey-scented breath. His hands were shy at first, tentative fingers moving from her neck down to her chest, but then grew bolder, cupping her breasts and stroking and stroking the sensitive places until she was writhing against his leg.
She had a hand down her own panties, now, stroking her clit as she remembered fourteen-year-old Wes doing the same as he bent forward and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking and nibbling while his hands slid down her pants--though he had been awfully clumsy when it came to below the belt, she remembered wryly.
She mentally switched his hands for A.C.'s. They hadn't gotten to do much but she had always wondered what it would be like; she pictured his enormous fingers slipping under the side of her panties, teasing, spreading her wetness around, sliding up and down her clit with one hand while the other squeezed her nipple, hard, and he was whispering something in her ear—
"You like that, don't you Lois, you love when I fuck you with my fingers"—and that was IT, she was falling, like a leap off a building into the unknown, the combined action of those hands and the deep voice rumbling in her ears-- but the voice wasn't A.C.'s, it was more familiar, and suddenly the dream memory snapped into focus, and it was Smallville’s enormous hands sliding inside her, and Smallville’s voice saying "Come for me, Lois"—and she looked up into those gorgeous green eyes, and shuddered and came and came, so blissed out she felt like she was flying.
Damn.
Well, fuck. So much for not thinking of him that way.