Romany (romanyg) wrote,
Romany
romanyg

She came on the page: the money-shots in fic meme.

So there's this orgasm meme going around (yanked from femmenerd and kita0610) where you, me, someone, takes the various money shots from their fic and puts them in a post. It's supposed to just be the one line where this actually happens, but I cheat because, me, those one lines aren't so great in and of themselves.



I'm just putting these in order by date posted. Others have arranged theirs thematically. I'm not that organized.

Angel/Spike, AtS 5, from "His Body a Boat". We have coitus interruptus for reasons Spike doesn't understand, but he knows that something's up, so he moves things along.


Spike only knew one thing for it. He stroked Angel’s arm, his thigh, his cock. Angel tried to pull away. Must want this a little too because Spike wasn’t on his arse. So he wreathed one arm around him, whispered, “We’re not done.”

Angel flinched.

“No, we’re not. Shhh.”

Angel relaxed, opened his thighs, leaned his head on Spike’s shoulder.

Spike sat, slick starting to stick to the leather, uncomfortable. Paid it no never mind. Wasn’t about him.

Angel clung to him, thrust up into his hand. When he came, it was with a keening wail that. Wouldn’t. Bloody. End.



Grief sex. I've written this more than a few times. Huh.



Spike/Lindsey, Ats S5. Lindsey goes by the name of Doyle here (so no, not *that* Doyle). From "Triptych, Variations on a Theme".


And damn if Spike’s gameface didn’t pull down. He ran the ridges of his forehead along one of Doyle’s shoulders. “Oh God...” Doyle said in a voice approaching a whine. Spike did it again. “Oh godohgodohgod.” And one of Doyle’s hands flew off that wall and dove to his cock.

So that’s the way it was, was it? Boy had a fetish. He ran just the tips of his fangs along Doyle’s neck.

“Do it!” he screamed. “Fuck you, just do it!”

Spike clamped one hand over Doyle’s mouth. Breathed in the sharp tang of fear and imminent orgasm. And because he had a bit of the old bastard in him, he said, very quietly, “No.”

So Doyle screamed until Spike’s fingers vibrated with the shock and came all over his couch.



Lindsey *does* have a vampire fetish. That's canon, right? *g*



Angel/Spike, also from "Triptych, Variation on a Theme", the day after Cordy dies.


Spike stared up at the determined face of Angel; his shock giving way to awe. No cherry bunghole, Angel’s. Angelus had taken his pleasure this way as well as the other. Bastard could make you feel insignificant just as well with his arse as he could his cock.

Angel’s eyes, angry, viper-smooth, held Spike’s in check. Kept him silent. “That’s right. Look at me,” Angel whispered, but Spike heard it as loud as anything.

And his cock...it was as if God had taken his iron fist and wrapped it in a velvet glove--gripping, punishing, glorious. Wasn’t long before he felt that rising, the past rising up here on this floor. “Please,” he whined, “Da.” And softly again, “Da.”

Angel, rhythm not slowing, reached down, stroked Spike’s chest, and simply said, “Will.”

And, oh fuck, with no warning, Spike came.



Grief sex again, although that's clearer in the parts before and after this.



Connor/Angel, several years post-NFA, from "Five Years Later at a Holiday Inn". So yeah, incest. Except for Connor, it is and it isn't. In his mind, two different pasts, other men raised him.


He had slammed Angel so far forward that his head cracked the headboard in two, even with the pillow, even with Angel's hands gripping...

“You didn't come.”

There they were, collapsed on the bed, Connor not even wanting to look at his own dick. Angel was still hard.

“It's okay.”

“No! Fuck you, no. You're not going to...”

“Connor, it's okay.” Angel leaned over and kissed him and started jacking himself off. Connor's eyes were closed but he could feel the even strokes of the arm between them.

“I know how to do that,” Connor said, pulling away.

“No, it's better this...” Angel said, leaning in again.

“Shut. Up.” And Connor leaned back in, his arm making the even motions now. “You don't always get to say, got it?”

Angel only nodded.

A few strokes in, Connor decided, fuck it, blow job it is.

“Don't...”

“Shut up. It won't be the best you ever had in your life.”

Whether it was or wasn't, Connor never found out because a few licks and one tentative suck in and Angel came.

“Sorry...”

“Huh. I guess I swallow.”



Angel's really broken here so, in a way, this is grief sex *again*.



Clark/Lex, SV s4, from "Subterfuge". Lex basically tricks Clark into believing they had sex before (it's a long story if you haven't seen the episode "Transference") and that Clark had revealed his secret.


He wanted to close his eyes, feel nothing but his mouth and full, but he needed to look up, see Clark. And there was Clark, wanton, eyes half-lidded and gasping, the flush disappearing inside that unfortunate shirt. Lex reached out, took one of those hands that grasped nothing but the leather, now ripped, and held it. With the other, he traced the hair of Clark's thigh, wandered over the balls and beyond towards the cleft, teasing.

Clark fought each thrust, not quite managing stillness. Short jerks and gasps and soon Lex heard, "Stop! I'm going to...stop."

Lex pulled up enough to say, voice rough, "You're not going to hurt me, Clark. You didn't before. Just let go." And he swallowed him back down.

All a lie, of course. Lex giddily considered the possibility that he could die from this. But he couldn't stop; he had to know.

Clark thrust one more time and came, came like any other man would, salty, copper-tinged and fast. And Lex did not die but merely swallowed.

"Believe me now?" Lex said as he slithered up, unbuckling his belt, loosing himself, placing himself in Clark's trembling hand. "Just do it like you would," he said as he let that hand curl around him. "Maybe...maybe not so hard."

Clark pulled inexpertly, a bit roughly, but it didn't matter as he nuzzled Lex's neck, still blissful from orgasm, purred his name, long and soft, "Lex..."

"Clark, Jesus...just like that..." A sharp rising, too fast, and he came. So far from perfect, but perfectly Clark, no longer imagined but here in this one place. "Clark..." he managed as he fell boneless against him.



Ah, sly Lex! But the tables soon turn...Clark may only be seventeen here, but he's not as easily manipulated as Lex believes.



Clark/Lex, SV AU s7-ish, from "One Flew East, One Flew West". Lex and Lana are married with a baby. Clark's moved on, but Lex is still obsessed. He pulls Clark back in.


This might be all they could have so Lex made no attempt to slither down and take him in his mouth, no attempt to rise and place himself in Clark's, their tongues busy with skin and mouth and enough. Enough that Clark didn't thrust him away but merely up into his hand, his guiding hand.

And here, if he could listen beyond rising breath, the sound of tongue and teeth and skin, Lex would hear crickets and birds and creatures of the ground. Off in the distance, a stream of water, tributary of the very river where their bodies first met, cried against the stones' refusal of it. Just time and water and his heart carving a journey through the land towards a distant sea. Rush and rising, erosion, the rhythm of blood through his four-chambered heart and Clark's name in each and every one.

"Clark..." Too soon, too soon, his body only human, Lex came and fluttered down, muttering the only word, the only name left to him, and it was not his own.



Ah, Lex and his poetry. So sad.



RPS, so skip if that's not your thing. TW/MR, from "Hint of Dirt". Basic clichés.


So yeah, Tom's sucking him, but he's got his eyes closed, humming a little, and maybe far off.

"Tommy, hey," he says, voice shot to shit from piss beer, weed and this. "Tommy, look at me."

Those eyes open, and he's looking, and Michael's just a goner. Shoots his load right there. Cause yeah, he's the kind of guy that doesn't warn about crap like that. But he would've. This time. Because it's Tom. He just couldn't think. Not with those eyes.

He leans back. "You said you swallowed, right? Because I am not sorry." Oh man, he's just earthquake city, all twitchy.



In my universe, everyone swallows. *g*



Clark/Lex, SV s1, from "Of Chess and Cookie Jars, Very Important Things". Okay, I admit that I have an age-line and fifteen...I just can't do it. Not directly. And my Lex can't either. So this is a little phone-sex, unbeknownst to Clark. Sly Lex!


His hand hadn't moved from his manly...okay, dick. Maybe he couldn't say it, but he could think it. Dick. Ha. Again. Dick.

Lex was on the phone, his mom was down the hall putting laundry away, and he was jerking off in the shower for no apparent reason. Make it quick, God, make it quick...And he made a noise. A little one. No no no no no...

Lex and chess and cookie jars somehow got him in the shower with his hand pumping his dick. Freak. He was a grade-A freak. A fifteen-year old freak, fine, but a freak all the same. A whimpering freak. Great. Put the washcloth in your mouth and bite on it, stupidhead.

"Lex?" Muffled because, hey, washcloth.

"Clark, don't hang up, I'm just getting a cup of coffee, all right?" He heard a drawer slam and deliberate, fading footsteps.

Thank you thank you thank you. There is a God who answers, who smiles and looks the other way when fifteen-year old alien freaks jerk off in the shower.

His eyelids fluttered closed and the slideshow of images flew by: Lana, at the Talon, leaning over the counter; Chloe, having dropped a pen, crawling underneath her desk at the Torch; Lex, turning with a smile as Clark walks into his office...

Oh. My. God. And ow, because he bit through the washcloth and into his tongue and came reallyreallyreally hard.

And from the vanity, he heard a faraway sound that, well, sounded kind of...the same.



Oh Lex, you sly, sly *dog*. *g* And this is the most innocent and fun that I've ever written them. All downhill from here, even if they do get to the hands-on eventually.



Chloe/Clark(/Lex/Lana), post SV, from "Détente". Lana and Chloe run away to Paris. Lex and Clark follow. Sex and angst ensue.


Clark definitely had a weird definition of making out. Last time she looked it up in the dictionary, making out fell somewhere between first and second base. Making out did not mean her legs wrapped around his back and his balls slapping her ass. Knowing him, he was holding back, but it sure didn't feel like it.

She didn't care. Not with his hand braced against her hip, his thumb working her clit. Sitting down comfortably for the next day or so was way overrated.

"Clark...Jesus," she said against his neck, his mouth.

Almost there, almost there...

"Hey, sweetie," Lana said, hand brushing her hair aside, tongue in her ear.

And Chloe saw a large but slender hand run up Clark's arm, his shoulder, turn into a fist curling in his hair, pulling his head back and to the side. Lex's mouth there to meet Clark's when he turned.

Clark stilled, whimpered, and thrust frantically, thumb switched to vibrate.

Her hips, only human, couldn't have possibly pushed Clark all the way up, Chloe's back arching off the couch.

But somehow, they did.



I just have a thing for OT4s. Seriously, does anyone not know this by now?



Chloe/Lana, also from "Détente". There might be a lot of Clark and Lex in this story, but really, it's Chloe and Lana who make a go of it.


Rain fell hard against the window, canvases haphazard along the wall. The sheets rucked up and sweat stained, blankets long ago kicked to the floor.

Lana straddled her, fingers pumping. "Come here," Chloe said, hips rising,

"No, I want to see you."

"I want to see you too," Chloe said, taking Lana's other hand, licking the fingers, and putting it by Lana's clit. "Do it."

So dirty and intimate the way Lana let go for her. Chloe supplied most of the talk, but Lana made up for it in action. Seeing her, head falling back, breath hitching, enough to make her tighten and rise.

"Finish..." Chloe said, shuddering down, as Lana rolled off and to the side.

"Going to..." Her knee pulled up and her hand jerked faster against herself. "Kiss me," she said.

Chloe did and disappeared into it.

This her Paris, this her now. Just them.

"I love Paris in the rain," Lana said later, retrieving the blankets from the floor.

Funny, to Chloe, Paris in the rain smelled like motor oil and chestnuts. "I love you in the rain," she said.



I think this is sweetest, least angsty, sex scene I've every written. Chloe/Lana, yay!



Lex/Victoria, SV s1, from "Most Definitely His". Lex and Victoria had been talking about Clark prior to this.


“Remember when we were fifteen?” she said. From out of nowhere, really, but Lex knew what she meant.

“Yes,” he said, letting softness creep into his voice. He remembered them sneaking out of her father's manor during one of the few brittle Luthor-Hardwick detentes, fucking in the garden shed for the delicious joy of it. He remembered moss and toppled pots and their bodies still fumbling with technique. “Yes, I do.”

She looked up at him. With the smallest catch in her voice, she asked, “What happened?”

He shushed and kissed her, letting the rhythm take a gentler pace. He could say that they had become more valuable pieces in their fathers' war, that any vestige of innocence was now just laughable memory. They were both too hungry, enjoyed the game too much, to ever claim the role of victim.

“We grew up,” he said, finally, as she came against him.



Somehow, Lex isn't capable of fucking *anyone* without angst, it seems. Poor Lex! And just because two people don't particularly *like* each other very much doesn't mean they can't have an intimate moment.



Clark/Lex, SV s6, from "A Straight Line and Clarity". These two are just the most doomed pairing ever.


"Is this what you want, Lex?" he says.

What he wants is for that bridge not to exist, for that hand to have never pulled him out of that river. He wants Clark splayed out on a table and screaming. He wants Clark to go back to college and lead a good life. He wants himself to go back home and find Lana waiting for him, door open and welcoming.

"Yes," he says.

And Clark leans back down, hand no longer on his neck but bracing beside it. His mouth tastes of scotch, a past long gone, a future neither of them wants.

Lex's hand finds Clark's zipper and pulls. Clark sighs and nods.

Clark's other hand does the same. But Lex is already scotch-drowsy and limping into this. Half-hard and sensitive, he pushes into Clark's hand anyway. This will be frustrating, excruciating, and Lex doesn't care.

They kiss and it's pointless and Lex is already thinking too far ahead. He focuses and it all comes blossoming back. The bottle tips and spills into the grass.

Clark shudders above him and then stills. It's over and Lex tries to pull away, but Clark holds him down.

"Hey, I could..." he says. Clark slides down and takes him in his mouth.

Lex is drunk but it's been a while. He attempts not to look, to see Clark's head moving, eyes open. He arches and comes, arm falling across his eyes, face tight.



Lex and his poetry *again*, the man just can't relax. Or let go.



Bruce/Clark/Lex, future fic for SV, modern continuity for DCU, from "The Main Difference and None at All". Okay, getting these three into a room together, naked, is the trickiest thing ever. Bruce and Lex *despise* each other.


But then nothing perfect can stay so he felt Clark's face being pulled away. "Touch me, Clark," Lex whispered as he took one of Clark's hands and licked the palm, guiding it down to his cock. "Look at me," he said, eyes only on Clark.

And over Clark's shoulder, Bruce saw open and exposed on Lex's face everything that he had only hinted at earlier. Bruce saw a man who had once fallen in love and never fallen out again, no matter how hard he twisted against it. Clark would have to be blind not see it.

"Oh God, Lex, I...I..." Clark said.

"Shhh," Lex said, yearning and forgiveness. "Don't lie to me now. Just kiss me."

And Clark leaned down and did just that.

Chest now cold and lonely, his own face naked and revealed, Bruce thrust once more, into a Clark that would never be his alone, and came.



But apparently, Lex isn't the only one with the angst and poetry, maybe that's what Clark sees in them. Poor Bruce!



Bruce/Lex, three months after "The Death of Superman" (DC), from "the edges finely shaped and honed". Should be hate-sex (didn't I say these two *despise* each other?), but it ends up not.


This is not Bruce’s first time. His thrusts too urgent, too specific, the tense muscles loosen too quickly.

This is a map to how it had been, the places that Lex’s camera had never captured. And Clark had been, Clark had…

It’s true. No paranoid surmising, but simple truth. Each detail of this a repetition, a mirror to the trust extended.

Lex slides his mouth and bites down on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce shakes his head. “No,” he says.

Lex mouths it instead, slightly wet and sloppy.

“Yes,” Bruce says, faltering, voice rising. “Yes…”

He should stop, pull out painfully, say something sharp and scathing. But Clark had…

Lex reaches around, fumbles slightly.

“Oh God…” Bruce says, frantic and thrusting, his own fingers scrambling the edge of the headboard.

Clark had…

“Hey,” Lex says, “Are you okay?” As Clark must have. So Clark to worry about such things. Bruce turns, eyes half-lidded, wanton and desperate, and takes his mouth with his own. And whimpers, a keening sound. He shakes and quivers, comes all over Lex’s deceivingly inexpert fingers.

The shock of it. Lex tightens, and comes too, mouth still on Bruce.



They miss Clark! Clark is dead! This starts off with them snarling and sniping at each other (they even get physically violent). Standard hate-sex, yes? No! Bruce, somehow, manages to get Lex to role-play *Clark* - while bottoming! because he's that much of an *alpha* that he can top from the bottom - and Lex goes along with it, silently agrees, because he misses Clark *that* much. ANGST!




Clark/Brian (minor character), SV s7, from "So there's this guy...". Okay, this one was just for fun. I can't angst all the time. Clark is not the bottom boy everyone thinks he is. Industrial espionage, with sex!


“You’re hard,” he says, whisper, and Brian can feel the grin just as much as that hand, which is freaking huge by the way, gripping.

“Uh…huh.” Yeah, smooth one there, Brian. And he’s humping it, humping. He’d be full-out embarrassed if he weren’t so turned on.

His belt unbuckles, his fly opens and oh wow, wow, wow. Dude hand on his dick. The guy lifts one of his massive palms up and says, “Lick.” And he does over and over, just guy and salt and oh God, he’s going to come soon just from this. That palm moves down, spit-slick, and moves. Yeah.

So maybe this is all it’s going to be and that’s okay. His bare ass rubs the guy’s thigh. But then the guy takes his other hand, just two fingers, and then says, “Suck.”

Suck? Oh crap, he’s going to get fucked. Fucked up the ass. The ass! And he should just run for it, seriously. Run… Yeah, like this guy is going to let him go anywhere; Brian’s practically sitting on his lap as it is. And the maybe yes tingle voice is chanting in his head, “Let it happen, let it happen, let it happen.”

He opens his mouth and sucks. Sucks, and he closes his eyes because he’s got a flash of himself kneeling on the floor and just sucking this guy off. And he wants it, wants it, and he sucks. The fingers move further in. And then out. And they’re gone.

Not for long because they’re moving on his crack now. And oh God, he’s going to get fucked. Going to get…the fingers pull away.

And there’s this whooshing sound that he hears for a minute, like something opening and closing. But it’s nothing like the ringing in his ears as he pumps this guy’s hand, leaning forward, exposing his ass, wanting the fingers back.

They’re back, and at his hole and right there, fingers yes oh God oh God oh God…

And Brian shoots all over that hand. The fingers don’t move any further, never go in. Is he going to stop? He’s still good, he can go, just push…

“We’re done,” the guy says. “See? I said it’d be fun.”



Clark never gets off. He doesn't kiss or fuck the guy. Because that would be cheating. But he does get what he came for, the thief. *g*



Bruce/Clark, some nebulous when, from "A Necessary Distance". Whenever anyone gets too close, Bruce pushes them away.


As much as they started out quick and hurried, the pace slows down. Clark wraps his legs around Bruce's back. They move slow, excruciating; Clark never closing his eyes. Bruce allows it, until he can't but lean down and kiss that mouth.

"Hey," Clark says again, a whisper against his throat. He says only that and nothing else.

Clark shudders once he comes, and keeps shuddering. He has a hand around Bruce's neck, the other in his hair. Bruce doesn't prevent his own shudder, a brief ragged breath.

And when they finally pull away, Clark's face is tight. "We should break up more often," Clark says. "Wow. Bruce, that was..."

Bruce rolls and faces the ceiling. Yes, it was. "I think once is enough," he says.



Okay, the dude is seriously messed up. Clark's practically living with him and he can't admit it. Serious denial. He doesn't even do the breaking up, he has *Clark* do it. Yeesh! But not without getting 'one for the road' in. Did I mention that Bruce is messed up?



Clark/Lois, DC (but can fit SV as future fic), from "Say It Like You Mean It". Pegging! Slash Roleplay! Fun, married sex!


"Say my name," she said. "Say it." Her breath quickening, thrusts even harder. He didn't get a good enough look at the thing, too embarrassed, this now wonderful thing, before, but it must have something on the inside to get her off too. To get her off. Make her come. Oh God. And his hand made a fist again and he fucked into it, yes, as she was fucking him.

"Lois," he said, a whine, but who cares? "Lois."

"Try again," she said, voice low and...masculine.

What? He paused, breathed into his elbow. She couldn't mean...no. Black leather and little bats. No, she didn't mean... Deep shit. Deep shit, if he was wrong. But so good, so... "B...Bruce?" he said, ready to scramble away and apologize. Just... And he was still fucking his fist, and oh God, the shame...

"Say it again," she said, thrusting, growling...like
he would if... "Say it like you mean it."

"Bruce!" he said, thrusting back. His hand moving and squeezing and so full, so full. Her hands and his voice. This room and the sordidness of Gotham. Her books on the nightstand and the soft lights in a cave. Gauntlets on his shoulders and a cape, dark, wrapped around his body and her and deep and dark and desires that he didn't even know he
had...streetlights and lamplight and...

"Say it!" s(he) said.

"Bruce, oh God, Bruce..." And no room for shame, too full and rising, rising... "Bruce!" Stars in the night, in his eyes, the flash of white and his spine curled and he came all over his hand, on the bed.

"Jesus, Clark..." She didn't let him go, one thrust, two, and he could feel it, her coming against him, her heartbeat fluttering to his back as they both collapsed.

"Great," he said, after a boneless minute, "I get the wet spot."



Yes, married sex doesn't have to be boring. *g* And a dominant Lois gets several hearts from me.


Okay, what have I learned about my so-called money-shots? I tend to glide over them. Er, I'm better with story than porn. I make pretend porn! Clark and Lex have a lot of angsty sex, but not so much with the anal. Angel has serious issues that he takes to bed with him, as well as people he shouldn't take to bed with him. All the angsty history seems to come into bed (or the car or wherever) with pretty much everyone, except for occasional casual sex. All my characters seem to be bi. Finally getting what you want doesn't instantly solve everything. People that don't like each other can have good sex. People in established relationships can have good sex. Orgasms aren't necessarily these long, drawn-out, forever things (I know, you want your money back *g*).
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