WIP Dump!

Dec. 6th, 2011 01:19 pm
imasupermuteant: (OMFG!)
[personal profile] imasupermuteant
So I've decided to finally give up on a few of the WIPs that have been languishing on my computer for ages.  I thought I might just post what I have, in the interest of not letting those hours of writing go to waste. Also because I might some day want to pick up on one of them... maybe.

Anyway, BE WARNEDNot one of these babies is finished.  Most of them stop abruptly. Many of them are total crap. None of them are edited. Sorry.



Title: Jason! And Tim!
Fandom
: DCU (Tiny Titans/Teen Titans)
Pairing: Jason/Tim
Wordcount: 422

Jason isn't quite sure what happened. One minute he's chasing the Pretender down a dark alley, thinking of all the violent and vaguely sexual things he's going to do to the kid, the next he's standing in front of a brightly lit school with singing birds and green trees and he can't quite tell what happened.

Something is definitely wrong, and Jason struggles against the fog that creeps across his mind. Wasn't he doing something? Wasn't he... bigger before? Before when? Why is there a bucket on his head? He shrugs and heads for the school building. Maybe Timmy will be there.

Jason likes Timmy, He's always there to play with Jason even when the big kids don't want to be around Jason and tell him his bucket looks dumb. Not that any of them would say that, but Jason knows how they feel about him.He's so distracted with his thoughts of Timmy that he almost doesn't recognize the small person who is now coming towards Jason with a frowning look on his face.

"Tim!" Jason cries.

"And Jason!" Timmy says with a happy smile. He crushes Jason into a hug that makes Jason's bucket clang against his shoulder.

Timmy gives Jason the most serious look his tiny face can muster, looking his friend in the eyes and holding on to both shoulders the way Batman does when there's an important lesson to be learned or they're about to release penguin's penguins. That serious.

"Jayson." Timmy says in the deepest voice he can muster (an octave higher and only dogs would be able to hear him), "I have an important mission for you."

Yeah?" Jayson asks, his voice echoing inside his bucket.

"I need you to be my girlfriend." Timmy tells him.

Jason frowns, "Why? Can I do that? Is that allowed?"

Timmy nods vigorously, "You see," he began, "Dick and Babs are, you know, boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Ewww!" Jason squealed. Girls were definitely yucky.

"Yeah!" Timmy said, "And he didn't even ask me."

Jason could understand Timmy's distress. Dick was, after all, their older brother/friend/Robin and if he couldn't be trusted to ask, who could? It would be like Alfred forgetting to pick them up from daycare. Anathema.

"So I thought that if you would be my girlfriend and we wouldn't ask Dick then he would understand." Timmy always came up with the best plans.

Jason agrees, forgetting all about what he was going ask Timmy. About the bucket and being confused and how much he likes Timmy.
 




Title: The One Where Sherlock and Tim Become BFFs
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes/DCU
Pairing: Sherlock/John, Tim/Kon
Word Count: 1139


"I believe I have deduced the identity of Batman." 

John looked up from his paper with his eyebrow already heading for his hairline. Sherlock had spent the last ten minutes watching the news (on silent) and deducing the sexual habits of the hosts with littler interest in what was actually being reported.  John hadn't noticed his unnatural silence until it was broken.

"Oh? Let's hear it then." If he was honest with himself, John would admit that he couldn't care less about American superheroes. 

"Bruce Wayne." Sherlock proclaimed.

"Who?" John asked, his eyes slid down the page looking for the results of last night's football game.

'Bruce Wayne!" Sherlocks said again, waiting for the usual praise that was slow in coming. "The figurehead of Wayne Enterprises?  Billionaire? Philanthropist? Darling of every gossip rag on this insipid planet?" 

"Oh come on Sherlock, you only know all that because you googled him on your phone." 

Sherlock sniffed, "Inconsequential. It's exactly the sort of thing you expect me to know despite it's complete uselessness and he's the bloody Batman, John!"

"Good for him." John said. 

"From here I could deduce the identity of nearly every superhero in that League of Justice thing where they all wear tights. Brilliant!"

John finally looked up from his paper in earnest, glancing at the enthusiasm in Sherlock's face, "I don't see why you would bother." He points out.

"Well I wouldn't. Obviously. But I could if I wanted to."

John rolled his eyes went back to reading about the recent slaughter of Manchester United.  The silence stretched between them like taffy.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Don't you want to know how I figured it out?" Sherlock was working himself into a pout, and it was barely noon. John sighed.

"Alright." John sighed, despite the fact that he really could care less about the personal lives of American nutters.

Sherlock let loose with a frankly astounding explanation of the sixty-second news clip which showed Wayne waving to the collected press before boarding his private jet, bound for Africa or some such. He pointed out the drape of Wayne's suit and the scan of his eyes across the crowd and the slight stiffness of his walk which spoke of multiple old injuries.  Also the plane was clearly not traveling to Africa. Any idiot would be able to see that.

By the time Sherlock had stopped speaking John had lost even the semblance of disinterestedness and was grinning in just the way that made Sherlock feel... things.  Nice things.

"Brilliant." John said, "Just... fabulous."

Sherlock turned back to the television with a secret smile.

-----


Two weeks later John had almost entirely forgotten about that quiet evening in front of the TV when Sherlock had solved one of the modern world's greatest mysteries. To be fair, they had solved a murder in the time between and Sherlock had nearly blown up the flat twice. John's mind had turned to different things, like the stain on the ceiling and getting food that Sherlock would eat and the state of his brand new trainers (ruined). 

So it was understandable that John would be just a little bit surprised when Sherlock turned to him and calmly said, "There is a vigilante outside our window." 

"There is?" John didn't get up.  He was on the couch and comfortable, his leg was twinging a bit and Sherlock didn't seem too distressed by the stranger.

"Mmmm." Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling. "Has been for going on three hours.  Why don't you invite him in for tea?"

"Dangerous?"  It never hurt to check.

"Inherently? Most likely, yes. But I doubt he'll do us harm." 

"Alright." John pulled himself up (heaven forbid that Sherlock do it himself) and shuffled over to open the window and lean himself out. Glancing around, he saw nothing that would indicate a visitor, but that didn't mean Sherlock was wrong.

"Come on in then!" He shouted to the city at large, "It's bloody cold out there!"

John went to make tea and when he came back with a steaming pot and three teacups balanced between his two hands there was a strange man sitting on his couch. 

Well, John amended, more of a boy than a man really.  Not the Batman, certainly. Taller than a child, yes, but lacking the broadness or the height of an adult. He was compact, dressed in a red, yellow, and black uniform made of fabric that was unrecognizable but most definitely meant for combat.  Hard blue eyes watched them from behind a black domino mask.

John set the tea down on top of the heap of paper that is their coffee table. Sherlock had yet to look up from the file he was reading. Either because it was far too fascinating or because he wanted to be irritating at their visitor, John couldn't tell. 

He poured them some tea.

"I'm sorry to say I haven't got any biscuits for you." He said, "Sherlock's gone and eaten them all again."

The kid blinked at him, and then nodded. Sherlock made a humming noise at his files.

"Well then." John said, "What's the occasion?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Obviously, he's here because of my deduction."

"Which deduction?"  A lot of deducing went on in the Holmes-Watson household, surely John couldn't be expected to remember it all.

"About the Batman." Sherlock whined.

"Oh. Right. Well." John looked back to the young crusader of the night and then back to his boy- part- flatmate as if he would somehow be able to deduce a way for everything to make sense. He'd already made tea, what else could he do?

"He's here to see if we're a threat to the Batman's secret.  Hmmm... most likely he's going to attempt to intimidate us into not sharing the information. An attempt which will not work because he is frankly less frightening than a potted plant. And I'm not telling anyone anyway." 

"Ah." John said.

The boy blinked a bit before shrugging, "I'd figured. It was a little bit unreasonable of you to admit that you knew who he was on your website, though. You'll probably have half the shadow league after you for that."

Sherlock snorted, "The shadow league doesn't know how to work the internet. And they wouldn't believe me anyway. Would you mind shoving off?"

"Sherlock!" John gasped, "Stay and finish your tea... Umm..."

"Robin." Sherlock interrupted stiffly, "The later half of 'Batman and', though not in the way you're most certainly imagining at the moment."

Robin's face twisted up in disgust while John blushed and shrugged a bit. 

"His real name..." Sherlock continued, "Is Timothy Drake. He is sixteen years old and studies at a rather stuffy public school and is probably having sex with Superman's clone." 

Robin blushed a bit beneath his mask, but he didn't ask how Sherlock knew.





Title: The One Where Bart is Slowly Dying and Wally is a Total Asshole
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bart/Tim
Wordcount: 729

It all goes wrong  because Bart is too fast.

Well, maybe that's a bit of a simplification. It all goes wrong because Bart is fast in all the wrong ways and in none of the right ones. Jay can sit at the table for an hour reading the newspaper, and Wally can have dinner with all of them and sit still at the table for the whole time and talk at a normal pace while everyone nods and chews, and Bart can't.

He's been having trouble lately with slowing down. Like now, with Jay's mouth forming some word that's got to have an 'O' sound in it but he can't tell what that word is because it's all so slow.

Bart breathes, focuses, tries a little bit of that zen-meditation stuff that he read about in The Library.

"--Sound good, Bart?"

The problem is that Jay and Wally need to speed themselves up. They tap into the Speed Force like it's some kind of latent battery, siphon off however much they need, and then shut the connection off.

Bart is connected all the time, and slowing himself down is becoming a bit of a trial. He doesn't understand why. The Library changed the way he thought about things. He isn't Impulse anymore, he's supposed to be more mature, smarter, calmer.

"--Bart! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" And he's finally managed to stay focused because Jay's talking in actual sentences and not that weirdly deep slow-motion moan.

"I think maybe we should go to a hospital."

"What?" And that's when Bart notices that the second hand on the clock has stopped moving which means that Jay (and, of course, Bart) is moving at Speed and Bart didn't even notice. He feels something wet on his face and reaches up to touch it before he realizes that it's his nose bleeding. "Fuck."

"Watch your language kid." Jay growls, though his face is strained and he's put a gentle hand on Bart's shoulder like he's afraid Bart will disappear. It's not as comforting as Jay obviously thinks it should be and Bart feels a flash of irrational anger that the hand isn't Max's and then feels guilty for feeling angry.

"I'm fine!" Bart says, "See?" and he's focusing as hard as he can and the clock is, once again, marking out the time loudly and steadily in the quiet kitchen. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and tries to look as normal as he can.

"I think I'm going to have to call Wally about this." Jay says with a frown. Bart doesn't protest because he knows Wally wont have anything important to say, and because he's too busy listening to the clock, making sure it doesn't stop.


******************

It gets worse because Wally is too slow.

Jay calls him that night and gets the machine (common enough with Wally so busy with the league) so he leaves a detailed message about his worries and figures he'll hear back soon.

Two days roll by and they don't hear back. Jay's little worry-frown gets worse and worse because Bart's been having more and more trouble just hearing words spoken at (glacial) normal speeds. Jay wasn't around for the whole speed-aging debacle but he's been thinking about it a lot lately and watching Bart closely. Bart hardly notices, and he's certainly not waiting by the phone. They both know that Wally is very busy with the league.

Wally finally calls back halfway through day three, when Bart is trying to solve the problem (although he doesn't really know what the problem is) through mediation and healthy diet.

As far as Bart's concerned "meditation and healthy diet" involve drinking obscene amount of green tea and sitting on a couch cushion while Pretending To Be Max. He does feel a bit calmer and he's had to pee a whole lot so Bart considers it a bonus. He doesn't, however, hear the ring of the telephone as anything more than a low, slow, hum that continues for subjective hours.

Jay is out (doing stuff old people do) so Bart has to answer the phone. He almost misses it because of the Speed, but he is eventually roused from his meditation by the feeling of the sound's vibration.

He walks to the phone and focuses carefully on being slow enough to not break it when he picks up.

 





Title: Bart Allen: Time Traveling Sex Therapist
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bart Allen/Roy Harper
Word Count:
1131


Case 1: Roy Harper, 1971

Roy Harper is feeling a little bit like he wants to die.

His mentor had essentially abandoned him, Roy had turned to heroin for solace and a feeling euphoria, Roy's mentor had then found out about the heroin and kicked him out of the house. 

Letting his head fall back against the wall of the (cockroach infected) hotel room, Roy wonders whether or not it would be worth stretching out the rest of his stash.  He could take all of it now and not wake up in the morning.  Not wake up--

"--Don't even think whatever it is you're thinking!" 

Roy forces his eyes open to see a boy crawling out of what appears to be a portal in space.  Not the strangest thing Roy has ever seen, but the kid is also wearing what is possibly the most revealing superhero outfit in existence. 

He almost looks a little bit like Kid Flash, if Roy didn't know for sure that Wally wouldn't be caught dead in a pair of obscenely tight latex shorts and an equally tight, latexy, vest.  Nor would Wally wear great big yellow goggles or let his hair get that... puffy.

"Who the hell are you?"

The kid looks down at Roy with a huge grin, taking in the needles on the floor and the track marks on his arms and the sunken look in his eyes. 

"I'm Bart," he says, gesturing at a name tag which proclaims 'HI! MY NAME IS BART!' in bright red , "and I'm here to make everything better." 

"Look, Kid." Roy growls, "I don't know who the fuck you are or what you're doing here, but..."
 
"I know that you're having a really hard time right now." Bart says in a less perky voice, "But I really am here to help.  I'm a member of MTC, that's the Multidimentional Therapy Corps. Our notes show that you're at a pivotal moment in your life.  In the interest of continuing your existence and your operation on the side of good, I've been deployed to help you understand that life is worth living." 

"I'm hallucinating, aren't I?"

"Nah, but that would be cool wouldn't it?"  And then my-name-is-Bart slides up to Roy and straddles his thighs, sliding down on to the floor with his bug-eyed face just a few inches from Roy's nose.

"I--"

"Before we get started, there's a few things I want you to know, okay?" The kid is so incredibly enthusiastic about whatever the fuck it is he's doing that Roy feels a little bit out of place. He was like this once, cheerful and energetic and wearing tight clothes. 

"Okay."

"Great!" Bart says as he runs a finger along a on Roy's throat, "You should know that I'm here for you and only you right now. I won't share any information with my ethereal inter-dimensional bosses unless you say it's okay, or if you indicate that you are going to harm yourself or if you mention current abuse of a child or an elderly person." 

"Okay? I'm still pretty convinced that you're a hallucination right now."

"Yeah, I know. But I still have to say this stuff."

"Sure." Roy says. Why not go along with the imaginary kid in the fetish gear? He isn't going to be alive much longer anyway.

"Also we don't have to do or say anything that you don't want.  If you just want to talk and cuddle then I'm cool with that."

And suddenly it all makes sense. Roy knows that he's crazy and high, and he's having a crazy high sex dream about some kid who looks a little like Wally and offers to have therapy-sex with him.

"So..."  He decides to play it cool, "What did you have in mind?"

Bart grins, wiggling himself a little over Roy's hips, "You know, I always thought you were a great guy, Roy."

"Sure." Roy doesn't really feel great at the moment. He feels... well, physically he feels okay, since Bart is running his fingers over Roy's chest and leaning in to lick across the shell of Roy's ear. But no amount of sex is going to make him feel better about... well... everything else.

"No, really." Bart says with a slight downward thrust. "I mean, I've fucked up as much as the next teenage superhero and you always took it in stride.  You made it feel like my mistakes weren't the end of the world, you know?"

"I made--" Roy blinks, "I don't even know you." 

"Sure you do!" Bart smiles, "Multidimensional Therapy Corps, remember?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, what's the fourth dimension?" 

"That's not usually what people mean when they say-- Time?" 

"Yeah!" and as a reward Roy receives a full-on downward grind which gets Roy's cock at just the right angle. "We're like the Green Lantern Corps but way, way cooler!"

"You came from the future to have sex with me?" 

"Only if you want to have sex. We can just talk if that's what you need. Although that would be a waste of my considerable training and your considerable erection."

Bart gave another one of those joyful wiggles across Roy's previously-mentioned erection, his shiny latex-clad ass pressing into Roy's crotch.

"I don't see how this will help anything."  Roy says because it's true.  There's no way that having a one-night-stand with a hallucination is going to solve all of my problems. I'm still going to be a junkie tomorrow. Ollie is still going to be--"

"Hey." Bart said, all joking suddenly gone from his face. "I'm not saying I'm here to fix everything.  Your going to need to do a lot more work for that.  I'm just here to show you that you can be okay, someday. You're a good person Roy. You're desirable and smart and funny and a hero.  Someday you're going to be one of my heroes and you're going to help save the world a whole lot and you're going to be a pretty awesome dad."  

"...a dad?"

"Oh yeah!" Bart says with a grin as he reaches down to unzip his ludicrously tight top. "If you die now, not only will you loose the opportunity to have life-altering sex with me but you'll also miss out on meeting your kid. And let me tell you, she is awesome."

"She--?"

"Her name is Lian." Bart says, and Roy thinks he loves Bart for telling him that, just a little.

"I--"

"Convinced?" Bart asks and Roy isn't sure what to answer. Is living another day worth the pain if it means someday he'll get to meet her?

"I don't know."

"Can I try to convince you?" Bart asks him, arching an eyebrow in a way that is so not-seductive it manages to come out the other end as sexy.




Title: Dread Pirate
Fandoms: Star Trek 2009/DCU
Pairing: Booster Gold/Jim Kirk, Bones/???
Word Count: 1109

It all started in a small bar on Tatooine. Or at least that's what Booster liked to say. Or it would be what he liked to say If he could say it to someone. But he couldn't, so really he just thought it to himself every now and then with a chuckle.

In actuality, it all started in a small bar in Riverside Iowa.

It was the sort of bar that depressed people went to, and the sort of bar that was depressing. Dark, inexpensive, and ripe with interesting smells, it was the kind of place where people stuck to their drink of choice and made little smalltalk.

Booster wasn't sure how he'd ended up there, but he was there that night, nursing a 23rd century beer (fruity!) and feeling generally sorry for himself. His life as a hero back in the good old 21st had fallen around his ears. He was out of cash. He was out of prospects. His best friend was dead.

Mostly, Booster realized, it was that his best friend was dead. There was a place in his heart which had previously been filled with laughter and fun and awkward sexual attraction that was now gone. Ripped out of him like an important organ. Like missing a kidney.

So Booster was sitting in a bar at as random a place and as random a time as he could possibly find when he ran into the man who would change his life forever.

Jim Kirk was a miserable drunk.

He was prone to going to one of two extremes, either to fuck whatever was in sight or to punch it. An erratic amalgamation of eros and thanatos held together with scotch tape and booze. He hadn't quite decided which way the night would fall but it was looking like a fight, right up until his eyes fell upon the man slumped at the bar.

"You." He said, sliding up to him with a grin, "We need to fuck right now."

"What?" Booster turned his head to the man, focusing his bleary eyes on a face that was... strikingly familiar.

"You look just like me." Kirk informed him.

"You look just like me!" Booster cried.

"Which is why we need to fuck." Booster couldn't help but agree, "So long as we aren't related. We aren't related are we? I'm Jim Kirk.

"Michael." Booster said because he hadn't told someone his real name in quite a while, "Michael Carter. And I'm pretty sure there are no Kirks in the family."

Not quite true, but Booster figured that two hundred years was adequate enough to dilute any shared blood, and the fact that Kirk was male prevented him from the normal going-back-in-time-and-becoming-my-own-g
randfather paranoia.

"We." Kirk said, "Should fuck. Now."

And they did. The two men headed for the bathroom with identical grins of expectation, tugging at each others' clothes and nipping at exposed skin. Aroused and (momentarily) happy.

Pressed against a bathroom stall with Jim sliding his mouth around his cock, Booster couldn't help but feel as though the man was familiar. It was most likely the physical similarities, he decided just before coming, that was all.

Booster would have expected that to be the end of it. They went their separate ways after a (surprisingly good) bathroom quickie and fully expected to never see each other again. Except of course that Kirk happened to be at the next bar that Booster went to, and the next, and the next, and nearly a week later than ran into each other at the first bar once again.

And really, Booster thought, who would give up the opportunity to have regular, satisfying sex with someone who is (for all intents and purposes) identical to you and not even annoying. No one would do that.

When Jim mentioned maybe hanging out (or having sex) in someplace that didn't serve alcohol Booster agreed simply because it meant that he got to keep having sex at all. And if they occasionally did other things like play pool or go driving or watching the holovision then it was only because they didn't-not-get-along so well.

It wasn't until he'd spent nearly a week sleeping in Jim's bed that Booster realized he was in A Relationship.

It was nice. Maybe not as nice as it had been not being in A Relationship with Ted, but the missing-kidney feeling was slowly melting into something a little less painful and a little more bearable. Like an inflamed appendix.

Booster liked Jim. Jim liked Booster. They were alike in more ways than just looks and Booster found himself feeling settled for the first time in a long, long while. He'd gotten used to spending his time in one era and one place.

It was nice.

Well, it was nice right up until Booster realized that his new boyfriend (although they never used that word) was, well, spectacularly fucked up.

Jim had nightmares. Not the same type of nightmares that Booster had (which were quite terrifying themselves, Booster had been a superhero after all), but sweating, crying, can't-wake-up, can't-go-back-to-sleep, flashbacks.

One night, at four AM and very drunk, Jim had told Booster about being on Tarsus. Said that he could still see the faces of the corpses he'd looted for food, that he woke every night sure that he would be the next one to be 'chosen' for death.

Booster didn't know how to respond to that, so he told Jim about Ted.

It was nice, but it wasn't enough. Not for either of them. There was little Booster could do to stop the downhill slide that Jim had begun long before they met. Booster (traumatized though he was) might have been the saner of the two, but he didn't have enough sanity left over to share with Jim.

And then Booster showed Jim the belt.

"It's broken" He explained, "I can go forward, but I can't go back. I tried to figure out how to fix it but I'm a history major, not an engineer."

Jim laughed (as he was supposed to) and spent a little while looking over the intricate machinery that was Booster's time-travel belt. He seemed, for a moment, happy. The light in his eyes that of a young child who has encountered something strange and wonderful for the first time.

"You could go anywhere." He says with a laugh, "I mean... Anytime."

"Yeah." Booster had said and then the conversation devolved into kissing and blowjobs and they stopped talking about it.

For those few weeks after being introduced to the belt, Jim was happier than Booster had ever seen him before. He smiled, joked, and laughed, and Booster didn't suspect a thing. 

 





Title: The One Where J'onn Goes into Pon Farr and Asks Wally to be His Babydaddy
Fandom: Justice League (animated)
Pairing: J'onn J'onzz (Martian Manhunter)/Wally West (The Flash)
Word Count:  1090


"I want a baby."

This was not, necessarily, something Wally would have expected to hear on any given day at the watchtower.

"What?"

"I--" J'onn rubbed at the spot between his eyes and inhaled slowly. He looked tired. Wally wasn't sure if martians got circle under their eyes but there was a distinct feeling of tension in the green man's features. "--I am sorry. That was not exactly the way I wished to introduce the subject."

Wally repeated himself.

"I... You would consider us to be friends, yes?" It was the sort of shy voice that J'onn often got when talking about personal problems. Wally felt a... something. Twinge? of hurt for the guy. It made him want to give J'onn a hug.

"Sure, big guy." Wally told him. Wally was friends with everyone. And he and J'onn had shared some pretty awesome dude-bonding sessions over oreos and milk these past few months.

"As my friend... If I were ill, you would wish to aid me? Yes?"

"Of course!"

J'onn inhaled again, sounding pained in a way Wally had never heard before.

"Members of my species experience a... biological directive... once every couple of decades. I am finding myself entering into the cycle for the second time in my life. Essentially, I need to have a child."

"Ummm..." Wally shifted from side to side awkwardly, "Didn't you already had kids? Why are you even talking to me about this anyway?"

"I did not think I would experience the --" and here J'onn said a word that sounded quite a bit like someone gargling rock salt with an overlaid psychic projection of familial warmth, "--because of the destruction of my people. And I-- During the last cycle I experienced, it was my wife who carried the infant. Now that is it my turn, I don't... I--"

Carried the... Wait. What?

"Hold up." Wally held up a hand,as if asking a question in class "I thought you were... you know, Male."

"At the moment, I am." J'onn said, "I have always preferred the more masculine qualities of my species. And since men benefit from a systematic privilege on most earth societies I decided it was in my best interest to appear male."

"You..."

"The reason I explain all this is that I am in need of help in the conception of the infant and I thought that you might be the best suited to..." J'onn trailed off again, "...aid me?"

For a brief moment Wally wondered if he had been plunged into some sort of alternate universe where everyone was a crazy supervillian who wanted babies and world domination or something equally ridiculous. He pinched himself. It hurt.

"Ow."

"Flash?"

"Let me get the straight." Wally said. Ha. Straight. "You're in the Martian equivalent of Pon Farr and you need to mate or die and you want me to be your baby daddy?"

"...Yes."

"I-- Well fuck J'onn. I don't know."

What do you even say to that? Wally wondered if there were some kind of instructions on Batman's computer titled: What To Do When Your Alien Friend Propositions You For Sperm.

"Can you let me think about it?"

J'onn inhaled. And nodded.

Wally watched him sink through the floor with something like disbelief.

---------------------


"HeySupesgotaminute?"

"Flash." Wally hated the way Clark always spoke so slowly even though he could be having a conversation at Speed. It was pretty rude, as far as Wally was concerned, and it made him feel like he should be tapping his foot impatiently or glaring or something. But it's superman and Wally is still a little bit awed by the guy, so he doesn't.

"So lets say that I have a friend, right?"

"Right."

"And this friend asks me for something really personal, like a favor."

Clark sighed, "I can't help you if you won't tell me what the problem is, Wally."

"Afriendofmineaskedmetobehi--herspermdon
orandIdon'tknowwhattosay." Wally spat out.

Some things were too hard to say at snail-pace.

"Gosh, Wally." And there was Clark's farmboy voice which meant that he was going to say something like 'do what you think is right' or 'what would your mother say?' or something equally corn-fed and useless.

"I think that's probably something you need to work out for yourself."

Classic. Wally left.

Just a few moments of aimless wandering and Wally found himself someone new to help him out.

"Why is there a castle made out of oreos in the kitchen?"

"Plastic Man! Plas! Man! The Plastifyer!"

"Ummmm. Yes? Can I help you?"

Wally vibrated slightly. He'd been hoping to find John. Or maybe Batman. Anyway, he was looking for some advice and Eel was on hand.

"So, what would you say to a close friend who wanted you to be their donor?"

"Like... Organ donor? Does Piper need a kidney?"

"No!" Wally shouted, "Like a sperm donor."

Eel wrinkled his nose, then stretched it out from his face for a minute. Wally was sure that he only did it because it grossed Wally out.

"I'd do it. I mean, it's not like you have to be the parent or anything."

"I guess..."

"Listen, I've got to go. If someone doesn't clean up those oreos there's going to be an avalanche."

Wally sighed, and headed for the monitor room.

...Where John (good old Johnny boy!) was watching New Zealand with serious intent and playing with his ring.

"John!"

"Flash." And there were the 'oh god' eyebrows. Wally didn't know why everyone did that when he was around. Still, John was the most steadfast, serious guy Wally knew (short of Bats). And he was a Green Lantern. Green Lanterns gave the best advice.

Or so Wally had decided a few seconds ago.

"I have a serious question." Wally said. John's eyebrows shifted swiftly from 'oh god' to 'I don't believe you'.

"A friend of mine..." And Wally was getting pretty good at this summarizing thing, "...Asked me to be their sperm donor."

John inhaled, and Wally prepared himself for the wisdom of the ages.

"I'm really not the person for you to be asking, Flash."

Wally glowered and sped off. Some people were useless.

"Hey Bats."

Batman didn't even turn around, "I think you should talk it out with J'onn and decide what you want to do from there."

"Uhhh..."

"Now get out."





Title: The PWP Where Chekov has a Humiliation Kink
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Chekov/Pike
Word Count: 963

Today, like every day, Pavel Chekov arrived exactly twelve minutes before the beginning of his command tactics class and sat in the second row. He sat in the second row in all of his classes, indicating enthusiasm and a desire to learn to the professors without being "that weird kid in the front of the class" as he had for the majority of his schooling.

Other students slowly filed in as Pavel arranged his PADDs and nervously fidgeted with his stylus and checked the time. He usually arrived early to his classes, but this class was one he always arrived early for, and there was a specific reason for this.

That reason being Captain Christopher Pike, who always arrived three minutes before class was scheduled to begin and who habitually gave Pavel the largest erection of his entire life.

Today, like every day, Captain Pike arrived at exactly 1:52 and Pavel put his backpack in his lap.

"Good afternoon cadets..." Captain Pike said, like he did at the beginning of every class, waiting with an expectantly raised eyebrows for the gathered cadets to answer "Good morning, Sir!" and settle down.

Pike was giving the usual beginning-of-lecture announcements but Pavel could not bring himself to listen. He was too busy letting his eyes wander from his professor's chest to the tightness of his pants to the hard gleam in his eyes when he says--

"Cadet Chekov... Cadet Chekov."

"Wha-- Yes Sir?" Pavel is breathing hard and flushed and did he know?

"Please come to the front of the class cadet."

Pavel rose and moved to the front of the class, struggling to walk straight despite his arousal. He was absolutely sure that Pike knew.

This is the point in the narrative where it would normally be revealed that Pike wanted only to give some kind of demonstration, or perhaps commend Pavel for something or other that he did admirably. Pike would suddenly reveal that he was recommending Pavel for some kind of award and Pavel would sigh a sigh of relief and embarrassment and everyone would have a good chuckle at his expense.

This didn't happen because, in fact, Pike did know.

"Does this look like a burlesque show to you cadet?" Pike demanded, "Some kind of peep-show perhaps?"

The class was staring at him, watching with the whispers and giggles of people who are watching someone else be reprimanded and are uncomfortable and are so glad it's not them.

"No, Sir." And Pavel really, really should not have been getting harder from this.

"Do you have some thing to share with the class cadet" Pike asked him in that hard commanding voice which seemed to run straight from the aural centers of Pavel's brain to the nerves of his cock.

"Sir, no Sir!" Pavel barked out because if he wasn't shouting he'd be whimpering. His knees felt weak.

"I think you'll find that you do." Pike told him, running a hand down his chest to rest on his erection.

"Yebat..." Pavel cursed, inhaling sharply as Pike squeezed roughly. He shouldn't have been so aroused. The embarrassment itself should have made his dick shrivel in on itself, but Pavel could feel himself throbbing with heat under the eyes of his fellow students.

"Remove your uniform cadet."

"What?" Pavel could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

"I said remove your uniform cadet! Now strip before I strip you!" Suddenly Pavel found himself half-way out of his clothing, breathing hard, and not knowing how his shirt had gotten off.

And, in less than thirty seconds, there was Pavel, standing in his underwear in front of all of his classmates and about to come from sheer embarrassment.

Pike was still leaning in, his face mere inches from Pavel's. Pavel wasn't sure whether he wanted the other man to kiss him or spit on him.

"Are those regulation briefs, cadet?"

"Yes Sir!" Tight briefs. Tight briefs that were getting tighter.

"And the term regulation implies that those briefs are part of the uniform, are they not?"

"Sir, yes Sir." Pavel could see where this was going and it was unbearably arousing.

"So take them off cadet."

Pavel swallowed hard and began to slide the briefs down. His hands were shaking.

"While we're still young, cadet."

"Yes, Sir!"

The briefs fell down around Pavel's ankles and he stepped out of them, leaving him shivering in the middle of the lecture hall. Completely naked and sporting the largest erection of his entire life.

Pike smirked.

"Up against the podium, cadet," Pike ordered.

Pavel was breathing heavily and blinking away tears as he placed his hands firmly on the edges of the podium, bending forward to that the entire class of cadets could see his ass.

He wasn't expecting it when Pike's hand came down hard on his ass, a single strike which was nothing like the careful warm-ups Pavel had received when playing with Hikaru in the basement of the Botany Club house a week ago.

"Eбать!" He cursed as Pike's hand came down a second time, the sound ringing out thanks to the acoustically-designed lecture hall.

A few students tittered in laughter and Pavel realized (for the second time) that he was naked in front of a gathering of his peers. Naked and being spanked. His face became heated with a fresh blush of embarrassment and a small amount of precome fell from the tip of his penis to the floor.

"Ahn!" Pike's hand struck him again and, "Nngh!" Again.

"Look at this!" Pike exclaimed, spinning him around so that his erection was visible to the class at large, "What sort of a person gets hard for a few slaps?"

"I..." Pavel doesn't know whether to cry or to come and it feels amazing.

"I wasn't asking you cadet!"




Title: Come Together
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Christine Chapel/Gaila
Word Count: 1188

Christine Chapel was not a nymphomaniac.

She was not, as three psychiatrists and her last two boyfriends had told her, a sex-addict. Christine Chapel merely knew what she wanted, and knew that she wasn't getting it, and was trying to get it as best she could.

Only two years out of nursing school (top of her class and with a degree that made her, in her father's words, "Just this side of a doctor") Christine had been through three positions at three major hospitals and was quickly running out of options for employment.

The problem was this: Christine liked to have sex. She liked it in a visceral, desperate way which led her to make not-so-smart decisions like her previous two bosses, and the twin daughters of Reverend Styles who lived just a block away from her mother. It wasn't that she had a problem being professional, as boss number two had implied when he fired her, but when offered a chance to have an orgasm or five, Christine had a lot of trouble saying no.

"You just look like such a nice girl." One of her boyfriends said after she had let him out of the leg restraints and removed the dildo from her harness, "I mean, no offense."

Christine had been offended. And for all that he had been one of her longest running relationships (a good two months) she had dumped him then and there, leaving most of her gear behind in a huff and having to go back for it a week later.

She was a nice girl, Christine told herself as she took her heavy bag of sex-paraphernalia from her sheepish ex-boyfriend, she called at a respectable time after each first date, she took her lovers to the places they wanted to go to and didn't insist on the musty old art and science museums that really interested her, she always wrote thank you notes. A high sex-drive and an adventurous heart did not, in her mind, completely invalidate any nice-girlness that she inherently possessed.

But that wasn't the way her lovers saw it.

The one night stands were just that, not looking for a relationship or even a week-long sex fest. They didn't care how nice she was (or wasn't) but they also didn't really care what her name was or how she liked her pancakes or how many orgasms she could really have in a night.

The relationships were even worse because Christine managed to only attract nice vanilla boys with her nice vanilla looks. And while it had been rather fun in high school to always be the one with the sweet boyfriend, the lack of satisfying sex was beginning to wear on her nerves. Even when she found a man or woman who was just as sexually adventurous as she was, Christine found that they were generally a little too interested in taking and not so interested in the giving.

Christine didn't think of herself as a selfish lover, but she had (in the words of her best girlfriend from college) a lot of orgasm potential, which is to say that once she started it was pretty easy to keep going. Most of her lovers, however, would come once (would get her to come once) and then be done for the night. It was just the slightest bit frustrating.

Frustrating and bad for her career.

So Christine took the only course she had left and emailed her uncle, who was a grounded Starfleet commander with an apartment in San Francisco and the ear of a few admirals, and was quickly booked to be beamed from Wisconsin to California in order to take the academy entrance exams.

Christine was dead set on starting a new life. A new life with orgasms.

Just a few minutes after she set her bags down in the tiny dorm room on the Starfleet Academy campus, Christine Chapel met the woman who would introduce her to the woman who would be her new life.

Her name was Janice Rand.

----------------------------------------

Gaila (no last name) was most definitely not a nymphomaniac.

It was something that the rest of the student body of Starfleet academy had yet to learn. Gaila understood (she was very understanding) that the particularities of her species meant that where ever she went she would be followed by the assumption that she was some kind of crazed sex-fiend.

The problem was this: Gaila was an Orion, and no one knew what that meant.

Gaila was one of only ten of her sisters to escape from the Orion homeworld in the last five years, and one of only three Orion's to join Starfleet in the last ten. For all that the academy was very good at sensitivity training and diversity awareness, the fact that she was so obviously an Orion (and that so few people knew Orions) was bound to cause a few conflicts.

Because, as Gaila was forced to explain to at least eight sex partners over the course of a month and a half, Orion slaves were the product of a breeding program which shaped their biology for the pleasure of the ruling class. And for all the anger and subversion and healthy intercourse Gaila had, nothing could change the fact that she was incapable of having multiple orgasms.

Orion slaves, Gaila tried to explain, had not been designed to be mere sex-fiends. They were there to provide pleasure, not to receive it, their pheromones had been carefully constructed over the centuries to effect the chemistry of others and were not a symptom of her being aroused so much as her being alive. Far more important to her (and a product of her biology, no matter how much she wished it weren't) was that her partner come, for the effect of their pheromones was something of a drug for Gaila.

This aspect of Orion biology, which Gaila found herself explaining ad nauseum, was gleefully ignored by most of the people that Gaila found herself in bed (or floor, or pool table, or taxi cab) with. It was like there had been a decision on the part of every sexually active Starfleet cadet to compete for the number of times they could make her orgasm.

Needless to say, Gaila was not satisfied with her current sex life.

It wasn't that she didn't like sex. She loved it. She loved it lots and lots with many different partners and in many physically challenging positions.

What she didn't like was the fact that all her human (and most non-human) lovers went straight for the clit every time. She didn't even like orgasms all that much anyway. They were a nice completion to a night of lovemaking, of course, but she felt so much more euphoria and satisfaction from being the giver of orgasms as opposed to the receiver.

It was too bad that the majority population of Starfleet academy had some kind of inability to understand her needs.

On the particular day that Gaila first met Janice Rand, she had already slept with (and been disappointed by) two cadets and was working on her third.


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