regenerate (nancy drew, nancy/ned, nc-17)
Jan. 25th, 2009 04:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ndnickersonTitle: Regenerate
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ndnickerson
Pairing/Characters: Nancy/Ned
Series: post-Files
Word Count: 2554
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nancy looks at what she could have.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Sex.
Author's Note: Written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle, prompt: shower.
She kind of fell in love with it, the first time he brought her here, when he talked all the way around asking her to move in with him and managed to never quite say it. She kind of fell in love with the trellis climbing up the kitchen window, and the hardwood floors, the petite black radiators crouched in corners. The immense bathroom, big as a kitchen, with its claw-footed tub, the enormous drip faucet. But then she had taken the case in France and the next time she had seen him, muffler wrapped about her neck, eyes streaming from the high wind, he had a roommate, a burly dark-haired sophomore who subsisted solely on artificially-bright sugared cereal and loud explosive video games.
When he unlocks the door she stands for a moment on the front mat, doggedly scraping the soles of her filthy boots against the red and yellow silhouettes of two Dutch girls, faces leaned in like they're sharing a secret, blue eyes wide. Three terra-cotta flowerpots in the shadow of the railing, choked in snow, one bristling green tendril poking free.
She has to take a deep breath before crossing the threshold, partially because she cringes at the thought of dripping all this mud and snowmelt on his pathworn floors, partially because her right ankle is somewhere uncomfortably between sprained, fractured, and oh-fuck-that-hurts.
"Any better?"
She starts to shrug out of her coat and winces, favoring her left arm. "I need you to look at my back for me," she admits, and he nods, toeing out of his shoes.
She had known, as soon as she hit the double doors and broke into a run, that she shouldn't have. Within seconds she had been shivering in her thin sweater, adrenaline the only thing keeping her muscles from locking in mute protest. Aaron had gotten in a few good punches, but they had ended up rolling around together in the parking lot, the air searing her lungs from cold as she screamed out for Ned. When the cops came she was battered and sore, lip split, ankle screaming, but triumphant. She can feel gravel in her hair, her clothes unpleasantly sticky with the mud churned up under slick wheels.
Ned snarls a curse when he doesn't find the first-aid kit in his bathroom, that large bathroom, the one that makes her feel uncomfortable and on display with that claw-footed tub like a raised stage. He stalks to the kitchen with its heavy cold porcelain and age-smeared windows, and she stands, just gazing through the east window, shivering as she strips her sweater off.
It feels like a bruise, hot at the center, where her fingers flutter timidly over it.
She's standing in the tub, curtain pulled around her, fumbling with the faucet when he returns. The water trickles down over her, and she shivers under his touch, her nipples tight and hard from the cold, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. He inches the knob over and she almost cries out in shock at how warm the water becomes, driving against her scalp. He brushes his fingers over the bruise and she shifts her weight to her battered ankle and almost collapses, so cold she can't even make herself reach for the soap. She stares hard through the curtain, at the cold black-and-white tile, the shape of his razor on the sink, her shoes in a huddle on the floor. When he gently pulls her down to sit on the lip of the tub, she almost loses her footing, and winces again at the chill of the porcelain under her.
"It's all right, honey. It's all right."
She listens to him strip out of his clothes without watching; some quality of the light, the crash after the adrenaline surge and the wet, miserable ride back to his place, conscious of her weight shifting with every turn and the obnoxious squelch of everything she wore, has left her thoughtful, dwindling.
He last proposed to her fifteen months ago. She is running out of excuses, and yet, here he is, and there had been no question that he would take care of her.
She lets herself shiver, fully, hard, as the water beats down on her back and he brushes the mud away, and in apology he draws back, murmuring some soothing nonsense. He combs her hair with his fingers and the gravel falls and drifts against the curve of the tub, forming miniature island chains. He works the shampoo through her hair, making soft disbelieving noises to himself. His knuckles are hard against her scalp. She bleats out a faint involuntary protest and that stops as well.
"Is it bleeding?" He doesn't answer and she folds her arm, fluttering her fingers behind her, tracing the edge of the bruise. Then he takes her hand and puts his other hand on her waist, and she closes her eyes.
"A little."
There is no wall, nothing to use for support. She shivers, gripping the edge of the tub as she reaches for the soap, but the warm water is finally beginning to work on her protesting muscles, leaving the shock of cold air palpable when she leaves its halo. Ned takes the soap out of her hand; he's in one of those moods, and since she bore the brunt of the punishment for this, she can't say she minds too terribly much.
He steps in close and she can feel his erection, hard, pressed between them as he draws the soap in clumsy circles over her breast. She smiles, wincing at her split lip, and takes the soap back out of his hand, going through the routine while he cups her breasts. His head's on her shoulder; he watches her find and gingerly skate her palm over the site of another bruise as his thumbs tweak her nipples, her skin elastic and unpleasantly slippery from the water.
She turns around and he groans a little in protest, but she lathers her hands, tracing the firm lines of his muscles, smiling when he tenses at each sweep of her fingers against his abs. She has to stretch, and her arms, her side, her ankle all protest as she runs her knuckles against his scalp, the soft groan he makes almost worth it. He cups her breasts again and she angles her body so his erection is warm between their bellies, rubbing against her as she rinses his hair. He feels so incredibly warm.
Then she pulls back, studying his gaze, and he sways forward, his brown eyes glowing with desire.
The problem, they find, once the water's turned off and she's shivering again, her hair falling in wet ripples over her shoulders, is that there is no wall, no way to keep balance. He bends her over the side of the tub but loses his footing and they crash together, and she has to laugh at the disappointed look on his face, even though the cold is seeping its way into her bones again.
She climbs out of the tub and wraps one of the thick, luxurious oversized bath sheets around her, the kind he keeps for her alone. When he climbs out to follow she opens it, wrapping it around them both, their bodies pressed tight together, warm and clean. He picks her up and she winces as her back protests, but slides her arms around his shoulders to keep the towel closed around them, her legs snug around his waist.
And that nearly undoes him, as he carries her to his bed; she's slick and her hips are angled so his cock is pressed lengthwise against her, and she grinds against him, lips parted just that little bit, her gaze gone half-lidded. He rips back the comforter, sliding forward on his knees, but she winces when she tries to lie down.
"I... are you okay?" He whispers it, like it's a secret just between them, like he's giving her permission to lie.
"I'll be all right," she promises, and leans up to kiss him, the towel finally fluttering loose from around his shoulders, leaving him naked and shivering and weak-kneed as he tries to put his hands somewhere that won't hurt her, tasting blood as he slants his mouth over hers. She whimpers and he needs her under him, and then her cool slender fingers find his cock and he groans, bending over her.
"Come on," she whispers, gently tugging his earlobe with her teeth, and he kneels between her open legs, shivering. She shoves his hip and he rolls onto his back, half crushing her in the process, and he pulls as much of the damp towel up over her shoulders as he can as she straddles him. In the glaring winter light he can trace the blue veins in her breasts, webbed faint under alabaster, he can see the shadow at the join of her legs. He can see the livid skin where Aaron punched and kicked her.
"You should have let me go after him," he chastises, but his voice turns into a soft flutter at the end, as she palms his length, the ball of her thumb swirling the moisture she found there over the head of his cock.
"I know," she sighs, but patiently, with no remorse.
He arches under her and then grabs her hands, pulling them up over his head, and she's taken just off balance, prone against him, knees spread on either side of his hips. He urges her up, until they are aligned, then slides his hands between them and parts her lips, sighing in pleasure as the length of his cock nestles against the hot slick folds between her thighs.
She props herself up on her elbows, gazing down at him, half-smiling. "Cold, Nickerson?"
"Not anymore," he moans, as she grinds against him, angling her hips. He knows what she's doing, so he toys with her breasts, absently stroking her nipples as she matches that rhythm, and then her knees slide further apart and her mouth falls open, a soft pant escaping her as he feels the head of his cock glance against the button of her clit.
He loves watching her, and she knows that; she plants her palms against the pillow on either side of his head and gives herself over to it, the wet slide of his cock against her flesh and that perfect, violently addictive shiver when she rubs her clit against the head, sliding against the ridges beneath. She is loose, aching with tension, and he feels the hot, slick gush of her arousal as she grinds her clit in a shivering glide down the length of his cock. He arches up as she thrusts her hips again, catching her clit over and over against the head of his cock, and he pulls her nipple in his mouth and suckles hard. He drags his nails down her spine and works his fingers between them, and they both cry out, her in shivering pleasure as his index finger angles between her thighs, him as he finds her ready for him.
She pushes herself up on her knees and he angles his cock for her, her hand gripping over his as she rises again, and then she's working the tip of his cock inside her and it's all he can do not to grab her hips and force her to sheathe him in one smooth thrust. Instead he finds her clit and draws a tight circle around it with his thumb, over and over, and she shudders and moans, head tipped back, her heart hammering under her ribs. The underside of his cock is already slick with her, for her, and she grinds down, achingly slow, until he flicks her clit hard.
"Oh God, oh God," she moans, his entire body thrumming with need, arching up to meet her as she finally takes him deep as she can, grasping his shoulders and thrusting her hips until the entire length of his cock is inside her, the rippling heat of each shiver clenching him tight in answer to his thumb against her clit. He stops for a second and she opens her eyes and their gazes lock, and the sheer desire there is intoxicating. She lets out a low, long purr as he rubs the ball of his thumb against the swollen nub of her clit again, her hips shifting to circle and grind into him again.
"Now," he whispers, almost begging, and they both cry out when she thrusts again, again, their gazes locked, her inner flesh pulsing and tightening around him, again, again. She angles her hips and grinds her clit against the base of his cock after every thrust and she fucks him greedily, possessively, relentless. His hips arch up the bed to meet hers, and he shivers, panting out her name, his hands locked around her waist to keep driving her against him. He begins to come and his grip is iron, undeniable; she squirms against it anyway, incredibly aroused by how easily he slams her to him again, and then he's shuddering in the aftershock of his own release.
He lets his hands fall, and she slowly tips forward, his cock still hilt-deep inside her as she rests against his chest. "Mmm," she whispers, and then she can feel the cold again, breathing against her back, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Ned's eyes are closed; he's dead weight underneath her. She touches his brow and he barely stirs, entirely sated, so she sighs and pulls away from him, wincing, then pulls the covers up over them both and nestles against his side, her head on his shoulder, arm draped over his chest.
"Yes," she whispers.
"Yes what," he mumbles in reply, hand blindly rising to find her hair. He smiles. "Good?"
"Yes, it was good," she sighs, her lips turning up. "Yes..."
She has so few reasons left. She resents him for giving in to her so easily, but for so long it's been everything by her rules, her way or no way. She can't blame him for taking what he can get, afraid this is all there is, this is all he can have.
You aren't thinking clearly. Earth-shattering orgasms can do that.
She nuzzles against his neck, a little. "Thank you," she says, lamely.
He wraps his arm around her waist and she hisses in pain, and he immediately shifts. "This is supposed to be the best way to regenerate body heat."
"Yeah," she whispers, drawing shallow circles against his chest. Sometimes she dreams of wearing his ring, the ring he's kept as a promise to her since she was eighteen. Sometimes it terrifies her.
"I love you," she murmurs. "I didn't say that, did I."
He smiles. "I was pretty sure."
"Do you love me?"
That's when he opens his eyes, craning his neck to meet her gaze. "You know I do," he whispers. "You know I love you, Nan."
She holds his eyes, then drops her gaze, laying her head back down, resting her palm over his heart.
Next time I'm going to say yes.
Author:
ndnickersonPairing/Characters: Nancy/Ned
Series: post-Files
Word Count: 2554
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nancy looks at what she could have.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Sex.
Author's Note: Written for the Seven Deadly Sins porn battle, prompt: shower.
She kind of fell in love with it, the first time he brought her here, when he talked all the way around asking her to move in with him and managed to never quite say it. She kind of fell in love with the trellis climbing up the kitchen window, and the hardwood floors, the petite black radiators crouched in corners. The immense bathroom, big as a kitchen, with its claw-footed tub, the enormous drip faucet. But then she had taken the case in France and the next time she had seen him, muffler wrapped about her neck, eyes streaming from the high wind, he had a roommate, a burly dark-haired sophomore who subsisted solely on artificially-bright sugared cereal and loud explosive video games.
When he unlocks the door she stands for a moment on the front mat, doggedly scraping the soles of her filthy boots against the red and yellow silhouettes of two Dutch girls, faces leaned in like they're sharing a secret, blue eyes wide. Three terra-cotta flowerpots in the shadow of the railing, choked in snow, one bristling green tendril poking free.
She has to take a deep breath before crossing the threshold, partially because she cringes at the thought of dripping all this mud and snowmelt on his pathworn floors, partially because her right ankle is somewhere uncomfortably between sprained, fractured, and oh-fuck-that-hurts.
"Any better?"
She starts to shrug out of her coat and winces, favoring her left arm. "I need you to look at my back for me," she admits, and he nods, toeing out of his shoes.
She had known, as soon as she hit the double doors and broke into a run, that she shouldn't have. Within seconds she had been shivering in her thin sweater, adrenaline the only thing keeping her muscles from locking in mute protest. Aaron had gotten in a few good punches, but they had ended up rolling around together in the parking lot, the air searing her lungs from cold as she screamed out for Ned. When the cops came she was battered and sore, lip split, ankle screaming, but triumphant. She can feel gravel in her hair, her clothes unpleasantly sticky with the mud churned up under slick wheels.
Ned snarls a curse when he doesn't find the first-aid kit in his bathroom, that large bathroom, the one that makes her feel uncomfortable and on display with that claw-footed tub like a raised stage. He stalks to the kitchen with its heavy cold porcelain and age-smeared windows, and she stands, just gazing through the east window, shivering as she strips her sweater off.
It feels like a bruise, hot at the center, where her fingers flutter timidly over it.
She's standing in the tub, curtain pulled around her, fumbling with the faucet when he returns. The water trickles down over her, and she shivers under his touch, her nipples tight and hard from the cold, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. He inches the knob over and she almost cries out in shock at how warm the water becomes, driving against her scalp. He brushes his fingers over the bruise and she shifts her weight to her battered ankle and almost collapses, so cold she can't even make herself reach for the soap. She stares hard through the curtain, at the cold black-and-white tile, the shape of his razor on the sink, her shoes in a huddle on the floor. When he gently pulls her down to sit on the lip of the tub, she almost loses her footing, and winces again at the chill of the porcelain under her.
"It's all right, honey. It's all right."
She listens to him strip out of his clothes without watching; some quality of the light, the crash after the adrenaline surge and the wet, miserable ride back to his place, conscious of her weight shifting with every turn and the obnoxious squelch of everything she wore, has left her thoughtful, dwindling.
He last proposed to her fifteen months ago. She is running out of excuses, and yet, here he is, and there had been no question that he would take care of her.
She lets herself shiver, fully, hard, as the water beats down on her back and he brushes the mud away, and in apology he draws back, murmuring some soothing nonsense. He combs her hair with his fingers and the gravel falls and drifts against the curve of the tub, forming miniature island chains. He works the shampoo through her hair, making soft disbelieving noises to himself. His knuckles are hard against her scalp. She bleats out a faint involuntary protest and that stops as well.
"Is it bleeding?" He doesn't answer and she folds her arm, fluttering her fingers behind her, tracing the edge of the bruise. Then he takes her hand and puts his other hand on her waist, and she closes her eyes.
"A little."
There is no wall, nothing to use for support. She shivers, gripping the edge of the tub as she reaches for the soap, but the warm water is finally beginning to work on her protesting muscles, leaving the shock of cold air palpable when she leaves its halo. Ned takes the soap out of her hand; he's in one of those moods, and since she bore the brunt of the punishment for this, she can't say she minds too terribly much.
He steps in close and she can feel his erection, hard, pressed between them as he draws the soap in clumsy circles over her breast. She smiles, wincing at her split lip, and takes the soap back out of his hand, going through the routine while he cups her breasts. His head's on her shoulder; he watches her find and gingerly skate her palm over the site of another bruise as his thumbs tweak her nipples, her skin elastic and unpleasantly slippery from the water.
She turns around and he groans a little in protest, but she lathers her hands, tracing the firm lines of his muscles, smiling when he tenses at each sweep of her fingers against his abs. She has to stretch, and her arms, her side, her ankle all protest as she runs her knuckles against his scalp, the soft groan he makes almost worth it. He cups her breasts again and she angles her body so his erection is warm between their bellies, rubbing against her as she rinses his hair. He feels so incredibly warm.
Then she pulls back, studying his gaze, and he sways forward, his brown eyes glowing with desire.
The problem, they find, once the water's turned off and she's shivering again, her hair falling in wet ripples over her shoulders, is that there is no wall, no way to keep balance. He bends her over the side of the tub but loses his footing and they crash together, and she has to laugh at the disappointed look on his face, even though the cold is seeping its way into her bones again.
She climbs out of the tub and wraps one of the thick, luxurious oversized bath sheets around her, the kind he keeps for her alone. When he climbs out to follow she opens it, wrapping it around them both, their bodies pressed tight together, warm and clean. He picks her up and she winces as her back protests, but slides her arms around his shoulders to keep the towel closed around them, her legs snug around his waist.
And that nearly undoes him, as he carries her to his bed; she's slick and her hips are angled so his cock is pressed lengthwise against her, and she grinds against him, lips parted just that little bit, her gaze gone half-lidded. He rips back the comforter, sliding forward on his knees, but she winces when she tries to lie down.
"I... are you okay?" He whispers it, like it's a secret just between them, like he's giving her permission to lie.
"I'll be all right," she promises, and leans up to kiss him, the towel finally fluttering loose from around his shoulders, leaving him naked and shivering and weak-kneed as he tries to put his hands somewhere that won't hurt her, tasting blood as he slants his mouth over hers. She whimpers and he needs her under him, and then her cool slender fingers find his cock and he groans, bending over her.
"Come on," she whispers, gently tugging his earlobe with her teeth, and he kneels between her open legs, shivering. She shoves his hip and he rolls onto his back, half crushing her in the process, and he pulls as much of the damp towel up over her shoulders as he can as she straddles him. In the glaring winter light he can trace the blue veins in her breasts, webbed faint under alabaster, he can see the shadow at the join of her legs. He can see the livid skin where Aaron punched and kicked her.
"You should have let me go after him," he chastises, but his voice turns into a soft flutter at the end, as she palms his length, the ball of her thumb swirling the moisture she found there over the head of his cock.
"I know," she sighs, but patiently, with no remorse.
He arches under her and then grabs her hands, pulling them up over his head, and she's taken just off balance, prone against him, knees spread on either side of his hips. He urges her up, until they are aligned, then slides his hands between them and parts her lips, sighing in pleasure as the length of his cock nestles against the hot slick folds between her thighs.
She props herself up on her elbows, gazing down at him, half-smiling. "Cold, Nickerson?"
"Not anymore," he moans, as she grinds against him, angling her hips. He knows what she's doing, so he toys with her breasts, absently stroking her nipples as she matches that rhythm, and then her knees slide further apart and her mouth falls open, a soft pant escaping her as he feels the head of his cock glance against the button of her clit.
He loves watching her, and she knows that; she plants her palms against the pillow on either side of his head and gives herself over to it, the wet slide of his cock against her flesh and that perfect, violently addictive shiver when she rubs her clit against the head, sliding against the ridges beneath. She is loose, aching with tension, and he feels the hot, slick gush of her arousal as she grinds her clit in a shivering glide down the length of his cock. He arches up as she thrusts her hips again, catching her clit over and over against the head of his cock, and he pulls her nipple in his mouth and suckles hard. He drags his nails down her spine and works his fingers between them, and they both cry out, her in shivering pleasure as his index finger angles between her thighs, him as he finds her ready for him.
She pushes herself up on her knees and he angles his cock for her, her hand gripping over his as she rises again, and then she's working the tip of his cock inside her and it's all he can do not to grab her hips and force her to sheathe him in one smooth thrust. Instead he finds her clit and draws a tight circle around it with his thumb, over and over, and she shudders and moans, head tipped back, her heart hammering under her ribs. The underside of his cock is already slick with her, for her, and she grinds down, achingly slow, until he flicks her clit hard.
"Oh God, oh God," she moans, his entire body thrumming with need, arching up to meet her as she finally takes him deep as she can, grasping his shoulders and thrusting her hips until the entire length of his cock is inside her, the rippling heat of each shiver clenching him tight in answer to his thumb against her clit. He stops for a second and she opens her eyes and their gazes lock, and the sheer desire there is intoxicating. She lets out a low, long purr as he rubs the ball of his thumb against the swollen nub of her clit again, her hips shifting to circle and grind into him again.
"Now," he whispers, almost begging, and they both cry out when she thrusts again, again, their gazes locked, her inner flesh pulsing and tightening around him, again, again. She angles her hips and grinds her clit against the base of his cock after every thrust and she fucks him greedily, possessively, relentless. His hips arch up the bed to meet hers, and he shivers, panting out her name, his hands locked around her waist to keep driving her against him. He begins to come and his grip is iron, undeniable; she squirms against it anyway, incredibly aroused by how easily he slams her to him again, and then he's shuddering in the aftershock of his own release.
He lets his hands fall, and she slowly tips forward, his cock still hilt-deep inside her as she rests against his chest. "Mmm," she whispers, and then she can feel the cold again, breathing against her back, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Ned's eyes are closed; he's dead weight underneath her. She touches his brow and he barely stirs, entirely sated, so she sighs and pulls away from him, wincing, then pulls the covers up over them both and nestles against his side, her head on his shoulder, arm draped over his chest.
"Yes," she whispers.
"Yes what," he mumbles in reply, hand blindly rising to find her hair. He smiles. "Good?"
"Yes, it was good," she sighs, her lips turning up. "Yes..."
She has so few reasons left. She resents him for giving in to her so easily, but for so long it's been everything by her rules, her way or no way. She can't blame him for taking what he can get, afraid this is all there is, this is all he can have.
You aren't thinking clearly. Earth-shattering orgasms can do that.
She nuzzles against his neck, a little. "Thank you," she says, lamely.
He wraps his arm around her waist and she hisses in pain, and he immediately shifts. "This is supposed to be the best way to regenerate body heat."
"Yeah," she whispers, drawing shallow circles against his chest. Sometimes she dreams of wearing his ring, the ring he's kept as a promise to her since she was eighteen. Sometimes it terrifies her.
"I love you," she murmurs. "I didn't say that, did I."
He smiles. "I was pretty sure."
"Do you love me?"
That's when he opens his eyes, craning his neck to meet her gaze. "You know I do," he whispers. "You know I love you, Nan."
She holds his eyes, then drops her gaze, laying her head back down, resting her palm over his heart.
Next time I'm going to say yes.