it's a wagon with the band

[moonsheen]

Can't guarantee any of these will get done. Because. Uh. I can't write porn. But.

Give me a series/pairing and an emotion, and I'll write at least two paragraphs of smut.

Comments

[halcyonjazz.livejournal.com]

Delita/Ovelia because I know no one else will do this.

Um. Word. word word word... 'hysteria'? GO CRAZY.

[sarisa.livejournal.com]

I AGREE WITH THIS COMMENT.

alternately: Sydney/Rosencrantz, inconsequential.
... but only because I have issues, ahaha.

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

This is terrible and not really so much with the smut and more with the weird androgynous wtfery. BUT I GAVE IT THE OLD ONE TWO.

The prophet moved like a woman.

There was no denying it, when one watched him. Rosencrantz marveled at it, from the back of the room. It was just a certain sway to his hips as he walked. A certain grace in the swing of his arms. They led him about like the limbs dancing girl. It was quite ridiculous, actually. Rosencrantz wanted to shove his hand down his britches just to see there was even really anything manful to be found there. He nearly doubted it, and even there were—he nearly suspected Sydney’d go about it like a girl anyway. Surrender prettily, keening, whining, wailing. Twisting all about with legs spread like a lady pulling her skirts up…

Sydney Losstarot glanced back across the room with a raised eyebrow and a curious tilt to his head. He lifted a hand, waved a claw in an amused, chiding swish. Oh. The boy was just doing it for show, Rosencrantz was convinced of this, but there was a knowing look somewhere in those dark, mad eyes… and it reminded the man, hungrily, of why he’d come in the first place.

Your OLD ONE TWO! is good enough for the likes of me.

[sarisa.livejournal.com]

ROSENCRANTZ BEING HIS ABSOLUTELY FILTHY-MINDED SELF MAKES ME VERY, VERY HAPPY-- fandom needs more of him putting his hands down everybody's pants, thank you, you're too wonderful. ♥

[moonsheen.livejournal.com]

She is not much of a queen, she thinks. When she thinks. Which is not all that much, as current circumstances would have it. Ovelia always thought of herself as a good child, a good girl, a good woman. One who listened carefully and waited patiently and minded what she was taught, which was never anything like this—never anything at all. Good children had not cause for complaint. Good girls did not spend long hours pondering the removal of one’s gloves. Good women lay still and thought of Ivalice. Real queen’s, Ovelia imagined, spent no such hours as she did: listening to sweet conspiracy on treasonous tongues and in treasonous beds with treasonous fingers sliding up their thighs and between their legs with the utmost care and oh--

She imagines they did not cry for it as she does.

And when her face is pressed against her knight—who is not really anyone’s knight, she thinks, whatever he might say—she shakes, and shakes and feels his bare hands trace up her back. Telling her she is most lovely and most pure stay just like that, highness, if you’d like she knows, she knows the truth of it. It is not for safety that she kisses his shoulder and huddles near. It is out of protest: for she is not much of a queen, she thinks, she is not. She is not. She is not.