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maerhys, who’s had a birthday, and a hard time lately, and with whom I offered to collaborate on a Neal/all the women multi-chaptered story. I wanted to make this filthy and stylish, bb, as your Neal!het is, but somehow this song had other ideas. I don’t know either, but I hope this made you smile a little :)
this time it is our time
Neal Tiemann/OFC, 1,150+ words, unbetaed.
Neal is flying. Explicit.
Not for profit fiction, no breach of privacy nor intellectual property rights intended. Title from Neil Diamond's And the Grass Won't Pay No Mind
Neal is flying. It's not like he's Superman, or on a smash-cut ride across the anti-gravity wrecking wells of acid, but out of his body and drifting in the warm afternoon sky, soft and easy and familiar as his own heartbeat. The ground tilts below him, green as green, and he follows the winding blue ribbon of river as it leads him on and forward and down, down, to the new grass where she's waiting.
He's never met her before and at the same time he's known her all his life. Her unclothed body is a landscape he doesn't remember and can't forget. The ink that limns her skin matches his like the other half of a forgotten map. He falls unguarded, naked as the day he was born, toward her smile, her sun-warmed breasts and belly, her long arms lifting to him in a welcome home.
At first it's a slow blur, soft-edged and out of focus, a slide into his body and a meaningful impact against hers. She's supple and pliant and she catches hold and rolls him onto his back. Her hair spills around them, blocking out the sun. Her eyes are transparent as the sky above: his world is filled with her face.
The summer afternoon pulses in his ears. Her lips move but he can't hear what she's saying, held tight in a hushed, shining bubble of time.
"I can't," he tries to tell her, and she lowers her lips to his: her kiss open-mouthed, soft and wet, infinitely tender. Neal doesn't kiss like this, hasn't kissed like this in years and years, not since he was a teenager and lying in a strawberry field in Oklahoma in the arms of his first love and the heart of an afternoon he thought would never end; he kisses back now and knows the distant ending as all things must.
But not yet, not now, when he thinks she's saying Yes, you can, her mouth framing a reply he can read against his. He feels his arms close around her without conscious thought, feels the unfurling topography of her body on top of him, her thighs sliding apart, bracing to his: another, deeper welcome.
He moves his hands from her shoulderblades to the slope of her breasts, and adrenaline accelerates through him as his fingers travel across her ribs and hips, a muffled roar that gets louder and louder. He's wholly alive in his body, the blood in his head and groin like an insistent guitar line, time beginning to speed up at last. She bites on his lower lip, holding onto his lip-rings, then lets him go. He palms her asscheeks, spreads them, he knows the way, feeling the slickness of her against his fingers and his cock, thrusts himself home.
God, it feels good, more than good; he wants to take this more slowly but everything's starting to unravel fast and faster and he can't stop it. She's calling out to him, words he can't hear but can feel against his collarbone, his skin, the ink on his skin. Her knees lock against his legs, she grinds against the bowl of his crotch, her fingernails sink into his flesh, and he can't hold himself back.
The roar in his head has turned into a fast and dirty bass line; he rolls them so he's on top again, so he can match its rhythm, hard and harder. He can hear her cry out, she clenches her arms around his neck and braces herself around his dick, he feels the build from his balls as he fucks into her with everything he has, with this, and this, and this.
She's closed her eyes, she's rising up to meet each thrust with a shuddering grind, and he's flying again, jagged edges this time, up and over the edge of the map, flashes of light and color and one susurrus of sound, her voice and his together, like the urgent call of God...
... and Neal comes to himself in a violent jolt; opens his eyes to starlight.
The expanse of valley stretches around him like a wide, dark canvas, filling every edge of his vision.
He's not alone. She's a question mark curled against his side, wearing his plaid shirt and nothing else against the cool night. There's a thick pile of blanket spread across the flatbed of the truck, something sack-like but not unpleasant under his head.
"Easy," she tells him, her voice amused. One corner of her swollen mouth quirks upwards. Under the stars and the tangle of her hair she looks wholly mortal, the tall woman who had been wearing a vintage Neil Diamond cap when he met her at yesterday's Hell or Highwater after-party, who’d offered to show him the secrets of her summer country.
"Fuck easy," Neal mutters to himself disbelievingly. He sits up and hauls himself back into his boxers. The far edge of the truck is a mess of beer and cigarettes and condoms, evidence of a more earthly congress.
She shrugs. "You can make this as hard as you want," she offers, "but out here, everything’s mostly easy. Hear that?"
He looks across at her as she turns to face the horizon, blue-purple over the hills. From far off, the cry of a young bird and the sound of wings in flight. Something about her profile echoes the hushed, bright afternoon, her hair falling against his face, the new grass heedless underneath them.
Neal's never been one for chemically- or endorphin-enhanced flights of fancy or of astral projection; he'd drink or use or meditate and then he'd pass out, end of story. He has no idea what the fuck is up with him, he's entirely present in his body now as he always is. He's never felt more ordinary or human; his muscles burn, his ass feels like someone's tried to kick it into next week, his skin's sticky with sweat and sex and half-moon circles of dried blood.
He knows, also, whatever it is that they've found, in the valley or in his dreams, they'll have to say goodbye to when the tour picks up and moves on to another city.
But in this moment, he hears only one sound: this stillness, this now.
"I hear it," he tells her awkwardly, and she smiles at him, tucking her loose hair behind her ears. After a beat he reaches out to help her. The night wind that's blowing cools the sweat inside his palms.
It's so quiet he can almost hear the grass growing, under the wheels, in the valley.
She puts her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, and he holds on, holds tightly to this time.
maerhys, who’s had a birthday, and a hard time lately, and with whom I offered to collaborate on a Neal/all the women multi-chaptered story. I wanted to make this filthy and stylish, bb, as your Neal!het is, but somehow this song had other ideas. I don’t know either, but I hope this made you smile a little :)this time it is our time
Neal Tiemann/OFC, 1,150+ words, unbetaed.
Neal is flying. Explicit.
Not for profit fiction, no breach of privacy nor intellectual property rights intended. Title from Neil Diamond's And the Grass Won't Pay No Mind
Neal is flying. It's not like he's Superman, or on a smash-cut ride across the anti-gravity wrecking wells of acid, but out of his body and drifting in the warm afternoon sky, soft and easy and familiar as his own heartbeat. The ground tilts below him, green as green, and he follows the winding blue ribbon of river as it leads him on and forward and down, down, to the new grass where she's waiting.
He's never met her before and at the same time he's known her all his life. Her unclothed body is a landscape he doesn't remember and can't forget. The ink that limns her skin matches his like the other half of a forgotten map. He falls unguarded, naked as the day he was born, toward her smile, her sun-warmed breasts and belly, her long arms lifting to him in a welcome home.
At first it's a slow blur, soft-edged and out of focus, a slide into his body and a meaningful impact against hers. She's supple and pliant and she catches hold and rolls him onto his back. Her hair spills around them, blocking out the sun. Her eyes are transparent as the sky above: his world is filled with her face.
The summer afternoon pulses in his ears. Her lips move but he can't hear what she's saying, held tight in a hushed, shining bubble of time.
"I can't," he tries to tell her, and she lowers her lips to his: her kiss open-mouthed, soft and wet, infinitely tender. Neal doesn't kiss like this, hasn't kissed like this in years and years, not since he was a teenager and lying in a strawberry field in Oklahoma in the arms of his first love and the heart of an afternoon he thought would never end; he kisses back now and knows the distant ending as all things must.
But not yet, not now, when he thinks she's saying Yes, you can, her mouth framing a reply he can read against his. He feels his arms close around her without conscious thought, feels the unfurling topography of her body on top of him, her thighs sliding apart, bracing to his: another, deeper welcome.
He moves his hands from her shoulderblades to the slope of her breasts, and adrenaline accelerates through him as his fingers travel across her ribs and hips, a muffled roar that gets louder and louder. He's wholly alive in his body, the blood in his head and groin like an insistent guitar line, time beginning to speed up at last. She bites on his lower lip, holding onto his lip-rings, then lets him go. He palms her asscheeks, spreads them, he knows the way, feeling the slickness of her against his fingers and his cock, thrusts himself home.
God, it feels good, more than good; he wants to take this more slowly but everything's starting to unravel fast and faster and he can't stop it. She's calling out to him, words he can't hear but can feel against his collarbone, his skin, the ink on his skin. Her knees lock against his legs, she grinds against the bowl of his crotch, her fingernails sink into his flesh, and he can't hold himself back.
The roar in his head has turned into a fast and dirty bass line; he rolls them so he's on top again, so he can match its rhythm, hard and harder. He can hear her cry out, she clenches her arms around his neck and braces herself around his dick, he feels the build from his balls as he fucks into her with everything he has, with this, and this, and this.
She's closed her eyes, she's rising up to meet each thrust with a shuddering grind, and he's flying again, jagged edges this time, up and over the edge of the map, flashes of light and color and one susurrus of sound, her voice and his together, like the urgent call of God...
... and Neal comes to himself in a violent jolt; opens his eyes to starlight.
The expanse of valley stretches around him like a wide, dark canvas, filling every edge of his vision.
He's not alone. She's a question mark curled against his side, wearing his plaid shirt and nothing else against the cool night. There's a thick pile of blanket spread across the flatbed of the truck, something sack-like but not unpleasant under his head.
"Easy," she tells him, her voice amused. One corner of her swollen mouth quirks upwards. Under the stars and the tangle of her hair she looks wholly mortal, the tall woman who had been wearing a vintage Neil Diamond cap when he met her at yesterday's Hell or Highwater after-party, who’d offered to show him the secrets of her summer country.
"Fuck easy," Neal mutters to himself disbelievingly. He sits up and hauls himself back into his boxers. The far edge of the truck is a mess of beer and cigarettes and condoms, evidence of a more earthly congress.
She shrugs. "You can make this as hard as you want," she offers, "but out here, everything’s mostly easy. Hear that?"
He looks across at her as she turns to face the horizon, blue-purple over the hills. From far off, the cry of a young bird and the sound of wings in flight. Something about her profile echoes the hushed, bright afternoon, her hair falling against his face, the new grass heedless underneath them.
Neal's never been one for chemically- or endorphin-enhanced flights of fancy or of astral projection; he'd drink or use or meditate and then he'd pass out, end of story. He has no idea what the fuck is up with him, he's entirely present in his body now as he always is. He's never felt more ordinary or human; his muscles burn, his ass feels like someone's tried to kick it into next week, his skin's sticky with sweat and sex and half-moon circles of dried blood.
He knows, also, whatever it is that they've found, in the valley or in his dreams, they'll have to say goodbye to when the tour picks up and moves on to another city.
But in this moment, he hears only one sound: this stillness, this now.
"I hear it," he tells her awkwardly, and she smiles at him, tucking her loose hair behind her ears. After a beat he reaches out to help her. The night wind that's blowing cools the sweat inside his palms.
It's so quiet he can almost hear the grass growing, under the wheels, in the valley.
She puts her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, and he holds on, holds tightly to this time.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-25 05:44 pm (UTC)At first it's a slow blur, soft-edged and out of focus, a slide into his body and a meaningful impact against hers.
The roar in his head has turned into a fast and dirty bass line; he rolls them so he's on top again, so he can match its rhythm, hard and harder. He can hear her cry out, she clenches her arms around his neck and braces herself around his dick, he feels the build from his balls as he fucks into her with everything he has, with this, and this, and this.
omg. i can't even say how hot this. girl, UNF. i can't even. i really can't. i think i need to read this another four billion times. ♥__________♥
no subject
Date: 2011-10-28 05:49 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked. I hope things are good. You know I adore Neal. And you ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-10-28 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 12:27 am (UTC)