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piecesofalice Jun. 2nd, 2009 04:19 am)
piecesofalice Jun. 2nd, 2009 04:19 am)Two things:
1. I should be in bed (well, I am. But you know.)
2. I shouldn't be writing wanky tra-la-la smut about Nickelodeon-owned characters.
Damn you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tweendom_anon for taking any cred I may have had! Damn you to Hell!
TITLE: Water (or, "I could swim the world with you")
FANDOM: iCarly, Future!Sam/Spencer
RATING: NC-17. I guess?
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, that's Nick and Dan Schneider's job.
Water (or: "I could swim the world with you")
iCarly-verse, 1st-2nd June 2009
---
NOTES: Inspired by this prompt attweendom_anon. End result nothing like the poor anon wanted. I wish I knew why Future!Sam and Spencer cause me to write stupidly purple prose, but their Future Angst is just too much for me. Bless you, you crazy kids! EDIT: Jesus Mary & Joseph, I must have been drunk in the first section. Made a few changes, for those playing at home.
---
Reelin' with the feelin'
Movin' and a'groovin'
Bobby Darin, "Splish Splash"
---
Sam doesn't remember liking water as a kid. She'd fight her way through her Mom's arms and make a run for it when it was bath-time, down the stairs, over the balustrade, under her bed; her survival instinct kicking in possibly (probably) too early to be healthy and her mouth screaming when she'd been pulled - kicking, screaming - into the bath water and her body washed clean.
It was the one time her mother actually seemed to give a rat's about her well-being, and that's why, she thought, was probably why she found it so absolutely frightening.
As she grew older, and her mother seemed to care even less, she spent more time in the shower; as her body grew curvier, it was the bath that seemed like the Great Unknown more than anything else. She didn't know anything about metaphors or whatever, but? It was stupid, ridiculous, lame, and still, she only showered, and ignored fluffy bubble baths and suggestions from magazines about candlelight and wine.
Then, with a legal age under her belt, she moved out of home; into a baby apartment on the south of Seattle with rickety stairs and for way too much than what it was worth - but it was hers.
An apartment that, in all it's great mysteries (like the odd patches of missing paint on the very far corner behind her bedroom door), did not have a shower, but only an antique claw-footed bath.
Sam scrunched her face up, her lease in her left hand, and watched the bath like it was about to come to life.
"You could rig up one of them camp do-eys, y'know?" Her new landlord came up behind her, and clapped. "Easy, eh?"
There wasn't anything she could say that wouldn't end with her possibly being thrown out on her first day as a renter, so - with as much brilliance she could muster - Sam smiled at the old man and thanked whomever for the sound of Spencer almost being squashed under her coffee table.
"Hey! Where do you - " he pushed his hair out of his eyes, which got longer as he got older. "Where do you want your coffee table, Lady Rents-a-Lot?"
Because he may have progressed into his thirties, but the Spencer Shay, Constant Comedian stayed put; his ability to stick to her life like Superglue seemed lost on every one but her, and only in the late hours of the night when she should have been out partying or studying or -
"SAM. EARTH TO SAM. HELLOOO?"
"Jesus, Spencer. In the lounge."
The landlord smiled. "Now your boyfriend's here, maybe he can rig a shower, eh?"
"He's not my...thanks, Mr. Schneider. I'll talk to you at the first of the month." Sam peered into the lounge room as she saw her landlord out, and wondered if Spencer had heard the "boyfriend" crack. But - judging from the fact his head was firmly inside a box marked 'DVDs' - he hadn't.
Pushing a hand into one pocket of her jeans, she smiled a little and walked away, thinking that she should do something about her bedroom while Spencer seemed intent on organizing and placing her lounge room into some sort of order. Like a sculpture, she mused, then forgot about it as she pulled clothes from boxes and began to try and make something out of nothing.
Sam didn't know it, especially now with her head in other spaces. But Spencer, his hands filled with bad kung-fu DVDs and a stray rom-com, had heard and seen everything - and like all things to do with Sam, he filed it away in the appropriate places and pretended to be anything but interested in the small blonde woman he knew everything and nothing about.
---
There was a bottle of wine well and truly done between them, a tipsy Skype call to Carly (who'd been "trying to study, guys!") and a couple of pepperoni pizzas with two slices left in each box. The clock slid to midnight, and somehow Sam knew that the night wasn't over yet.
It was probably the way they were wedged onto the tiny-ass couch she had bought for ten bucks from a student co-op, her side pushed against Spencer's solidly enough for her to feel his heartbeat through her shirt. The way he'd leant a little too close when she'd spilt wine and he offered her a napkin, the way she held onto his leg like they were anything but Carly's Brother and Carly's Best Friend.
Because, with Carly at college, there was absolutely no reason for him to volunteer his removalist skills, or her to be even calling him in the first place. Because he was now talking low against her, about a cola-powered go-kart that Socko and his uncle Otto had sucked him into painting; because he was pushing her hair behind her ears when he should have his hands well and truly away from her, because she'd always wondered and always wanted to know what it was like to kiss her best friend's big brother.
And definitely because his thumb was hovering over her lips, because he was holding her face in his hand like she was made of china, because he was looking at her like it was the first time he'd ever seen her.
"Why are you afraid of the bath?" And she laughed, because it was the most ridiculous phrase she'd ever heard, and even more so because it was the truest question she'd ever been asked.
"I don't know," was all she could say, so he kissed her and he tasted like pepperoni and a mid-age red.
---
The city noise sprang up around them as Spencer moved her up onto him, their jeans creating friction as she lifted her t-shirt over her head. His hands, big enough to almost meet in the middle of her waist, moved up and down her torso like he was sculpting her. Like it was the only way he knew how to get in contact with a new material, the only way he knew how to explore exactly how far he could go before he was creating art and not just a mess.
This could - and would - get messy, she thought, her nose brushing his cheek as she watched him watch her body like a Great Master summarizing a canvas. The way his gaze fell over her should have felt abrasive, almost cold, but to her it was all she could do not to preen like a freakin' peacock.
The night covers a multitude of sins, and this would probably just be one of a million committed that day - so she pushed her mouth onto his with a fever that scared even him, as it seemed to signify that this was simply nature taking it's course.
---
He's got her legs over his shoulders, and it's all she can do not pull the stuffing out of her pillows. His tongue flicks over her clit and her hips buck, his hands clutch her thighs and the pressure is like a volcano. Mouth open, greedy, he's trying to do something to her that she's sure isn't in the Polite Ladies Handbook Mrs. Benson gave her for her eighteenth birthday, and she's trying not to make noises so loud her neighbours would have to complain.
He laughs against her, at her attempts to use a pillow to shut herself up, and the vibrations make her eyes roll into the back of her head.
She makes a note to seek revenge later, but it's lost to the sensation building inside her as he moves to slip two fingers inside her. He finds a rhythm between the two, and she starts to squirm, a sweat breaking out on his top lip because he can hardly believe how amazing she looks because he's doing these things to her.
"Spencer..." is all she gets out, her fingers clutching his hair roughly, the pain only intensifying the situation and the fact the girl he'd known since she could barely read is coming under his hands.
It only makes him want her more, because inevitability is nothing but a turn-on.
---
The bath water is so hot it could probably scald, but she's naked in front of him before he can say "water safety", her hands tentatively roaming across his shirtless torso that he thought - stupidly - should have been more toned in case this very scenario played out. She's still tiny, shorter than Carly, her breasts only a handful and he thinks of that stupid thing Socko used to say about "any more is a waste".
She's working out his belt, and he has to help her, her girlish hands under his and it's just another thing about her that is a contradiction. He'd seen her manhandle Freddie with these hands, stab giant pumpkins, punch walls, press a remote on a web show that seemed like it ended decades ago - a rough, tough character who's greatest fear was - and always would be - being made to do something she didn't want to.
Like baths, when she wanted to play with building blocks on the floor of some crappy apartment on their way to the rest of their lives in Seattle. Like kissing boys she didn't want to kiss, if only to see if the oldest stable male in her life had anything like a reaction, and the heaviness of "them" hangs in the air as her hands find his.
Her hands begin to work on his dick, small strokes that measure a lifetime, then faster, faster until he has to break contact and kiss her so hard she doesn't notice him putting her in the bath (and the fact her touch makes him almost lose control right then and there).
They found bubble bath in some crappy hamper her Mom sends along as a way of saying "I love you, but I'm glad you're gone", the bubbles rising up around them and his thumbs run over her nipples, the whole of her breasts, as she seems to instinctively pull herself towards and onto him in the water.
Their bodies make stupid screeching noises against the tub that send them both into nervous giggles, and her face pulls back into seriousness as Spencer thinks he sees a fleeting look of fear run across her features.
"You're fine," is all he can say, and he holds her waist, her ass, her thighs; as he kisses her with an intensity that scares them both into action with a flip and a twist, her legs pinning him to the bath as he holds her above him. She is very much in charge, and he laughs again, her mouth set into a line and then a smirk when she sees his reaction to her fairly unladylike plunge onto him.
Holding onto one of his shoulders, the other clutching the side of the bath, her mouth is against his cheek as she begins to ride him. Little noises, almost guttural into his hair, his hands roaming along her back and into the slide of her hips and back again. She's wet, the bubbles doing nothing to stop the pressure of the water and the rhythm she's controlling but adding more to the mental image Spencer begins to have of a Lady Poseidon that is so silly he almost breaks into laughter.
But anything ridiculous about the situation turns into an overwhelming feeling of pleasure as she begins to move faster upon him, her hands grabbing one of his in almost a frenzy and putting it on her left breast, making him squeeze the nipple between his fingers in such a way to make her moan. She's close, the water slopping at the sides of the bath and onto the floor, like waves breaking and she begins to grip the bath so hard her fingers turn red then white with the pressure.
Before she can, he comes - it seems to rip out of him and he's seeing stars when she follows, his name spilling from her lips at a such a volume he has to kiss her to silence it. Their hearts are coming out of their chests, their breathing heavy, her legs shaking a little as he pulls out and brings her close to him.
There's water from one end of the bathroom to the other, and hardly any left in the bath. It's gone stone cold, the clock striking two and Sam wonders where the hell the time went as she blows a bunch of bubbles away from the edge of the tub in an attempt to appear nonchalant when really? She's scared, and happy, and lost, and found, all the the same time.
"You okay?" His voice sounds weird, like there's something to heavy to say but still, it carries in his voice. She's shocked to feel a pair of tears slipping past her cheek bones, shocked to feel that she doesn't trust herself to say anything, so she just nods, and his arms tighten around her in his way of saying you will always be okay. You were always okay, with me.
The brevity of words and the weight of everything that's hanging between them, but it's perfect. It's perfect in that way that was always perfect for them - she was, and he saw, she did and he watched. The way how he wasn't ever really meant to be anything but an ally, in a world that was always going to look at her like a misfit.
They should get out of the bath. Their toes and fingers are crinkling, the cold is starting to reach them, and Sam thinks about her mother and the bed she hid under to avoid the daily routine of wondering who the hell she was.
With the water and Spencer surrounding her, she closes her eyes.
It had only taken her two decades and a lot of life lessons, but here, in a bath she technically owned and a man she knew so much about, she was starting to understand why.
---
Fin.
---
It all got a little fraught there, didn't it?
Fun fact: "I Want To Know What Love Is" by Foreigner came up on iTunes whilst writing ~teh raunch~. Maybe that's why this resembles a bad eighties porn.
Oblig!
1. I should be in bed (well, I am. But you know.)
2. I shouldn't be writing wanky tra-la-la smut about Nickelodeon-owned characters.
Damn you,
tweendom_anon for taking any cred I may have had! Damn you to Hell!TITLE: Water (or, "I could swim the world with you")
FANDOM: iCarly, Future!Sam/Spencer
RATING: NC-17. I guess?
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, that's Nick and Dan Schneider's job.
Water (or: "I could swim the world with you")
iCarly-verse, 1st-2nd June 2009
---
NOTES: Inspired by this prompt at
tweendom_anon. End result nothing like the poor anon wanted. I wish I knew why Future!Sam and Spencer cause me to write stupidly purple prose, but their Future Angst is just too much for me. Bless you, you crazy kids! EDIT: Jesus Mary & Joseph, I must have been drunk in the first section. Made a few changes, for those playing at home.---
Reelin' with the feelin'
Movin' and a'groovin'
Bobby Darin, "Splish Splash"
---
Sam doesn't remember liking water as a kid. She'd fight her way through her Mom's arms and make a run for it when it was bath-time, down the stairs, over the balustrade, under her bed; her survival instinct kicking in possibly (probably) too early to be healthy and her mouth screaming when she'd been pulled - kicking, screaming - into the bath water and her body washed clean.
It was the one time her mother actually seemed to give a rat's about her well-being, and that's why, she thought, was probably why she found it so absolutely frightening.
As she grew older, and her mother seemed to care even less, she spent more time in the shower; as her body grew curvier, it was the bath that seemed like the Great Unknown more than anything else. She didn't know anything about metaphors or whatever, but? It was stupid, ridiculous, lame, and still, she only showered, and ignored fluffy bubble baths and suggestions from magazines about candlelight and wine.
Then, with a legal age under her belt, she moved out of home; into a baby apartment on the south of Seattle with rickety stairs and for way too much than what it was worth - but it was hers.
An apartment that, in all it's great mysteries (like the odd patches of missing paint on the very far corner behind her bedroom door), did not have a shower, but only an antique claw-footed bath.
Sam scrunched her face up, her lease in her left hand, and watched the bath like it was about to come to life.
"You could rig up one of them camp do-eys, y'know?" Her new landlord came up behind her, and clapped. "Easy, eh?"
There wasn't anything she could say that wouldn't end with her possibly being thrown out on her first day as a renter, so - with as much brilliance she could muster - Sam smiled at the old man and thanked whomever for the sound of Spencer almost being squashed under her coffee table.
"Hey! Where do you - " he pushed his hair out of his eyes, which got longer as he got older. "Where do you want your coffee table, Lady Rents-a-Lot?"
Because he may have progressed into his thirties, but the Spencer Shay, Constant Comedian stayed put; his ability to stick to her life like Superglue seemed lost on every one but her, and only in the late hours of the night when she should have been out partying or studying or -
"SAM. EARTH TO SAM. HELLOOO?"
"Jesus, Spencer. In the lounge."
The landlord smiled. "Now your boyfriend's here, maybe he can rig a shower, eh?"
"He's not my...thanks, Mr. Schneider. I'll talk to you at the first of the month." Sam peered into the lounge room as she saw her landlord out, and wondered if Spencer had heard the "boyfriend" crack. But - judging from the fact his head was firmly inside a box marked 'DVDs' - he hadn't.
Pushing a hand into one pocket of her jeans, she smiled a little and walked away, thinking that she should do something about her bedroom while Spencer seemed intent on organizing and placing her lounge room into some sort of order. Like a sculpture, she mused, then forgot about it as she pulled clothes from boxes and began to try and make something out of nothing.
Sam didn't know it, especially now with her head in other spaces. But Spencer, his hands filled with bad kung-fu DVDs and a stray rom-com, had heard and seen everything - and like all things to do with Sam, he filed it away in the appropriate places and pretended to be anything but interested in the small blonde woman he knew everything and nothing about.
---
There was a bottle of wine well and truly done between them, a tipsy Skype call to Carly (who'd been "trying to study, guys!") and a couple of pepperoni pizzas with two slices left in each box. The clock slid to midnight, and somehow Sam knew that the night wasn't over yet.
It was probably the way they were wedged onto the tiny-ass couch she had bought for ten bucks from a student co-op, her side pushed against Spencer's solidly enough for her to feel his heartbeat through her shirt. The way he'd leant a little too close when she'd spilt wine and he offered her a napkin, the way she held onto his leg like they were anything but Carly's Brother and Carly's Best Friend.
Because, with Carly at college, there was absolutely no reason for him to volunteer his removalist skills, or her to be even calling him in the first place. Because he was now talking low against her, about a cola-powered go-kart that Socko and his uncle Otto had sucked him into painting; because he was pushing her hair behind her ears when he should have his hands well and truly away from her, because she'd always wondered and always wanted to know what it was like to kiss her best friend's big brother.
And definitely because his thumb was hovering over her lips, because he was holding her face in his hand like she was made of china, because he was looking at her like it was the first time he'd ever seen her.
"Why are you afraid of the bath?" And she laughed, because it was the most ridiculous phrase she'd ever heard, and even more so because it was the truest question she'd ever been asked.
"I don't know," was all she could say, so he kissed her and he tasted like pepperoni and a mid-age red.
---
The city noise sprang up around them as Spencer moved her up onto him, their jeans creating friction as she lifted her t-shirt over her head. His hands, big enough to almost meet in the middle of her waist, moved up and down her torso like he was sculpting her. Like it was the only way he knew how to get in contact with a new material, the only way he knew how to explore exactly how far he could go before he was creating art and not just a mess.
This could - and would - get messy, she thought, her nose brushing his cheek as she watched him watch her body like a Great Master summarizing a canvas. The way his gaze fell over her should have felt abrasive, almost cold, but to her it was all she could do not to preen like a freakin' peacock.
The night covers a multitude of sins, and this would probably just be one of a million committed that day - so she pushed her mouth onto his with a fever that scared even him, as it seemed to signify that this was simply nature taking it's course.
---
He's got her legs over his shoulders, and it's all she can do not pull the stuffing out of her pillows. His tongue flicks over her clit and her hips buck, his hands clutch her thighs and the pressure is like a volcano. Mouth open, greedy, he's trying to do something to her that she's sure isn't in the Polite Ladies Handbook Mrs. Benson gave her for her eighteenth birthday, and she's trying not to make noises so loud her neighbours would have to complain.
He laughs against her, at her attempts to use a pillow to shut herself up, and the vibrations make her eyes roll into the back of her head.
She makes a note to seek revenge later, but it's lost to the sensation building inside her as he moves to slip two fingers inside her. He finds a rhythm between the two, and she starts to squirm, a sweat breaking out on his top lip because he can hardly believe how amazing she looks because he's doing these things to her.
"Spencer..." is all she gets out, her fingers clutching his hair roughly, the pain only intensifying the situation and the fact the girl he'd known since she could barely read is coming under his hands.
It only makes him want her more, because inevitability is nothing but a turn-on.
---
The bath water is so hot it could probably scald, but she's naked in front of him before he can say "water safety", her hands tentatively roaming across his shirtless torso that he thought - stupidly - should have been more toned in case this very scenario played out. She's still tiny, shorter than Carly, her breasts only a handful and he thinks of that stupid thing Socko used to say about "any more is a waste".
She's working out his belt, and he has to help her, her girlish hands under his and it's just another thing about her that is a contradiction. He'd seen her manhandle Freddie with these hands, stab giant pumpkins, punch walls, press a remote on a web show that seemed like it ended decades ago - a rough, tough character who's greatest fear was - and always would be - being made to do something she didn't want to.
Like baths, when she wanted to play with building blocks on the floor of some crappy apartment on their way to the rest of their lives in Seattle. Like kissing boys she didn't want to kiss, if only to see if the oldest stable male in her life had anything like a reaction, and the heaviness of "them" hangs in the air as her hands find his.
Her hands begin to work on his dick, small strokes that measure a lifetime, then faster, faster until he has to break contact and kiss her so hard she doesn't notice him putting her in the bath (and the fact her touch makes him almost lose control right then and there).
They found bubble bath in some crappy hamper her Mom sends along as a way of saying "I love you, but I'm glad you're gone", the bubbles rising up around them and his thumbs run over her nipples, the whole of her breasts, as she seems to instinctively pull herself towards and onto him in the water.
Their bodies make stupid screeching noises against the tub that send them both into nervous giggles, and her face pulls back into seriousness as Spencer thinks he sees a fleeting look of fear run across her features.
"You're fine," is all he can say, and he holds her waist, her ass, her thighs; as he kisses her with an intensity that scares them both into action with a flip and a twist, her legs pinning him to the bath as he holds her above him. She is very much in charge, and he laughs again, her mouth set into a line and then a smirk when she sees his reaction to her fairly unladylike plunge onto him.
Holding onto one of his shoulders, the other clutching the side of the bath, her mouth is against his cheek as she begins to ride him. Little noises, almost guttural into his hair, his hands roaming along her back and into the slide of her hips and back again. She's wet, the bubbles doing nothing to stop the pressure of the water and the rhythm she's controlling but adding more to the mental image Spencer begins to have of a Lady Poseidon that is so silly he almost breaks into laughter.
But anything ridiculous about the situation turns into an overwhelming feeling of pleasure as she begins to move faster upon him, her hands grabbing one of his in almost a frenzy and putting it on her left breast, making him squeeze the nipple between his fingers in such a way to make her moan. She's close, the water slopping at the sides of the bath and onto the floor, like waves breaking and she begins to grip the bath so hard her fingers turn red then white with the pressure.
Before she can, he comes - it seems to rip out of him and he's seeing stars when she follows, his name spilling from her lips at a such a volume he has to kiss her to silence it. Their hearts are coming out of their chests, their breathing heavy, her legs shaking a little as he pulls out and brings her close to him.
There's water from one end of the bathroom to the other, and hardly any left in the bath. It's gone stone cold, the clock striking two and Sam wonders where the hell the time went as she blows a bunch of bubbles away from the edge of the tub in an attempt to appear nonchalant when really? She's scared, and happy, and lost, and found, all the the same time.
"You okay?" His voice sounds weird, like there's something to heavy to say but still, it carries in his voice. She's shocked to feel a pair of tears slipping past her cheek bones, shocked to feel that she doesn't trust herself to say anything, so she just nods, and his arms tighten around her in his way of saying you will always be okay. You were always okay, with me.
The brevity of words and the weight of everything that's hanging between them, but it's perfect. It's perfect in that way that was always perfect for them - she was, and he saw, she did and he watched. The way how he wasn't ever really meant to be anything but an ally, in a world that was always going to look at her like a misfit.
They should get out of the bath. Their toes and fingers are crinkling, the cold is starting to reach them, and Sam thinks about her mother and the bed she hid under to avoid the daily routine of wondering who the hell she was.
With the water and Spencer surrounding her, she closes her eyes.
It had only taken her two decades and a lot of life lessons, but here, in a bath she technically owned and a man she knew so much about, she was starting to understand why.
---
Fin.
---
It all got a little fraught there, didn't it?
Fun fact: "I Want To Know What Love Is" by Foreigner came up on iTunes whilst writing ~teh raunch~. Maybe that's why this resembles a bad eighties porn.
Oblig!
Tags: