~ round up time is here again ~
Dec. 9th, 2010 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixMore things too small to merit their own posts!
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verizonhorizon requested
It isn't anywhere they've ever stopped at before, this planet; empty as Iowa, and vaster. The scrubby vegetation and broomswept skies, he might have anticipated, but the wildlife - now approaching the landing party in curious herds - is entirely unexpected.
"Horses," Jim says, and his voice is a wisp of bemusement. "Are those - seriously - horses?"
"So it would appear, Captain," Spock says flatly. Jim narrows his eyes, and turns back to the creatures.
They're beautiful animals, their flanks smooth and glossy, their manes long and untamed, shivering in skeins as they move. They are, as far as Jim can tell, horses; but there's something else about them, something more. He can't put his finger on it, precisely, but their pale manes and backs seem almost iridescent, in a way that would not be seen in even the most well-bred Terran horse.
"Gorgeous," he murmurs, approvingly. "Aren't they, Spock?"
"They are very fine animals, Captain," Spock says; but he sounds - if Jim isn't mistaken, which he very rarely is, on his specialist subject of Spock - almost apprehensive. Jim laughs softly.
"Mr Spock. Don't tell me you're scared of the things?"
Spock presses his lips together pointedly. "That would be most illogical, Captain."
"Huh." The lead horse is almost upon them, now; Jim puts out his hand without thinking to grip its mane. Spock's minute twitch - even while the horse presses affably into Jim's hand, absolutely unconcerned - speaks volumes.
"I think I'm gonna have a ride, Mr Spock," Jim says, recklessly. It's a risk, probably inadvisable, and he knows it; but it's worth it for the widening of Spock's eyes as he swings a leg over the horse's back (and worth it, too, for the familiar movement of the horse beneath him as it starts to walk, the well-remembered tug in his thigh muscles).
"Captain," Spock cautions, and there's undeniably some emotion troubling the calm in his voice. Jim walks the horse forward a few paces, and grins at him.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" He pats the horse's flank, gentling.
"Jim," Spock says, "It is most inadvisable to - to - "
"Take a risk?" Jim turns the horse; walks it, carefully, back towards Spock until its wide dark eyes must almost be level with his First Officer's. "Come on, Spock. Give him a stroke."
"You will be lucky if this tendency of yours to rush into risk does not end, one day, in your having a stroke, yourself," Spock grumbles. But it's a joke - from Spock - and Jim will take that as consolation, any day. He laughs.
"Come on, Spock." He reaches out for Spock's wrist. His hand is half-raised, hovering in the air, and the blood rushing beneath the skin is violently hot when Jim's fingers close around it. Spock lets out a soft little breath.
"Here," Jim says, more softly, and tugs again. Spock's resists, at first, but the tension drops all in a second as Jim's fingers curl more tightly, Spock's wrist giving in to Jim's coaxing until his fingers land, at last, in the soft thickness of the horse's mane.
"See?" Jim says, quietly, as if Spock, himself, were a horse to be gentled. His fingers are still on Spock's wrist, soothing. Spock's eyes are still wide, but it is no longer an expression of protest as much as it is one of awe, and something leaps in Jim's chest at the sight of it.
"Indeed," Spock says, in a voice that has softened with his resistance, with his demeanour. He lets his fingers drift, long, pale fingers in the long, pale mane, and Jim swallows, holds his wrist a little tighter.
"Beautiful, huh?"
"Yes," Spock says; and the corner of his mouth quirks as he looks up, holding Jim's eyes. "Yes, Captain."
aythia , over at the meme on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
jensen_misha , requested
caveat: I was so fucking drunk when I wrote this, you don't even know.
Jensen's back.
No, really, just - Jensen's back. The curve of his spine, sinful, sinuous; the smoothness of his skin under Misha's mouth; the muscles. The dips of bone either side of the vertebra right down at the base, just before the swell of his magnificent ass curves upward - Jesus Christ. The little keeninng sounds Jensen makes, even, when Misha's tongue curls around the jut of his tailbone - Misha can hardly be blamed for slipping lower, lower; skimming all that skin with his lips.
Jensen shivers a little, bucking against the mattress. "Mish," he gets out, "what - " but it isn't a protest, not quite; not with the way his hips are working in a slow roll down against the sheets; not with the way the sweat is popping in the shallow of the small of his back. Misha makes an indistinct sound into the darkness at the base of him, the place where the softness starts as Misha palms him open. Misha feels the vibration echoed against his lips; knows Jensen must feel it, too, like a shudder through his bones.
"Jen," he breathes, the words a slow blown-back groan against the base of Jensen's spine. "Jesus Christ, Jensen - would you just - "
and then he's there, thumbs rubbing reverently over the dusky place where Jensen's bared and vulnerable and close, and Jensen shivers; rocks back against Misha's mouth.
Misha doesn't need any more encouragement than that.
Jensen tenses at the first, tentative swipe, the base of his back going stiff under Misha's hands. Misha's used to this, though; used to having to walk Jensen baby-steps through every development, and this, this he never expected to be an exception.
"Sssh," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers and pressing a kiss, open-mouthed, to Jensen's furled centre. "Sssh, Jen - give me - let me - " and then his tongue is all eloquence where words wouldn't come, swiping once, and again, and Jensen is jerking in response, all oh - oh - oh - and Misha can read him, now; knows this is the good kind of surprised.
Misha's good at this, and he knows it; but he's never been so glad of that fact as he is now, with Jensen squirming back against his mouth, beautiful back tensing and clenching with every flick of Misha's tongue. There are these - pauses - in between each careful touch, as if Jensen is drawing breath, wanting to protest, wanting to question - but then, when the touches fall, there is nothing but stuttered breathing and the shift of Jensen's hips, wanting; confused, perhaps, but convinced.
Misha is not in the least confused. Jensen tastes good like this, back arched, entirely open at Misha's hands, and the sweat-dark taste of him is heady on Misha's tongue. Back and forth swipes are all well and good, but Misha wants more than that; wants to feel Jensen open under the tip of his tongue, feel the muscle come unfurled at his urging like some ancient seal breaking. Hell, it's not as if Jensen isn't the most cryptic mystery he's ever set his mind to.
The first firm press of Misha's tongue is met with a cry, outright and unmistakable, lust shot through the shock of it. Misha's blood throbs with the sound of it, hips grinding down into the mattress even as he presses a little deeper, mouth slipping open to suck at Jensen wetly as his tongue broaches the core of him, just the tip of it slipping into heat.
"Misha," Jensen grits out, "Holy fuck - "
- and Misha always responds to blasphemy.
Jensen's tight, here, as befits anyone as straight-laced as he is, but Misha has ways, and those ways are foolproof. The torque of his tongue, it seems, is certainly one of them, to judge by the way Jensen writhes at the onslaught, his slick on the sheets so copious that Misha hears it slipping against Jensen's skin as he thrusts.
"Fuck," Jensen gets out; rears backwards, and Misha spreads him, spears him, rocks into his heat under the impetus of his thrust. He's hot inside, almost ludicrously so, and Misha's own blood is roaring in his ears, yes yes Jensen yes. He hums against Jensen's heat; curls his tongue and thrusts, wet and wanting.
"Fuck!" Jensen pants; rocks down, slick slick slick in his own wetness, heated against cotton. Misha wants to lick it off him; wants to get it all over his hands, his mouth, his face. The trouble with Jensen is that Misha wants all of him at once, and there just isn't enough Misha to go round.
For now, though: Misha is here. Here, with his tongue thrusting sharp and slick into the dark lusts of Jensen's body, curling round the rim of him; flirting with the deeper places, the everything safeguarded inside him. Misha thinks, already, that he's halfway to exploding everything, taking up residence in the places Jensen keeps secret, and this only serves to cement that belief, as Jensen rocks back against him; pants "Misha - Misha - fuck - " as he comes apart.
Misha can't do much but hum, but Jensen doesn't seem to mind. He flies apart like a furnace, like a supernova, all musk and wanting and contortion around Misha's tongue; and Misha is his first. Misha did this to him.
"Fuck," Jensen shivers as he shoots, and Misha feels it in the flutter of Jensen's muscles over his tongue; the way his body arcs under Misha's palms. "Misha - Jesus Christ - " and he feels messianic, with this man coming apart underneath him like the end of the world, so beautiful he can only be apocalyptic.
"Jensen," Misha breathes, as Jensen stills; as his hips shiver into stillness. "Jensen."
And Jensen is quiet; Jensen is.
Misha breathes, and for now, that is all he can do.
Oh, and then there was another poem of rather unsubtle derivation.
You killed a man here once, where the road bends,
and buried him bare in the dirt. I saw you.
You shrugged your shoulders, told me everything ends,
like he was a thing. It hurt. I said, you know,
he was a person, too; pulled myself in tightly,
looked away, and you were sorry, then. I felt it settle
at the small of my back like warm cloth, apologetic,
in discord with your rhythm as you dug, frenetic,
his grave. You were sorry for me, that was all; not
the dead man you threw under the sod to rot
and I knew that - but, still. You were my pole star, even then;
I trusted you not to kill innocent men
without good reason, even if the reason were a thing
that had gotten inside of them, somehow; choked them up like wisteria.
You smelled of gunpowder, even under the soap; under the blood.
Some nights we braved the chill together, sprawled out on the hood
of the car, studying constellations. I loved the new moon, then,
its blank black canvas in which stars stood clear.
On nights like those I knew no pain, no fear
that you could not eradicate, somehow. You had your ways.
God, a penny for my thoughts of those old days,
before the world began to turn inverted.
You killed a man here, once. I remember.
It was, I think, early Fall, late September.
I was seventeen, and you were reckless and everything.
You left no traces, too well-trained for that already,
except in me - in my mind. If you were to open me up, unfold me,
I wonder: what would you find?
Too much of yourself, I suspect. Too many of those traces
you thought, you wish, were hidden: too many places
where the parallel lines of us touched, intersections
that should have been impossible. We've never been bound by rules,
you know that. You haven't the right to be surprised, but I think you would be.
I think you forget how much of yourself you left in me,
how much of you I buried, unquestioning. I was your accomplice, once.
I killed a man tonight, where the road bends. It hurt.
You quirked your mouth, said everything ends, and in the dirt
you stowed him for me, made his bed,
as I have made so many for you in my head, for all the many misdeeds
I have seen and forgiven. You need that, I think. You would not
lay yourself to sleep unshriven, and I am your only god.
You buried my body for me under the sod, and I
forgave you.
Once, I remember, I thought that I could save you,
but I was very young, then. We are this, now: we are we,
the hollow men, but not unshriven. You bury my bodies, and then
we're both of us forgiven.
We killed a man nearby, where two roads cross.
You buried the body. We did not mourn the loss.
originally here.
As always, everything mostly reposted here for archiving purposes only.
verizonhorizon requested It isn't anywhere they've ever stopped at before, this planet; empty as Iowa, and vaster. The scrubby vegetation and broomswept skies, he might have anticipated, but the wildlife - now approaching the landing party in curious herds - is entirely unexpected.
"Horses," Jim says, and his voice is a wisp of bemusement. "Are those - seriously - horses?"
"So it would appear, Captain," Spock says flatly. Jim narrows his eyes, and turns back to the creatures.
They're beautiful animals, their flanks smooth and glossy, their manes long and untamed, shivering in skeins as they move. They are, as far as Jim can tell, horses; but there's something else about them, something more. He can't put his finger on it, precisely, but their pale manes and backs seem almost iridescent, in a way that would not be seen in even the most well-bred Terran horse.
"Gorgeous," he murmurs, approvingly. "Aren't they, Spock?"
"They are very fine animals, Captain," Spock says; but he sounds - if Jim isn't mistaken, which he very rarely is, on his specialist subject of Spock - almost apprehensive. Jim laughs softly.
"Mr Spock. Don't tell me you're scared of the things?"
Spock presses his lips together pointedly. "That would be most illogical, Captain."
"Huh." The lead horse is almost upon them, now; Jim puts out his hand without thinking to grip its mane. Spock's minute twitch - even while the horse presses affably into Jim's hand, absolutely unconcerned - speaks volumes.
"I think I'm gonna have a ride, Mr Spock," Jim says, recklessly. It's a risk, probably inadvisable, and he knows it; but it's worth it for the widening of Spock's eyes as he swings a leg over the horse's back (and worth it, too, for the familiar movement of the horse beneath him as it starts to walk, the well-remembered tug in his thigh muscles).
"Captain," Spock cautions, and there's undeniably some emotion troubling the calm in his voice. Jim walks the horse forward a few paces, and grins at him.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" He pats the horse's flank, gentling.
"Jim," Spock says, "It is most inadvisable to - to - "
"Take a risk?" Jim turns the horse; walks it, carefully, back towards Spock until its wide dark eyes must almost be level with his First Officer's. "Come on, Spock. Give him a stroke."
"You will be lucky if this tendency of yours to rush into risk does not end, one day, in your having a stroke, yourself," Spock grumbles. But it's a joke - from Spock - and Jim will take that as consolation, any day. He laughs.
"Come on, Spock." He reaches out for Spock's wrist. His hand is half-raised, hovering in the air, and the blood rushing beneath the skin is violently hot when Jim's fingers close around it. Spock lets out a soft little breath.
"Here," Jim says, more softly, and tugs again. Spock's resists, at first, but the tension drops all in a second as Jim's fingers curl more tightly, Spock's wrist giving in to Jim's coaxing until his fingers land, at last, in the soft thickness of the horse's mane.
"See?" Jim says, quietly, as if Spock, himself, were a horse to be gentled. His fingers are still on Spock's wrist, soothing. Spock's eyes are still wide, but it is no longer an expression of protest as much as it is one of awe, and something leaps in Jim's chest at the sight of it.
"Indeed," Spock says, in a voice that has softened with his resistance, with his demeanour. He lets his fingers drift, long, pale fingers in the long, pale mane, and Jim swallows, holds his wrist a little tighter.
"Beautiful, huh?"
"Yes," Spock says; and the corner of his mouth quirks as he looks up, holding Jim's eyes. "Yes, Captain."
aythia , over at the meme on jensen_misha , requested caveat: I was so fucking drunk when I wrote this, you don't even know.
Jensen's back.
No, really, just - Jensen's back. The curve of his spine, sinful, sinuous; the smoothness of his skin under Misha's mouth; the muscles. The dips of bone either side of the vertebra right down at the base, just before the swell of his magnificent ass curves upward - Jesus Christ. The little keeninng sounds Jensen makes, even, when Misha's tongue curls around the jut of his tailbone - Misha can hardly be blamed for slipping lower, lower; skimming all that skin with his lips.
Jensen shivers a little, bucking against the mattress. "Mish," he gets out, "what - " but it isn't a protest, not quite; not with the way his hips are working in a slow roll down against the sheets; not with the way the sweat is popping in the shallow of the small of his back. Misha makes an indistinct sound into the darkness at the base of him, the place where the softness starts as Misha palms him open. Misha feels the vibration echoed against his lips; knows Jensen must feel it, too, like a shudder through his bones.
"Jen," he breathes, the words a slow blown-back groan against the base of Jensen's spine. "Jesus Christ, Jensen - would you just - "
and then he's there, thumbs rubbing reverently over the dusky place where Jensen's bared and vulnerable and close, and Jensen shivers; rocks back against Misha's mouth.
Misha doesn't need any more encouragement than that.
Jensen tenses at the first, tentative swipe, the base of his back going stiff under Misha's hands. Misha's used to this, though; used to having to walk Jensen baby-steps through every development, and this, this he never expected to be an exception.
"Sssh," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers and pressing a kiss, open-mouthed, to Jensen's furled centre. "Sssh, Jen - give me - let me - " and then his tongue is all eloquence where words wouldn't come, swiping once, and again, and Jensen is jerking in response, all oh - oh - oh - and Misha can read him, now; knows this is the good kind of surprised.
Misha's good at this, and he knows it; but he's never been so glad of that fact as he is now, with Jensen squirming back against his mouth, beautiful back tensing and clenching with every flick of Misha's tongue. There are these - pauses - in between each careful touch, as if Jensen is drawing breath, wanting to protest, wanting to question - but then, when the touches fall, there is nothing but stuttered breathing and the shift of Jensen's hips, wanting; confused, perhaps, but convinced.
Misha is not in the least confused. Jensen tastes good like this, back arched, entirely open at Misha's hands, and the sweat-dark taste of him is heady on Misha's tongue. Back and forth swipes are all well and good, but Misha wants more than that; wants to feel Jensen open under the tip of his tongue, feel the muscle come unfurled at his urging like some ancient seal breaking. Hell, it's not as if Jensen isn't the most cryptic mystery he's ever set his mind to.
The first firm press of Misha's tongue is met with a cry, outright and unmistakable, lust shot through the shock of it. Misha's blood throbs with the sound of it, hips grinding down into the mattress even as he presses a little deeper, mouth slipping open to suck at Jensen wetly as his tongue broaches the core of him, just the tip of it slipping into heat.
"Misha," Jensen grits out, "Holy fuck - "
- and Misha always responds to blasphemy.
Jensen's tight, here, as befits anyone as straight-laced as he is, but Misha has ways, and those ways are foolproof. The torque of his tongue, it seems, is certainly one of them, to judge by the way Jensen writhes at the onslaught, his slick on the sheets so copious that Misha hears it slipping against Jensen's skin as he thrusts.
"Fuck," Jensen gets out; rears backwards, and Misha spreads him, spears him, rocks into his heat under the impetus of his thrust. He's hot inside, almost ludicrously so, and Misha's own blood is roaring in his ears, yes yes Jensen yes. He hums against Jensen's heat; curls his tongue and thrusts, wet and wanting.
"Fuck!" Jensen pants; rocks down, slick slick slick in his own wetness, heated against cotton. Misha wants to lick it off him; wants to get it all over his hands, his mouth, his face. The trouble with Jensen is that Misha wants all of him at once, and there just isn't enough Misha to go round.
For now, though: Misha is here. Here, with his tongue thrusting sharp and slick into the dark lusts of Jensen's body, curling round the rim of him; flirting with the deeper places, the everything safeguarded inside him. Misha thinks, already, that he's halfway to exploding everything, taking up residence in the places Jensen keeps secret, and this only serves to cement that belief, as Jensen rocks back against him; pants "Misha - Misha - fuck - " as he comes apart.
Misha can't do much but hum, but Jensen doesn't seem to mind. He flies apart like a furnace, like a supernova, all musk and wanting and contortion around Misha's tongue; and Misha is his first. Misha did this to him.
"Fuck," Jensen shivers as he shoots, and Misha feels it in the flutter of Jensen's muscles over his tongue; the way his body arcs under Misha's palms. "Misha - Jesus Christ - " and he feels messianic, with this man coming apart underneath him like the end of the world, so beautiful he can only be apocalyptic.
"Jensen," Misha breathes, as Jensen stills; as his hips shiver into stillness. "Jensen."
And Jensen is quiet; Jensen is.
Misha breathes, and for now, that is all he can do.
Oh, and then there was another poem of rather unsubtle derivation.
You killed a man here once, where the road bends,
and buried him bare in the dirt. I saw you.
You shrugged your shoulders, told me everything ends,
like he was a thing. It hurt. I said, you know,
he was a person, too; pulled myself in tightly,
looked away, and you were sorry, then. I felt it settle
at the small of my back like warm cloth, apologetic,
in discord with your rhythm as you dug, frenetic,
his grave. You were sorry for me, that was all; not
the dead man you threw under the sod to rot
and I knew that - but, still. You were my pole star, even then;
I trusted you not to kill innocent men
without good reason, even if the reason were a thing
that had gotten inside of them, somehow; choked them up like wisteria.
You smelled of gunpowder, even under the soap; under the blood.
Some nights we braved the chill together, sprawled out on the hood
of the car, studying constellations. I loved the new moon, then,
its blank black canvas in which stars stood clear.
On nights like those I knew no pain, no fear
that you could not eradicate, somehow. You had your ways.
God, a penny for my thoughts of those old days,
before the world began to turn inverted.
You killed a man here, once. I remember.
It was, I think, early Fall, late September.
I was seventeen, and you were reckless and everything.
You left no traces, too well-trained for that already,
except in me - in my mind. If you were to open me up, unfold me,
I wonder: what would you find?
Too much of yourself, I suspect. Too many of those traces
you thought, you wish, were hidden: too many places
where the parallel lines of us touched, intersections
that should have been impossible. We've never been bound by rules,
you know that. You haven't the right to be surprised, but I think you would be.
I think you forget how much of yourself you left in me,
how much of you I buried, unquestioning. I was your accomplice, once.
I killed a man tonight, where the road bends. It hurt.
You quirked your mouth, said everything ends, and in the dirt
you stowed him for me, made his bed,
as I have made so many for you in my head, for all the many misdeeds
I have seen and forgiven. You need that, I think. You would not
lay yourself to sleep unshriven, and I am your only god.
You buried my body for me under the sod, and I
forgave you.
Once, I remember, I thought that I could save you,
but I was very young, then. We are this, now: we are we,
the hollow men, but not unshriven. You bury my bodies, and then
we're both of us forgiven.
We killed a man nearby, where two roads cross.
You buried the body. We did not mourn the loss.
originally here.
As always, everything mostly reposted here for archiving purposes only.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-21 07:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-21 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-16 05:19 am (UTC)Great job! =)
*goes off to [not] stalk the rest of your journal...and friend you...DEFINITELY friend you*
Wow.
Date: 2011-05-21 05:52 pm (UTC)Love the poem. Love, love, love the poem. There should be more SPN-related poetry. <3
Re: Wow.
Date: 2011-05-21 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 04:35 pm (UTC)You smelled of gunpowder, even under the soap; under the blood.
Some nights we braved the chill together, sprawled out on the hood
of the car, studying constellations. I loved the new moon, then,
its blank black canvas in which stars stood clear.
On nights like those I knew no pain, no fear
that you could not eradicate, somehow. You had your ways.
Mmmm, yes <3
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 08:56 pm (UTC)Thank you so much, bb. You have no idea how blushy I get about my poetry in particular - it's not something particularly prized by fandom, as you know, but it really is my favourite thing to write, although I think much harder than prose, so I'm really pleased you liked this.
As for describing bodies, it isn't as if there's any shortage of beautiful material to work with, so. ;)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 06:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-07 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-07 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-20 12:08 pm (UTC)Just- everything. Poetry is really underrated in all the fandoms, I think, and I know it is twenty times harder to write a hundredth as much poetry as prose, but this was perfect. Just perfectperfectperfect.
For some reason I really like the line "choked them up like wisteria", and I love the informal rhyme pattern which you have incorporated really subtly and skillfully, and I like the endlessly circular pattern of time and perception which to me is so much what the show is about.
Anyway, thank you so much for sharing!
MS xx
no subject
Date: 2013-05-28 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-28 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-21 11:43 pm (UTC)