help meeeeeee

[obstinatrix]

Urgh. Okay, I'm horribly See Spot Run with my writing today. And, you know, yesterday as well. Not funny. I have porn that needs to be written. And, you know, spn_summergen. (A pause while I cry about that. Okay, done.) I am 22K into a J2 AU which I may sit on until after Big Bang season but really want to get written because it's eating my brain; I owe a Sam/Dean/Cas for help_nz - and, damn, it is hard to get those three to fuck. And then there's DCBB which I'm not even thinking about. I did at least get some work done on the PhD this morning, but I'm off work tomorrow, and I reckon that means half a day for PhD stuff and half a day for J2 AU. And then possibly fictictactoe, if I can get on a roll. But apparently I do not have a roll to get on right now. SO.

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

Masterlist is here.

um. someone please request something? I fail at life today.

Maybe I shouldn't sign up for the samdean_otp minibang thingy if I'm having this much trouble getting shit done. But I'm totally going to. GOOD LIFE CHOICES, I MAKE THEM.

Comments

[de-nugis.livejournal.com]

You are so signing up for the minibang. It is your destiny, young Skywalker.

And I want MOAR Trusting Who We Are. Earlier, later, it's all good. Tell me how Sam broke his leg. Tell me how Dean made him catch up on his share of the chores when the cast came off. Go back and tell me how they settled there. Go forward ten years in the future. Just, MOAR.

omfg, how did this exceed a comment length? *facepalm* 1/2

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

Warning: you left too many prompts, and I may or may not have actually filled any of them. ;)

**

"We didn't mean to go to sea," Sam says, dreamily, the corners of his mouth curving upward. His face, his whole body is blurred by the sedatives and the curious shrinking effect of the hospital gown, but the words are the first he's said clearly since they gave him the shot. Dean sits up immediately in his chair, bolt upright and attentive.

"Sam?" His newspaper crumples on the floor, but it isn't as if he was paying much attention to it anyway. It isn't as if anything exciting ever happens in slow-drifting Howard. Maybe that was why he drove Sam all the way back here after his accident with that spirit down in Houston, some part of him unconsciously associating Howard with safety.

Bullshit.

Maybe.

Sam's smiling at him now, though his eyes droop drowsily. He looks like the world's most gargantuan six-year-old boy, and it's - weirdly endearing, reassuring. Dean allows his muscles to relax infinitesimally. "That the meds talking, Sammy?" he prods, cautiously. Something about what Sam said - the rhythm of the words - rang an ancient bell in his mind, but it was probably nonsense. Something unimportant, half-remembered.

Sam rolls his shoulders, laughs a little, and says it again. "Didn't mean to go to sea, Dean." He stretches out a long arm, fingers grasping at the air. "Remember that book?"

Dean doesn't, but he smiles back anyway, shifts his chair a little closer to the bed. Sam's hand looks warm, bony and inviting, and he doesn't even think before he slips his own into it, feels Sam's grip close firm around his palm. "Remember you always readin'," he says. "Nerd."

This is about the point at which Sam would usually get his bitch on, but apparently the meds have taken care of that. He just laughs more, low and tired, fingers flexing reflexively around Dean's. "We didn't mean to settle down," he says, and Dean hears it, the parallel rhythm. Wonders if, maybe, thinking the one made Sam's drugged mind recall the other. "How'd we end up here, Dean?"

And God, Dean thinks, but Sam is - Sam like this, battered but smiling, leg in probably the longest cast this hospital's ever made up. Dean can't remember how they got here, but he remembers why. Remembers why they stopped: the moment when Sam grinned at him and a secret, stubborn, sentimental part of Dean said, no, we've done our bit. Not gonna lose this. They didn't choose Howard so much as Howard grew up around them without so much as a by-your-leave, but it's good. It's good.

Dean's still scrambling for a response when the nurse comes in - must've heard them talking. "You see," she tells Dean, flashing white teeth, "Didn't we say he'd be fine?" There's a smudge of lipstick on the front incisor, which turns slightly inward. She's pretty. Dean smiles up at her, not flirtatiously. It's not his habit to flirt like breathing any more.

"Yeah," he concedes, echoing her quiet, hospital tones, "Sammy always lands on his feet."

[shinyslasher.livejournal.com]

OMG, I don't even care about posting on LJ from work at this point! I want MORe from An Instrument of Justice, that fic was so goooood!

Future, the next time they meet ;) Pretty plz & thank you! :)

scoreboard (1/1)

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

If someone had asked Jared to pick Jensen's apartment out of a line-up, he's pretty sure he'd have been bang on the money, even if he'd never actually seen it before. Jensen's apartment is like Jensen in pretty much every conceivable way. Jared's not exactly a home furnishings kind of guy, not least because his two dogs tend to make any place look 'lived-in' (read: untidy) within hours. Jensen's place, contrarily, is high-ceilinged and flash and modern, all clean lines and light and larger than life. His bed looks like something off of Star Trek, all chrome and suspension, except it'd probably be cast in the role of the spaceship rather than any of its furnishings.

"Wow," Jared says, when Jensen opens the door to reveal it.

"Yeah," Jensen says, palming Jared's backside through his suit trousers, "my thoughts exactly."

Turns out, Jensen's good at more things than arguing and blowjobs. His mouth opens to Jared's in a warm, easy slide, rich and sweet with the wine from earlier, and his hands make light work of Jared's clothes, and then his own. Jared's never been with a guy who was quite so - adept, and Jensen seems aware of it, laughing at the look on his face as he throws himself backward onto the bed, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"Hey," he says, low and smirking. His cock is a flushed hot curve against his belly, precome glistening at the slit. "Gonna stand there all day, Padalecki? Some of us lead busy lives, you know?"

"Fucker," Jared shoots back, but the heat in it is nothing but sexual as he knees his way onto the stupidly massive bed, straddles Jensen's waist. "I'm gonna fuck you to within an inch of your life, you hear me?"

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "Big words," he teases; pushes his hips up against Jared's. Jared hisses a breath through his teeth at the contact, tries not to shove back against it, but it's no use. Their cocks slide together slick and hard and perfect. Jensen hmmms in his throat. "Do it."

"Asshole," Jared says, and then flushes when he reads in Jensen's eyes the inevitable mockery, the whipcord teasing. He ducks his head, shoves Jensen's thighs up and back, and Jensen's not laughing when Jared licks at him there, mouths at the furl of muscle clenched tight.

"Shit," Jensen says, rewardingly broken, "Jesus - Jared!"

Jared doesn't think he's ever felt such a spur of heat lance through him at the use of his first name; but then, to Jensen, he's always been Padalecki. He pulls back, mouth slick, and works a finger into Jensen, right up to the first knuckle. "We on first-name terms now?" His own voice is tight, but Jensen's, when he speaks is tighter.

"Maybe if you - shit - if you fuck me real good, Padalecki," he grits, and he's going for cockiness, Jared can tell. But he's rocking his hips, pushing back down against Jared's fingers, like he wants more, and Jared can play that game. He's been wanting to play it for quite some time.

He grins up the length of Jensen's body, slow. "Get right on that, then, shall I?" Another finger, and the bump of Jensen's prostate slides under the pads of them. Jensen arches up off the bed with a cry, which seems to bode well.

When he comes, Jared buried inside him to the hilt, Jensen rasps out Jared's name, long and low and stuttered with desperation. Jared chalks it up as a victory. It seems fair. That makes it Jared: 2, Jensen: 4.

Jared's pretty sure that, playing by the new rules for scoring, he can break even before morning.

[twoskeletons.livejournal.com]

OOH. "The Theory of Relativity", a week after Matt starts playing piano at the speakeasy. :D?

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

ooh, good choice. :D

*

Saturday night, and the speakeasy is positively crawling with people, the jangling sound of the piano barely audible above the din of laughter and the clatter of glasses. Misha ducks his head and shoulders his way through the crowd, seeking out some island of safety in which to pause and gather himself. It's always like this at the weekend, crazy for a place that's technically illegal, but then - everybody knows what Misha thinks about that. It isn't exactly a secret.

As it turns out, the first such island of quietude is the little gap left by the revellers around the piano like some bizarre sign of respect. Misha shakes himself and inhales, but given the cigarette smouldering between Matt's lips, it isn't terribly refreshing.

"Busy tonight, huh?" He has to shout to make himself heard, and the scrunched-up expression on Matt's face makes it clear that he's processing the words only with difficulty even still.

"Insane," Matt says. His hands are flying incessantly over the keys, feet pumping down on the pedals in a way more utilitarian than artistic, but it emphasises the sound, and that's pretty much all Matt can aim for at this stage. There's sweat licking the lines of his throat, glistening along his clavicle. Misha wants to lean down unprompted and lick it off. He shifts a little, glances away.

"They're loving you," he says, slowly, and it's true. Matt's fitting in excellently, as far as the general club crowd is concerned. He's fitting in fairly well as far as Misha is concerned, too, apart from the fact that his wet-dream frequency is suddenly through the ceiling, but that's an entirely separate issue.

Matt laughs a little, tips his head back. His eyes are very blue, smoky warm in the dim light, and part of Misha thinks Matt knows he's desperate to lose himself in them; let himself fall forward and be submerged. There's something about Matt that's somehow different, and Misha's bar has more than one reputation on the underground grapevine. Misha's fairly sure Matt came here for a reason; that Matt's pretty mouth is no stranger to cock. He's sure, but he's not sure enough to push it. That's what a trial period is for, after all.

"Could use a drink," Matt says. His throat has to work pretty hard to make the words heard, and it ripples all the way down with the effort. Misha wants to trace the motion with his fingers, but he's being good. For now. Besides, there's something that twists inside him when Matt smiles that he isn't ready to analyse; something he frankly doesn't want to go anywhere near. Easier just to dive back into the crowd in search of a whisky-and-soda, and relish the appreciative grin on Matt's face when he returns with it, hail the conquering hero.

"Sure thing," Misha says, shy little inclination of his head that happens before he can physically stop it. Matt's smile broadens, head tilting slightly to the side.

"Yeah," he says, and it's casual, not sultry, but his eyes are steady, unwavering on Misha's face. Misha's stomach dips a little, hot and giddy. Sure thing.

When he pours out the soda, he finds that his hands are shaking, but he doesn't think he can be blamed for it.

[big-heart-june.livejournal.com]

Weecest shotgunning pretty please! :D

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

Dean's mouth tastes like green tea, wet and sweet and warm when it slides against Sam's. His hand is on Sam's face, now, palm cradling the bolt of Sam's jaw, and the smoky, earthy smell of the weed clings to his fingers. His other hand, Sam knows, is lax on the dirty motel carpet, the joint smouldered down to nothing. The carpet is standard issue brown, the same ugly stuff they've seen in a hundred different towns over the years, a hundred different rooms that were, somehow, all the same. But the way Dean's teeth close gently on Sam's lower lip and tug - the way his thumb rubs insistently at the corner of Sam's mouth, warm and gentle - the way his body is angled firmly into Sam's, loose from smoking - all of these things are different. These things are new.

Sam's chest feels tight, like there's something all bundled up in it with all the smoke and bitten-back laughter and the smell of Dean's fresh sweat. He's warm here, safe, but the something thrumming inside him seems to walk some edge of danger, Dean's hip snugged up against his, Dean's tongue stroking languidly over his.

What're we doing, Dean? he'd asked, minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, and Dean had grinned around a wink; said, "Gettin' high, little brother." As if it was normal, his mouth on Sam's making a tunnel for the smoke to travel; as if it didn't make Sam's chest kick strange and wrong and good. But there's no getting high any longer, now. They're there, Sam's head spinning with it, and Dean's mouth is still on his, hollowing around Sam's tongue, sucking on it until it sparks a path of slow heat all the way to Sam's cock, heavy between his legs.

Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, Sam might have stopped this. Minutes and minutes and half a joint ago, the part of Sam that reminds him why there's always something wrong in every good, warm feeling he has would have been waving its arms around by now, jerking him away from Dean, tucking him back into his own bed to hump the mattress surreptitiously and hope Dean wouldn't notice.

Dean's good at this, fingers skimming circles on Sam's warm skin, raising goosepimples. He kisses wet and deep, mouth opening filthy wide against Sam's, and when Sam nips at the swell of his mouth, he moans in the back of his throat. Sam exhales shaky into the space between their lips; thinks hazily that he wouldn't stop for the world. Can't stand to pull back long enough to breathe properly, when he could have his mouth on Dean's, his tongue tracing the ridges of his soft palate, learning the sharp shapes of his teeth.

Half a joint, it seems, makes all the difference.

[13chapters.livejournal.com]

I want more of the...whatever the pope!Jared/barbarian!Jensen fic is called. Like, a lot more.

[-mournthewicked.livejournal.com]

Left Foot Green, the morning after. Jared can't remember why there's beer all over his goddamn rug. :D

:DDDD IT'S NOT A THREESOME GO ME [1]

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

One of the awesome things about being Jared - and, come on, there are many awesome things - is his amazing capacity to escape the dread post-party horror known as the hangover. When he wakes up on the living room floor with his head on one of the sofa cushions, there's maybe a flutter of a headache behind his eyes, but his stomach isn't roiling, his throat isn't tight. The rug underneath him smells like beer and sweat and something else that makes Jared think he must have been seriously hella drunk last night if he can't remember how he got here, but he isn't hung over. Jared takes half a second to offer up a prayer of gratitude to the relevant deity before he stretches, popping his back where it's knotted up in the middle, and lumbers to his feet.

The room is definitely empty. Jared pauses for a minute to gather himself, struggling to remember last night, but a terrifyingly large portion of it seems to have erased itself. He remembers Jeff being here with them, but he doesn't remember him leaving. There was an ill-advised game of Twister, but the mat and other accoutrements have all been cleared away. Jared peers down at the beer stains on his rug and frowns. Jensen must have done that, which suggests that Jensen was maaaaaaaybe less drunk than he was.

Jared's not exactly the greatest fan of having temporary amnesia about whatever he may have done the night before. It seems only logical to go and find out if Jensen can shed some light on the matter, and possibly help him Vax the goddamn mess out of the carpet. Undoubtedly at least some of it must have been his fault.

He and Jensen have never really put much stock by privacy - or at least, Jared never ever has, and Jensen, despite his natural persnicketiness on the subject, has somehow never minded when it's only Jared barging into his personal space uninvited, as if Jared falls into a category all his own. Obviously, they give each other a bit more leeway when there's been a hot date in the offing, but Jared's pretty damn sure there were no ladies on the premises last night. Just the two of them, plus Misha and Jeff. So he doesn't hesitate before shoving open Jensen's bedroom door without knocking.

"Jen," he starts - because if Jensen's not awake yet, he deserves to be, because Jared is, and that's the important thing - "Do you know why - oh."

He trails off. The lump under the bedcovers that is Jensen hasn't moved, apparently not roused by Jared's brusque good morning, but something tells Jared that possibly his expectations of Jensen having been less drunk last night are way off. The something being, namely, the fact that Jensen is not the only lump in the bed; and also the part where the other lump appears to have Misha's head.

"Um," says Jared. The Misha lump wriggles a little, nuzzling down against the pillow, but otherwise shows no signs of waking.

Jared takes a moment to be mildly pissed that Misha got to sleep in a bed last night when he doesn't even live here, instead of having to wake up with a crick in his back the size of a woolly mammoth. Then he thinks about his own tendency to pass out cold when overly intoxicated, and decides maybe Misha isn't to blame. Jared wouldn't want to lug himself up the stairs either.

[chicklet25.livejournal.com]

I CAN'T PICK ONE! I want timestamps for ALL the fic! I'm greedy like that!

*SIGH* Ok. One. Hoooow about Everything's Bigger in Texas. Jared's working in the yard when Misha decides he needs to work out (either a run or yoga or something) and Jared can't help but watch and then attack?

IDK IDK IDK. I SUCK AT PROMPTS, OK *headdesk*

[larenoz.livejournal.com]

Damn living in a different hemisphere and time zone! But I'd love to see something for this prompt ( yoga)!

[revena.livejournal.com]

If you're in a Trek mood... Open Communications?? Sometime after the guys get back on board. *looks endearing*

[glovered.livejournal.com]

I don't want to request anything because so many other people have, but YOU CAN DO EET. All of it. I see it in your future like a giant creep who is looking into someone else's future.

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

Hee. :D Are you doing it? Please do it!

[writingpathways.livejournal.com]

Since no one has. Voice of a Turtledove...

Dean/Cas first domestic fight(seriously like something as dumb as forgetting to buy milk or not changing the toilet paper) and make up sex.

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

OH GOD OH GOD I JUST CAN'T CONTAIN MY EXCITEMENT EEEEE

PLEASE MAY I HAVE MORE OF THE 'HOLMES IS A SHAKESPEAREAN ACTOR AND WATSON IS A THEATRE CRITIC' AND THEN THEY MAKE OUT>????

that actually may be by favorite fic. in the world.

*_______*

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

also because somehow internet is terrible, i meant to add last night: please do take your time with the fictactoe! i took forever, and the least i can do is grant you the same leeway. ♥

[deirdre-c.livejournal.com]

How about a timestamp for "We've Got Spirit"?

Jared's kind of afraid that, actually, things've gotten beyond that point for him, but now's probably not the best time to say anything.

Jared chooses the best (or worst?) time... and then they had sex.

[bindaroonie.livejournal.com]

There's already a VOTTD prompt but I love that fic- LOVE it!

How about giving us Dean's POV of the scene from early on in Part One, where Cas is giving the sermon but gets distracted by Dean's mouth? I'd love to know what was going through Dean's head and what, apart from bravado, made him so darn cocky.

[greatlywritten.livejournal.com]

I already, uh, begged you, on twitter but, I really need it. And two other people have asked for Voice of a Turtledove. Fail, but it's that fucking amazing.

I don't even know what i want, that twitlonger broke my brain. I think it broke my brain because it seemed like such a different tone to Voice of a Turtledove, in an amazingly hot way. It was like...dirty and a tame/their version of hardcore while Voice of a Turtledove is like...sweet/love/passionate. And they are both amazing and perfect, but: unnnnnnnnnnnf to your dirty kids.

Okay, how about, just more dirty sex from those kids?

When do i want it? Haha, really? you're doing something FOR ME, and I'm going to restrict your time? Rude. No, whenever. Seriously, if you do it 4 weeks from now? That's cool. Whenever you need a break from whatever fantastic shit you're cooking up, you can work on this :)

[openbones.livejournal.com]

Oh, can I have 'The Theory Of Relativity' even though it's been done. I love it so much ♥

Uhm, sometime in the future, 5/10 years, I don't know.

Also, no need to rush.

[morganoconner.livejournal.com]

I'm gonna be a greedy pain in the ass and beg shamelessly for more of This Song Will Guide You Home.

2 years in the future.

^_^

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

scouring this post rn because I am dying of boredom, can I just say: I do not think I could have let that fic get any longer than it already was, because it was on the verge of turning into a threesome.

Everything I touch these days turns to threesomes.

Um. Thoughts?

[cherie-morte.livejournal.com]

Since someone took my original idea (can't wait to read that later when I have some fic time)...

Would it be too blatantly self-indulgent if I asked for a "Guy Walks Into a Bar" TS? Tell me how Sam made the "I'm in love with my brother and haven't had sex with a guy because i only want him" confession to Jess. IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT, I MEAN.