obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2011-09-05 10:23 am
obstinatrix) wrote2011-09-05 10:23 am
Entry tags:
epic collected ficlets!post :)
Archiving post! Responses to various Tumblr memes from the past month or so, reposting them all here because I'm neurotic like that. The porny ones are arranged by pairing.
Lots of J2 and Mishalecki, a Jensen/Misha, some Sam/Dean, Dean/Cas, Sam/Dean/Cas, a Holmes/Watson, and, uh, a Dean Winchester/Clark Kent. o.O Various ratings, but some are NC-17.
The Three-Sentence AU meme - pairing and an AU setting = a three-sentence fic.
Castiel/Dean/Sam - [character of your choice]'s consciousness has been put into a robot and cannot physically feel anything, so he watches what the other two do instead. :D
Castiel always knew this was possible, to contain the consciousness of an angel within an inanimate vessel, but he had never given much thought to the logistics of it before it became his only option. Certainly, this vessel is easily enough animated by Castiel’s presence inside of it, but Castiel has grown accustomed to skin, to fingers that feel and breath that hitches and the way Dean’s hand bleeds heat down to his bones. Now, when Sam reaches along the seat to cup the nape of Dean’s neck, Castiel feels a clench where his heart would have been, if the vessel had had one, remembering how it felt to touch Dean’s skin, wishing he could.
Sam/Dean. Sam is a straight A student with a bright future. Dean is his sister's boyfriend, who he happens to have a crush on.
They’re often mistaken for twins, Sam and Jo, what with Sam shooting up like a beanpole the second he hit puberty, all those inches cancelling out the two-year gap between them. Sometimes, when Jo has her boyfriend over, Sam wonders whether Dean knows how young he really is, or whether his occasional green-eyed glances mean he’s never actually asked; whether they mean he thinks Sam’s just as grown-up (just as hot) as his sister.
It’s a stupid fantasy - he knows that, really, ‘cause Dean’s all jock letter-jacket and cock rock, would never look twice at another guy - but hey, Sam’ll keep it, for as long as it gets him through all his lonely nights.
Holmes/Watson; Holmes is a Shakespearean actor; he tastes like foundation make-up after a show.
The curve of Sherlock Holmes’s cheekbone is like fine china, sharp-edged, pale beneath its generous coating of theatrical make-up. Though horrendously untidy with regard to his dressing-room, Holmes is fastidious about his personal appearance, ordinarily quick to scrub off the paint of his profession with a sponge and some elbow-grease, but now he hesitates, lips quirking up at one corner as he says, “Watson.”
His fingers on my jaw are delicate, long and fine, and his mouth carries the distinct taste of powder when it touches mine: powder, and, beneath that, his genius.
Dean/Cas. Dean is a criminal in jail, Cas is his attorney.
Castiel’s not foolish enough to assume that he always knows - after all, nobody can do that without some element of clairvoyance - but after five years in this job, he can often get a pretty good idea about a client within a couple of minutes of meeting. This guy, with his squared-off shoulders and defensive smirk, is cocky, unafraid, but there’s something about him that’s more Robin Hood than Joker.
It doesn’t do to go into these things with any kind of prejudice, but when Castiel asks, “Well, Mr Winchester, are you guilty?” he’s already decided that the answer is no.
A different meme! Pairing, one word/phrase, five sentences. Keeping it simple. ;)
J2 x4
J2, breathplay.
Jensen’s throat is good for this, fits perfectly into the cup of Jared’s hand. His fingers slot up against the underside of Jensen’s jaw, steady firm pressure of them curved around Jensen’s windpipe. Jensen’s eyes flutter closed, hips hitching, and Jared feels the swell of his swallow as he tightens his grip, carefully, carefully. He’s always careful with Jensen, knows his own strength, knows how to bruise just enough not to be too much, and Jensen trusts him, and, God, that trust is the best part of all. Better even than the red marks on Jensen’s neck the day after is the knowledge that Jensen gives himself up to this so willingly, his life in Jared’s hands, knowing he could be crushed so easily but knowing, too, that he won’t be.
J2, Jensen's tummy
So Jensen’s toned up, and that’s all well and good, makes Dean bulkier, more the big brother, better able to protect his diminished Sam. Jared likes the way his stomach muscles tense when he draws his thumbs across them; but there’s something about it, too, that’s oddly generic, not quite Jensen, lacking the appeal of the edge of softness Jared’s grown accustomed to finding. Not that Jensen was fat, never that, but something about the softness struck Jared just right in his core, made him want to slide his palms around Jensen’s waist and feel the human body there, the reality of it, not some television figurine sculpted for the stage. Jared will take Jensen any way he can get him, of course, but that’s the best thing about him: that he’s Jensen, and he can’t help resenting any outside factor that might want to change that.
J2, wrists
There’s a hollow between the bones in Jared’s wrist, a shallow shadowed place that makes Jensen’s jaw ache, makes saliva pool under his tongue. Jared’s hands are broad, palms wide where they branch out from the narrow nip of his wrists, and Jensen wants to mouth at the heels of them, dig in his teeth, scrape down over the sensitive insides of his arms. Fuck, the veins there, throbbing under the skin, a weave of red and blue pulsing under Jensen’s tongue, hot and vital. Jensen wants to suck until the blood surges up under his mouth, wants to mark Jared up, make him his entirely. He curls his tongue around the bone at the jut of Jared’s thumb, draws it up slow to the right-angle of the first knuckle and sucks there; and for tonight, he’s only getting started.
J2, detention
Detention hall, they call it. Really, it’s ‘abandon hope, all ye who enter here’ hall, and Jared knows better than to expect any kind of supervision, any kind of direction. The supervising teacher’s been gone now for upwards of fifteen minutes, and Jensen’s hand is deft and clever on Jared’s cock, snaking into his underwear, precome-slick and tugging. Jared bites his lip, fixes his eyes on his notebook, but Jensen is grinning at him, unashamedly pleased with himself, and Jared can’t take it, shoulders hitching helplessly as his hips buck up. Jensen flicks his thumb over the head of Jared’s cock, looks at him, all ‘yeah?’ and Jared’s head tips back of its own accord, cry bitten-back in his throat as he comes, all over Jensen’s fist in the back of the study-hall.
Jared/Misha x2
Mishalecki, dining table
Misha never really thought too hard about the possible uses of his world-endingly massive dining table when he bought it, but now he’s certainly damn pleased that he did. Jared’s long, massively so, but the table accommodates him almost effortlessly, the long tan stretch of his body spread out, straining, on its polished surface. Misha leans in, shoulders in close between Jared’s thighs and urges them open, and Jared hitches up, arching his back so his hair feathers backward over the table’s edge. Misha lets his mouth go wide against the bare inside of Jared’s thigh, and Jared moans, clutches at the base of Misha’s skull, making Misha’s stomach tense up with want.
He doesn’t know what this table was built for, but by God does he know what he’s about to do with it.
Mishalecki, hair pulling.
Misha’s hands, by comparison, are small, but dammit, they’re strong, and that fact more than makes up for any deficiencies. Jared closes his eyes instinctively as Misha closes his fist in Jared’s hair, tugging. All along his scalp, the follicles burn, standing up, straining into Misha’s touch, and Jared feels the heat licking all the way down his spine. He bites his lip, lifts his head as if to diminish the pressure, and Misha laughs a little, leans down to lick at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s my boy,” he says, and he means it, the way Misha always means everything in this; the way Misha has control.
Sam/Dean/Cas x2
Sam/Dean/Cas, territory.
So they split up. It’s no big deal, Sam scraping his teeth against the soft inside of Castiel’s knee, up over the smooth length of thigh, while Dean works Cas’s mouth with his own and slides a palm down the muscles of his stomach. Getting closer than that would be weird, and there’s always a frisson of something when Sam’s fingers tangle inadvertently with Dean’s on Cas’s hip, when they catch each other’s eyes in the middle of things. Castiel, beneath them both, seems oblivious, but Sam suspects him of dissembling. Castiel, beneath them, is theirs, and whatever else happens, that’s the important thing.
Sam/Dean/Cas, gaping
“Jesus.” Sam is gaping, jaw slack, eyes wide, and Dean can’t help the weird frisson of heat that leaps in his stomach under the welling-up of embarrassment; can’t help the way his teeth clench, anticipatory.
“Sam,” he says. Cas’s hand has stilled, but it’s still on his dick, warmth of his palm bleeding into Dean’s own heat, and it isn’t exactly making it easy to concentrate. Sam is swelling up visibly in his jeans, cock pushing up against the seam, and Dean probably shouldn’t be noticing how big his brother is, but things are difficult in this state of arousal. Things are difficult with Cas spreadeagled beneath him, naked and trembling with need, and somehow Sam’s presence hasn’t thrown cold water over Dean the way he’d thought it might; somehow, it’s only brought the precipice closer.
Sam/Dean x3
Pre-series Wincest - skirts
He doesn’t know where Sam got it, the soft scrap of blue that’s wound up somehow among their Goodwill jeans and washed-thin shirts, but he can’t say he cares. Not, at least, when Sam wakes him up like this, lip caught between his teeth, thighs bare and coltish either side of Dean’s hips, and the skirt is no fucking barrier at all. None, and Dean’s hand snakes up under the hem of it almost instantly, as if to prove it, crooking up between Sam’s skinny legs. Sam’s just a kid, but he knows what he wants, Jesus, and Dean can’t seem to deny him, not when the thought gets him hot in the core of him, some place so deep it’s like the flaming fucking centre of the earth, unreachable and forever. This is his brother, in his flippy little cheerleader skirt like he likes it, like some fucking slut, and Dean’s screwed up somewhere, Dean is wrong, but it’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever done; it makes him feel like paper ready to burst into flame.
lol this is either an homage to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
valiant or it's plagiarism but w/e ♥
Sam/Dean, gym shorts. (This one got out of hand.)
Dean doesn't do shorts. That's what he claims, anyway, and Sam can't really remember ever having seen any evidence to the contrary - not, at least, since Dean was all skinned knees and buckle-shoes, and Sam was still little more than babyfat and curls. Now, looking at him in the gym hall, Sam can guess why, looking at the way Dean's thighs curve a little outward to the knee, the reason behind his wide-legged John Wayne swagger exposed. Dean doesn't like his legs, doesn't like the way they'd draw people's eyes if he let them, but Sam - Sam disagrees. Dean blows his whistle irritably, and Sam smirks a little, leaning on his janitor's broom, and lets himself look.
It's the splay that does it, really. The way Dean's thighs don't quite touch, like his legs just aren't ever meant to, and doesn't that just make Sam shiver a little, heat skipping down his spine. Dean's a man's man, but that doesn't mean he's not responsive to Sam hefting him up, hooking those legs around his waist, shouldering in to pin Dean against the wall. It doesn't make Dean any less of a guy, and it's not Sam's fault if the legs do it for him, the slight soft bow of them like a drunken dare. Dean doesn't wear shorts, most of the time. These ones are fucking stupid, bright red and glaring, and Sam still wants to stride right past all those kids, scoop Dean up, slam him against the door. Probably, it's a good thing Dean doesn't make a habit of it. They'd never get anything done if he did.
Sam/Dean, fire
The candle gutters, flame catching in a gust of air from the window, flickering wildly for a second before it finds itself again, steadies and stills. The shadows flicker wildly, too, on Dean’s chest as Sam tips the candle downward, the wax sliding slow and glutinous down its shaft.
“Sam,” Dean manages, one hand coming up to tangle in Sam’s hair, and Sam ducks his head, presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth.
“Sshh.” He tips the candle lower, until the flame is kissing the hairs below Dean’s navel, trembling above the trail. A thin smear of wax drizzles down onto Dean’s skin, and Sam covers it softly with his palm, smiles — “Sssh, Dean. Lie still. I got you.”
Dean/Castiel x2
Dean/Cas, prayerbeads
(Turtledove!verse)
“Thought you’d gotten rid of those.” Dean’s voice is low and smirking, and Cas grins slowly at the dirty-dark sound of it, hand coming up to curl around Dean’s wrist.
“No,” he says, “kept ‘em, just in case.” He leans up, presses his mouth to the corner of Dean’s; ducks down and draws the string of beads along the spit-wet seam of his lips, holding Dean’s eyes. “Bet we could find a use for these - don’t you, Dean.”
Dean says nothing, but his eyes flush black, and Cas has seen that expression often enough to know it for affirmation.
Dean/Castiel - last time
Castiel’s hands are careful on Dean’s body, slow and shaking. Dean closes his eyes, head falling back, and Castiel moves into the circle of his arms, nuzzles his mouth into the hollow of his throat. “Dean,” he breathes, and Dean’s hands come up, clutching at his back, holding him in place, as if he could keep him. As if it were possible. As if Castiel were human, and could be his.
other pairings x3
Sam/Cas, time limit
It isn’t a race. That’s what Dean would say; what Dean has said, on more than one occasion, but Sam doesn’t buy it, not anymore. Not without his soul to burden him down, make him want to kiss and cling and press close, hot skin against skin and heart against heart. Like this, taking advantage of Dean’s absence, they’re on the clock, Cas’s hips canted up to his, Sam’s hipbones slamming cruelly hard against Cas with every downward thrust. Maybe, if he had more time to spare, he’d be gentler, take more care not to bruise, and maybe he wouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t, not now. There’s a time limit on this, on making Cas come before Dean finds out, and Sam’s gonna score within it if it’s the last damn thing he ever does.
Jensen/Misha - window
The street is empty. Misha crooks an arm around Jensen’s waist, pulls him back against the bare pan of his pelvis and wonders what difference it would have made if it hadn’t been. Jensen is shivering, eyes closed with shame, but Misha can tell from his movements that he’s loving it, can tell that he almost wants someone to see. He nudges him forward, up against the window.
“Jen,” he mouths against the back of his ear, “Gonna make you come for me, baby, I promise you. Gonna make you come where everyone can see.”
Dean/Clark Kent - kryptonite
It’s not as if Dean hadn’t thought about them being real. He’d wondered, of course, on his own at night, hand working slick and slow over his cock, half-tuned in to Sam’s breathing in the next bed over. But that, those imaginings, don’t compare to the reality of it, Clark fucking Kent straddling his hips, pushing him down, strong hands around his throat. Dean makes a helpless sound, fucking embarrassing, but this is the genuine manifestation of Superman. Dean thinks he can afford a little submission.
Also, I'm bored out of my mind at work today, so I shall declare these memes still open for offers if anyone wants to prompt anything.
Lots of J2 and Mishalecki, a Jensen/Misha, some Sam/Dean, Dean/Cas, Sam/Dean/Cas, a Holmes/Watson, and, uh, a Dean Winchester/Clark Kent. o.O Various ratings, but some are NC-17.
The Three-Sentence AU meme - pairing and an AU setting = a three-sentence fic.
Castiel/Dean/Sam - [character of your choice]'s consciousness has been put into a robot and cannot physically feel anything, so he watches what the other two do instead. :D
Castiel always knew this was possible, to contain the consciousness of an angel within an inanimate vessel, but he had never given much thought to the logistics of it before it became his only option. Certainly, this vessel is easily enough animated by Castiel’s presence inside of it, but Castiel has grown accustomed to skin, to fingers that feel and breath that hitches and the way Dean’s hand bleeds heat down to his bones. Now, when Sam reaches along the seat to cup the nape of Dean’s neck, Castiel feels a clench where his heart would have been, if the vessel had had one, remembering how it felt to touch Dean’s skin, wishing he could.
Sam/Dean. Sam is a straight A student with a bright future. Dean is his sister's boyfriend, who he happens to have a crush on.
They’re often mistaken for twins, Sam and Jo, what with Sam shooting up like a beanpole the second he hit puberty, all those inches cancelling out the two-year gap between them. Sometimes, when Jo has her boyfriend over, Sam wonders whether Dean knows how young he really is, or whether his occasional green-eyed glances mean he’s never actually asked; whether they mean he thinks Sam’s just as grown-up (just as hot) as his sister.
It’s a stupid fantasy - he knows that, really, ‘cause Dean’s all jock letter-jacket and cock rock, would never look twice at another guy - but hey, Sam’ll keep it, for as long as it gets him through all his lonely nights.
Holmes/Watson; Holmes is a Shakespearean actor; he tastes like foundation make-up after a show.
The curve of Sherlock Holmes’s cheekbone is like fine china, sharp-edged, pale beneath its generous coating of theatrical make-up. Though horrendously untidy with regard to his dressing-room, Holmes is fastidious about his personal appearance, ordinarily quick to scrub off the paint of his profession with a sponge and some elbow-grease, but now he hesitates, lips quirking up at one corner as he says, “Watson.”
His fingers on my jaw are delicate, long and fine, and his mouth carries the distinct taste of powder when it touches mine: powder, and, beneath that, his genius.
Dean/Cas. Dean is a criminal in jail, Cas is his attorney.
Castiel’s not foolish enough to assume that he always knows - after all, nobody can do that without some element of clairvoyance - but after five years in this job, he can often get a pretty good idea about a client within a couple of minutes of meeting. This guy, with his squared-off shoulders and defensive smirk, is cocky, unafraid, but there’s something about him that’s more Robin Hood than Joker.
It doesn’t do to go into these things with any kind of prejudice, but when Castiel asks, “Well, Mr Winchester, are you guilty?” he’s already decided that the answer is no.
A different meme! Pairing, one word/phrase, five sentences. Keeping it simple. ;)
J2 x4
J2, breathplay.
Jensen’s throat is good for this, fits perfectly into the cup of Jared’s hand. His fingers slot up against the underside of Jensen’s jaw, steady firm pressure of them curved around Jensen’s windpipe. Jensen’s eyes flutter closed, hips hitching, and Jared feels the swell of his swallow as he tightens his grip, carefully, carefully. He’s always careful with Jensen, knows his own strength, knows how to bruise just enough not to be too much, and Jensen trusts him, and, God, that trust is the best part of all. Better even than the red marks on Jensen’s neck the day after is the knowledge that Jensen gives himself up to this so willingly, his life in Jared’s hands, knowing he could be crushed so easily but knowing, too, that he won’t be.
J2, Jensen's tummy
So Jensen’s toned up, and that’s all well and good, makes Dean bulkier, more the big brother, better able to protect his diminished Sam. Jared likes the way his stomach muscles tense when he draws his thumbs across them; but there’s something about it, too, that’s oddly generic, not quite Jensen, lacking the appeal of the edge of softness Jared’s grown accustomed to finding. Not that Jensen was fat, never that, but something about the softness struck Jared just right in his core, made him want to slide his palms around Jensen’s waist and feel the human body there, the reality of it, not some television figurine sculpted for the stage. Jared will take Jensen any way he can get him, of course, but that’s the best thing about him: that he’s Jensen, and he can’t help resenting any outside factor that might want to change that.
J2, wrists
There’s a hollow between the bones in Jared’s wrist, a shallow shadowed place that makes Jensen’s jaw ache, makes saliva pool under his tongue. Jared’s hands are broad, palms wide where they branch out from the narrow nip of his wrists, and Jensen wants to mouth at the heels of them, dig in his teeth, scrape down over the sensitive insides of his arms. Fuck, the veins there, throbbing under the skin, a weave of red and blue pulsing under Jensen’s tongue, hot and vital. Jensen wants to suck until the blood surges up under his mouth, wants to mark Jared up, make him his entirely. He curls his tongue around the bone at the jut of Jared’s thumb, draws it up slow to the right-angle of the first knuckle and sucks there; and for tonight, he’s only getting started.
J2, detention
Detention hall, they call it. Really, it’s ‘abandon hope, all ye who enter here’ hall, and Jared knows better than to expect any kind of supervision, any kind of direction. The supervising teacher’s been gone now for upwards of fifteen minutes, and Jensen’s hand is deft and clever on Jared’s cock, snaking into his underwear, precome-slick and tugging. Jared bites his lip, fixes his eyes on his notebook, but Jensen is grinning at him, unashamedly pleased with himself, and Jared can’t take it, shoulders hitching helplessly as his hips buck up. Jensen flicks his thumb over the head of Jared’s cock, looks at him, all ‘yeah?’ and Jared’s head tips back of its own accord, cry bitten-back in his throat as he comes, all over Jensen’s fist in the back of the study-hall.
Jared/Misha x2
Mishalecki, dining table
Misha never really thought too hard about the possible uses of his world-endingly massive dining table when he bought it, but now he’s certainly damn pleased that he did. Jared’s long, massively so, but the table accommodates him almost effortlessly, the long tan stretch of his body spread out, straining, on its polished surface. Misha leans in, shoulders in close between Jared’s thighs and urges them open, and Jared hitches up, arching his back so his hair feathers backward over the table’s edge. Misha lets his mouth go wide against the bare inside of Jared’s thigh, and Jared moans, clutches at the base of Misha’s skull, making Misha’s stomach tense up with want.
He doesn’t know what this table was built for, but by God does he know what he’s about to do with it.
Mishalecki, hair pulling.
Misha’s hands, by comparison, are small, but dammit, they’re strong, and that fact more than makes up for any deficiencies. Jared closes his eyes instinctively as Misha closes his fist in Jared’s hair, tugging. All along his scalp, the follicles burn, standing up, straining into Misha’s touch, and Jared feels the heat licking all the way down his spine. He bites his lip, lifts his head as if to diminish the pressure, and Misha laughs a little, leans down to lick at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s my boy,” he says, and he means it, the way Misha always means everything in this; the way Misha has control.
Sam/Dean/Cas x2
Sam/Dean/Cas, territory.
So they split up. It’s no big deal, Sam scraping his teeth against the soft inside of Castiel’s knee, up over the smooth length of thigh, while Dean works Cas’s mouth with his own and slides a palm down the muscles of his stomach. Getting closer than that would be weird, and there’s always a frisson of something when Sam’s fingers tangle inadvertently with Dean’s on Cas’s hip, when they catch each other’s eyes in the middle of things. Castiel, beneath them both, seems oblivious, but Sam suspects him of dissembling. Castiel, beneath them, is theirs, and whatever else happens, that’s the important thing.
Sam/Dean/Cas, gaping
“Jesus.” Sam is gaping, jaw slack, eyes wide, and Dean can’t help the weird frisson of heat that leaps in his stomach under the welling-up of embarrassment; can’t help the way his teeth clench, anticipatory.
“Sam,” he says. Cas’s hand has stilled, but it’s still on his dick, warmth of his palm bleeding into Dean’s own heat, and it isn’t exactly making it easy to concentrate. Sam is swelling up visibly in his jeans, cock pushing up against the seam, and Dean probably shouldn’t be noticing how big his brother is, but things are difficult in this state of arousal. Things are difficult with Cas spreadeagled beneath him, naked and trembling with need, and somehow Sam’s presence hasn’t thrown cold water over Dean the way he’d thought it might; somehow, it’s only brought the precipice closer.
Sam/Dean x3
Pre-series Wincest - skirts
He doesn’t know where Sam got it, the soft scrap of blue that’s wound up somehow among their Goodwill jeans and washed-thin shirts, but he can’t say he cares. Not, at least, when Sam wakes him up like this, lip caught between his teeth, thighs bare and coltish either side of Dean’s hips, and the skirt is no fucking barrier at all. None, and Dean’s hand snakes up under the hem of it almost instantly, as if to prove it, crooking up between Sam’s skinny legs. Sam’s just a kid, but he knows what he wants, Jesus, and Dean can’t seem to deny him, not when the thought gets him hot in the core of him, some place so deep it’s like the flaming fucking centre of the earth, unreachable and forever. This is his brother, in his flippy little cheerleader skirt like he likes it, like some fucking slut, and Dean’s screwed up somewhere, Dean is wrong, but it’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever done; it makes him feel like paper ready to burst into flame.
lol this is either an homage to
valiant or it's plagiarism but w/e ♥ Sam/Dean, gym shorts. (This one got out of hand.)
Dean doesn't do shorts. That's what he claims, anyway, and Sam can't really remember ever having seen any evidence to the contrary - not, at least, since Dean was all skinned knees and buckle-shoes, and Sam was still little more than babyfat and curls. Now, looking at him in the gym hall, Sam can guess why, looking at the way Dean's thighs curve a little outward to the knee, the reason behind his wide-legged John Wayne swagger exposed. Dean doesn't like his legs, doesn't like the way they'd draw people's eyes if he let them, but Sam - Sam disagrees. Dean blows his whistle irritably, and Sam smirks a little, leaning on his janitor's broom, and lets himself look.
It's the splay that does it, really. The way Dean's thighs don't quite touch, like his legs just aren't ever meant to, and doesn't that just make Sam shiver a little, heat skipping down his spine. Dean's a man's man, but that doesn't mean he's not responsive to Sam hefting him up, hooking those legs around his waist, shouldering in to pin Dean against the wall. It doesn't make Dean any less of a guy, and it's not Sam's fault if the legs do it for him, the slight soft bow of them like a drunken dare. Dean doesn't wear shorts, most of the time. These ones are fucking stupid, bright red and glaring, and Sam still wants to stride right past all those kids, scoop Dean up, slam him against the door. Probably, it's a good thing Dean doesn't make a habit of it. They'd never get anything done if he did.
Sam/Dean, fire
The candle gutters, flame catching in a gust of air from the window, flickering wildly for a second before it finds itself again, steadies and stills. The shadows flicker wildly, too, on Dean’s chest as Sam tips the candle downward, the wax sliding slow and glutinous down its shaft.
“Sam,” Dean manages, one hand coming up to tangle in Sam’s hair, and Sam ducks his head, presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth.
“Sshh.” He tips the candle lower, until the flame is kissing the hairs below Dean’s navel, trembling above the trail. A thin smear of wax drizzles down onto Dean’s skin, and Sam covers it softly with his palm, smiles — “Sssh, Dean. Lie still. I got you.”
Dean/Castiel x2
Dean/Cas, prayerbeads
(Turtledove!verse)
“Thought you’d gotten rid of those.” Dean’s voice is low and smirking, and Cas grins slowly at the dirty-dark sound of it, hand coming up to curl around Dean’s wrist.
“No,” he says, “kept ‘em, just in case.” He leans up, presses his mouth to the corner of Dean’s; ducks down and draws the string of beads along the spit-wet seam of his lips, holding Dean’s eyes. “Bet we could find a use for these - don’t you, Dean.”
Dean says nothing, but his eyes flush black, and Cas has seen that expression often enough to know it for affirmation.
Dean/Castiel - last time
Castiel’s hands are careful on Dean’s body, slow and shaking. Dean closes his eyes, head falling back, and Castiel moves into the circle of his arms, nuzzles his mouth into the hollow of his throat. “Dean,” he breathes, and Dean’s hands come up, clutching at his back, holding him in place, as if he could keep him. As if it were possible. As if Castiel were human, and could be his.
other pairings x3
Sam/Cas, time limit
It isn’t a race. That’s what Dean would say; what Dean has said, on more than one occasion, but Sam doesn’t buy it, not anymore. Not without his soul to burden him down, make him want to kiss and cling and press close, hot skin against skin and heart against heart. Like this, taking advantage of Dean’s absence, they’re on the clock, Cas’s hips canted up to his, Sam’s hipbones slamming cruelly hard against Cas with every downward thrust. Maybe, if he had more time to spare, he’d be gentler, take more care not to bruise, and maybe he wouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t, not now. There’s a time limit on this, on making Cas come before Dean finds out, and Sam’s gonna score within it if it’s the last damn thing he ever does.
Jensen/Misha - window
The street is empty. Misha crooks an arm around Jensen’s waist, pulls him back against the bare pan of his pelvis and wonders what difference it would have made if it hadn’t been. Jensen is shivering, eyes closed with shame, but Misha can tell from his movements that he’s loving it, can tell that he almost wants someone to see. He nudges him forward, up against the window.
“Jen,” he mouths against the back of his ear, “Gonna make you come for me, baby, I promise you. Gonna make you come where everyone can see.”
Dean/Clark Kent - kryptonite
It’s not as if Dean hadn’t thought about them being real. He’d wondered, of course, on his own at night, hand working slick and slow over his cock, half-tuned in to Sam’s breathing in the next bed over. But that, those imaginings, don’t compare to the reality of it, Clark fucking Kent straddling his hips, pushing him down, strong hands around his throat. Dean makes a helpless sound, fucking embarrassing, but this is the genuine manifestation of Superman. Dean thinks he can afford a little submission.
Also, I'm bored out of my mind at work today, so I shall declare these memes still open for offers if anyone wants to prompt anything.
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Only read the J2 or Sam/Dean and I loved them! The three sentence Sam is a straight A student, Dean is dating Sam’s sister fic is such a tease. I would love it, if Dean does more than “look twice at another guy” especially is said guy is Sam. Or more of the Sam/Dean gym shorts. Or any of the J2 one word/phrase. I’m not a picky girl. I’d be happy to read anything about the boys!
*grins*
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If Sam were in his right mind, he'd think about how mad Jo's gonna get if she finds out, how upset; if Sam were thinking clearly, he'd push Dean back, but Dean is all up in his space and Sam's brain seems to have dribbled out through his ears. Up close like this, Dean smells like clean cotton and the kind of cheap cologne the whole football team wears, and the warmth of his body is palpable through the thin fabric of their t-shirts, his hand on Sam's arm like a brand, pinioning him in place. When Sam lifts his head, Dean's face is right there, so stupid beautiful that Sam feels punch-drunk on it; can't help the way he leans in until their mouths touch -- can't help the way his heart leaps with joy when Dean leans right back.
Re: *grins*
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WOW. ♥♥♥
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So I'll do the obligatory Dean/Cas, wings. And since you're bored and reading your fic is one of my favorite things, how about Dean/Cas, pink.
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Fair warning: I hate wing!fic. Want to claim a different prompt?
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How about....
J2, nervous
Dean/Cas, pink
Re: Dean/Cas, pink
Re: Dean/Cas, pink
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Ha, I just backread the S/D/C ones, and while I wrote them on different days and without any intentional connection, they do actually read as if they could be part of the same scene! Nice catch. However: have some more Mishalecki. ;)
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One of the most rewarding things about Jared is how responsive he is, the way his back arches up like a bow as Misha's mouth finds the base of his cock, rubs wetly against the underside. Jared's hands are busy, frenetic in Misha's hair, and Misha's soft moan of heat is no affectation, for all the vibrations make Jared whimper in echo, twisting under Misha's touch.
"God, Jared." He slides a slow palm up the inside of Jared's thigh, tracing a path from knee to groin and, when Jared cants his hips, Misha moves obediently higher, fingering the dark place between Jared's legs. The sound he gets for that sends the blood rushing straight to Misha's cock faster than anything he's come across in at least the past five years. It's a good sound.
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This is gorgeous, and I'm picturing it all talking place on my dining table :D It's big enough, but really not that sturdy, I think they'd all end up in a heap on the floor *g* I love how wanton Jared is here, and how much Misha loves it :)
And the S/D/C snippets could totally be part of the same scene! Where Dean and Sam are sharing Cas, with absolutely no brothertouching allowed. But Dean can't stop himself from looking...
I'm glad you're entertaining us with porn while you're bored at work. I approve!
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Also, wanton!bottom!Jared is possibly my favourite thing this week. You just know Misha is going to fuck him stupid on that table while Jared makes shameless noise until the table collapses.
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Like four of these might have been my prompts. No regrets.YAY! I'm so happy you compiled all these here, I loved seeing them on my dash. What you can do in a few sentences never fails to amaze me bb.
I don't know if you've seen the gag reel yet but hooker!Sam/accidental-John!Dean is begging to be written, if you're feelin' that. ;)
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I have seen the gag reel, and I completely agree! Hmm. *ponders* Give me a second to turn my brain on. ;)
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Also hooooo these drabbles make me enjoy Mishalecki on a level I never have before. *__*