just dickin' around (some: neal/kate--white collar, dean/sarah--supernatural/chuck x-over, and more)
these are all drabbles/ficlets/stuff under 500 words that have been floating around and that i haven't done anything with. so, you know. here goes?
title: a girl in a degas painting
pairing: neal/kate
rating: pg-13 (for some general nakedness)
notes: i actually wrote this before the flashback episode and was happy to hear that kate was a raphael fan, because it made easier for me to believe/fanwank that she might not be horribly keen on impressionism
Neal leans back on both hands, stopping to tuck the paintbrush between his teeth. He closes one eye; studies his work.
“You finished?”
Kate is lying on her stomach, naked, propped up on her elbows. She lazily swings her legs back and forth, crossing and then uncrossing her ankles. Neal thinks that she looks like a girl in a Degas painting. And he’d tell her, except that she kind of has this thing where she hates Degas.
“Not quite,” he says, brush bobbing up and down as he speaks.
He pushes himself up onto his knees and uses his thumb to smooth out a line of paint and rubs away errant smudge of orange over the start of her thigh. He takes the paintbrush from his mouth, adds a thin line in yellow from the side of her left breast and across each of her ribs and down to the center of her spine. The paint is cold and wet against her skin, and Kate shivers; goosebumps form on her arms and legs and it makes her look like a form of Pointillism instead Impressionism.
Neal makes a low sound of, ‘hmm’.
“Now?” she asks, smiling bright and wide.
Neal nods, and says, “You’re a masterpiece.”
title: basic space
pairing: dean winchester/sarah walker(/jenny burton/sam ?) with allusions to dean/sam and dean/jo
rating: r-ish
notes: possibly written for theladyscribe? maybe? i don't know.
He fills up his brother’s empty space with a different Sam.
He adds up the way they’re the same. He ignores the ways they’re different.
And he ignores the way she keeps a knife tucked into the side of her boot, like some other girl that used to sleep beside him.
Dean likes that both of them are war wounds and bullet hole scars. He likes the feel of her (hard muscle and soft, smooth skin, and please, please, please) under of the insistent press of his fingers.
He hates the way his name uncurls on her tongue, cloying and sweet. He hates the sharp cut of her nails on his thighs and the timid push of her lips to the underside of his chin.
And he wants to hate the way that she holds him soft inside of her, hips still slowly rocking (stuttering, stuttering, stuttering) until both of them are aching and sore, but it feels so familiar, that he can’t. And because even with an empty space and a different Sam, another body to touch under worn sheets and the cold press of her toes to his and how his mouth can slowly move around the words, love you, Sammy are really all that Dean needs.
title: easy
pairing: fiona/michael
rating: nc-17
notes: the bit that this was spawned off of didn't make the final cut. hmm. (but on the plus side: porn!)
They start up this thing where they only fuck when they’re drunk.
“Easier this way,” Fi says.
She tugs hard on his belt buckle, moving and twisting her thin fingers until she gets his cock out, wet and hard and pushing up towards his belly. She moves her thumbnail over the slit, come smearing over the head, at the same time she moves her tongue over his upper lip. When Michael sighs into her mouth, hands pulling her top down over her small tits, she can smell the scotch on his breath.
“Easier for who?” he asks.
As his fingers count her ribs, slow and stuttering, she counts the seconds it takes her to give him an answer.
“Me,” she says, honest.
He slips a finger through her wet folds, pushes in up to his knuckle. She lifts her hips up encouragingly, and he adds a second finger and moves his thumb in a firm circle over her clit. She’s so fucking wet, his come dripping from her cunt (they’re getting sloppy) and sticking to the insides of her thighs.
And she presses her palm to his cheek and says, “Oh, Michael, this is never going to work. Is it?”
He loves her too much to tell her that she’s right.
She tells him that she’s pregnant and he smiles and kisses her forehead and says, “Wow. Fi, that’s great. Right?”
Fiona doesn’t seem too sure.
Miami is hot in the summer. Even the nights are damp and muggy, air almost too thick to breathe.
Fi pulls thin tank-tops down over her growing belly, hot and uncomfortable, and Michael keeps an old, desk fan next to the bed and the sweat cools on their skin.
She only sleeps for a few hours at a time, wakes up to Michael’s hands on her stomach and his lips on her neck.
Fi has the baby almost two weeks early.
She’s a little on the small side and, as a precaution, the hospital keeps her in an incubator for the night.
Fi names her Bonnie. Michael ends up calling her bunny most of the time, but only because Fi hates it.
She ends up being a pretty cute kid, all plump cheeks and dark hair and wide eyes.
(Sam thinks that she talks too much.)
title: a girl in a degas painting
pairing: neal/kate
rating: pg-13 (for some general nakedness)
notes: i actually wrote this before the flashback episode and was happy to hear that kate was a raphael fan, because it made easier for me to believe/fanwank that she might not be horribly keen on impressionism
Neal leans back on both hands, stopping to tuck the paintbrush between his teeth. He closes one eye; studies his work.
“You finished?”
Kate is lying on her stomach, naked, propped up on her elbows. She lazily swings her legs back and forth, crossing and then uncrossing her ankles. Neal thinks that she looks like a girl in a Degas painting. And he’d tell her, except that she kind of has this thing where she hates Degas.
“Not quite,” he says, brush bobbing up and down as he speaks.
He pushes himself up onto his knees and uses his thumb to smooth out a line of paint and rubs away errant smudge of orange over the start of her thigh. He takes the paintbrush from his mouth, adds a thin line in yellow from the side of her left breast and across each of her ribs and down to the center of her spine. The paint is cold and wet against her skin, and Kate shivers; goosebumps form on her arms and legs and it makes her look like a form of Pointillism instead Impressionism.
Neal makes a low sound of, ‘hmm’.
“Now?” she asks, smiling bright and wide.
Neal nods, and says, “You’re a masterpiece.”
title: basic space
pairing: dean winchester/sarah walker(/jenny burton/sam ?) with allusions to dean/sam and dean/jo
rating: r-ish
notes: possibly written for theladyscribe? maybe? i don't know.
He fills up his brother’s empty space with a different Sam.
He adds up the way they’re the same. He ignores the ways they’re different.
And he ignores the way she keeps a knife tucked into the side of her boot, like some other girl that used to sleep beside him.
Dean likes that both of them are war wounds and bullet hole scars. He likes the feel of her (hard muscle and soft, smooth skin, and please, please, please) under of the insistent press of his fingers.
He hates the way his name uncurls on her tongue, cloying and sweet. He hates the sharp cut of her nails on his thighs and the timid push of her lips to the underside of his chin.
And he wants to hate the way that she holds him soft inside of her, hips still slowly rocking (stuttering, stuttering, stuttering) until both of them are aching and sore, but it feels so familiar, that he can’t. And because even with an empty space and a different Sam, another body to touch under worn sheets and the cold press of her toes to his and how his mouth can slowly move around the words, love you, Sammy are really all that Dean needs.
title: easy
pairing: fiona/michael
rating: nc-17
notes: the bit that this was spawned off of didn't make the final cut. hmm. (but on the plus side: porn!)
They start up this thing where they only fuck when they’re drunk.
“Easier this way,” Fi says.
She tugs hard on his belt buckle, moving and twisting her thin fingers until she gets his cock out, wet and hard and pushing up towards his belly. She moves her thumbnail over the slit, come smearing over the head, at the same time she moves her tongue over his upper lip. When Michael sighs into her mouth, hands pulling her top down over her small tits, she can smell the scotch on his breath.
“Easier for who?” he asks.
As his fingers count her ribs, slow and stuttering, she counts the seconds it takes her to give him an answer.
“Me,” she says, honest.
He slips a finger through her wet folds, pushes in up to his knuckle. She lifts her hips up encouragingly, and he adds a second finger and moves his thumb in a firm circle over her clit. She’s so fucking wet, his come dripping from her cunt (they’re getting sloppy) and sticking to the insides of her thighs.
And she presses her palm to his cheek and says, “Oh, Michael, this is never going to work. Is it?”
He loves her too much to tell her that she’s right.
She tells him that she’s pregnant and he smiles and kisses her forehead and says, “Wow. Fi, that’s great. Right?”
Fiona doesn’t seem too sure.
Miami is hot in the summer. Even the nights are damp and muggy, air almost too thick to breathe.
Fi pulls thin tank-tops down over her growing belly, hot and uncomfortable, and Michael keeps an old, desk fan next to the bed and the sweat cools on their skin.
She only sleeps for a few hours at a time, wakes up to Michael’s hands on her stomach and his lips on her neck.
Fi has the baby almost two weeks early.
She’s a little on the small side and, as a precaution, the hospital keeps her in an incubator for the night.
Fi names her Bonnie. Michael ends up calling her bunny most of the time, but only because Fi hates it.
She ends up being a pretty cute kid, all plump cheeks and dark hair and wide eyes.
(Sam thinks that she talks too much.)