Comment-fics: Supernatural, Ouran High School Host Club, Primeval, RPS, Doctor Who
RPS, Chris/Steve, do you have any damn idea how hot seeing you that damn happy makes me?
The first half of the concert goes really, really well. Chris can taste it already by the end of the first song. They're perfectly in tune, perfectly discordant when they need to be. He can feel the building, the excitement, the knowledge that yes, the crowd is eating it up, and hell, it's beautiful.
He's beautiful, tossing his hair from his eyes, his grin catching Chris' eyes, always at the edges of things, distracting. They end up playing together more than apart. Steve's fingers fly across the neck of his guitar, swift and sure, and he dances up to Chris, eyes glinting wicked, and Chris responds, singing low and intimate, for him more than for the mike held loosely in his fist.
They take a break, and as soon as they're off stage Steve swings an arm around Chris' shoulder, aiming a kiss for Chris' cheek in breathless excitement. But Chris brings his hands up, catching Steve's face, and kisses him hungry and real, tangling his hands in Steve's hair, just as breathless at that excitement. He finally pulls back, and whispers fiercely against Steve's jaw, "Do you have any damn idea how hot seeing you that damn happy makes me? Do you have any idea how much I just want to grab you and run my hands down your pretty little hips, strip you bare for all their eyes, right there on stage? How much I want to run my tongue down the length of you, open you up for me, all nice and gasping for me? Hmm?" He pulls back a little, to look at Steve, who's gone still, his eyes blown wide with shock and desire. "Be careful with that grin, boy. It's dangerous."
Steve has just enough time to pull him back in for a quick, hard kiss, just enough time to moan against his lips, before they're away and back onto stage, Steve's fucking grin in place again, perhaps something of a smirk, now, more than the outright joy of before, but the crowd doesn't care, and neither does Chris.
The second half of the set goes really, really well. Chris' voice winds around Steve's guitar like water, like a rattlesnake, dark and pointed. At the very end he spins to look ay Steve, and growls low and wanton, "C'mere, boy, and gimme a kiss."
Primeval, Connor/author's choice, Connor's smile
There was something addictive about Connor's smile. The first time Stephen saw it it stole his breath away - they'd just found the first dinosaur, so long ago, in the Forest of Deen. They'd been terrified, confused, in the dark - and then he'd turned, and seen Connor's face just light up like the sun, because he was right. Because they'd found a fucking dinosaur.
After that, Stephen would do little things, just small things to make Connor smile. Crack a joke with him, give him a gun, make him feel needed, wanted. Hand him coffee, when they were on the scene, just to see that grin. He started watching Abby - not for her own sake, but because she of all people was so very good at making Connor smile. He wanted to harness that power.
But she was also good at making him sad. Because when she turned away from Connor, not really seeing him, his smile would slip from his face. His mouth would turn down, and his eyes go distant, longing. And that look? That was a look that Stephen never wanted to see on Connor's face.
But it got worse, that look, and other looks like it. Everything got worse. Helen turned everything upside down. They all got more serious, and Stephen felt something else when he looked at Connor. Respect. The enthusiasm he'd seen in that first night was giving way to skill and knowledge.
They came back from a long hunt - small, feathered dinosaurs with ravenous beak-mouths, from an era that Stephen didn't remember. Connor would - but Connor was beat, curled into a corner with his head in his hands. Stephen walked over to him, considering.
"Hey." He said.
"Hey." Connor looked up, and his eyes were dimmed with tears. Stephen swallowed, and knelt next to him. He didn't ask what was wrong - it was clear. Connor's hands were bloody, his shirt torn. It had been very, very close.
"You're alright." He said, instead, but Connor shook his head.
"I'm not, though, I..." A tear slipped from his eye. "I nearly died, Stephen. So many times, I've nearly died."
Stephen leaned in and pulled him into a hug. "But you're alive. You're alive. And guess what?"
Connor leaned into him, exhausted. "What?"
"You just fought off a fucking dinosaur." Stephen whispered, and his heart leapt as he felt Connor smile against his chest.
"Yeah." He murmured. "Yeah, I guess I did."
Ouran High School Host Club, Tamaki/Kyouya, Tamaki speaks French when he's drunk
"Kyouyaaa..." Tamaki slid onto Kyoya's lap headfirst, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. One graceful, long-fingered hand gripped the neck of a winebottle loosely, dangling off the couch. Kyoya cocked his head at it and saw it was nearly empty.
Which only partially explained what happened next.
"Je suis ivre, ma reine..." Tamaki babbled conversationally, "Vous devriez l'etre aussi."
Kyouya pushed his glasses up his nose and tried hard to ignore the beautiful man stretched across him. As usual, he was only partially successful. "No, my lord, I shouldn't be. The mark on my record, should I be caught drinking on school property...and for that matter, you shouldn't be either."
But Tamaki wasn't listening. He just nuzzled further into Kyouya's lap. Kyouya tried to get the bottle away from him, but Tamaki hung on to it with a strength that Kyouya never expected him to have, no matter how many times he displayed it. They ended up struggling over the thing, limbs all a-tangle, and somehow Tamaki was curled on top of Kyouya , his whole body wrapped around the bottle. He pushed his cheek into Kyouya's chest, eyes sliding shut. "Mmm." He murmured, and Kyouya almost missed what he muttered next. But he was Kyouya - so at the first syllable he tuned in, in case it could be used as blackmail, later.
"Je t'aime..."
Kyouya froze. He couldn't mean...
"Kyouya...Je t'aime, ma reine."
Kyouya let him have the bottle. For a moment he just sat, letting Tamaki drift off, making sure that he actually was, and only then did he let the soft little smile cross his face.
"Je t'aime aussi, mon seigneur."
Supernatural, Dean/fallen!Castiel, whiskey
"C'mon Cas! You're free now! No more takin' orders from dicks you're not sure you trust, no more havin' to do anything you don't want to. Why're you so down, man?"
Castiel pulled his glass towards him, swirling the whiskey around in it morosely. He stared for a moment, pensive. "But...Dean." He turned his eyes to the hunter, and Dean marveled that none of the impossible blue of his eyes had left with his angel's grace. "If I don't have anything I have to do, what do I do?"
Dean found himself holding Castiel's eyes. "What do you want to do?"
Castiel opened his mouth, and then dropped his gaze. He threw back the rest of his drink, and began to cough. Dean pounded him on the back until he'd settled somewhat.
"It hurts." He said, half whining and half in awe, and Dean chuckled, leaving his arm slung around the fallen angel's shoulders.
"Yeah. You've got a throat, now. Gotta learn all sorts of things, I guess. What alcohol you like, how to drink it, what your limit is..."
Cas looked up at him, suddenly very close, his breath hot and sharp against Dean's face. "I do not think it is very high." He said, gravely.
Dean swallowed, his own drink forgotten. "Why?"
Castiel brought a hand up, tracing the line of Dean's jaw. "Because I am doing what I want to do." And he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean's, a little rough and a little sloppy. He tasted like whiskey and peanuts and there, just where his tongue slid against Dean's, like the memory of heaven.
Supernatural, Castiel, the beginning of time
Castiel stared out across the new, yawning world, across the waters seething with creatures. He could see all of time stretched before him, golden and shining and woven. He threaded his fingers through it and plucked it, listening to its tone vibrate like a harp string, hearing every voice and every scream and every roar and laugh that would ever be.
Castiel sought out two.
They came about near the end of things, when the sound began to repeat, the vibrations spinning back to him as if looking for answers. They were both voices, both human, both crying and laughing and terrified. But he looked past their noise to their silence and saw them united, saw them determined, so them cracked and broken and guilty.
He slid his fingers around their lives and felt their pulses tap-tapping against his light.
One was an echo, tap-tap-tap, the march of a soldier's drum, almost cynical in its rigidity, following something, someone, that had gone before.
The other fought to be free of the same pattern, beating out an erratic heartbeat, but always returning to that tap-tap-tap, reassuringly steady as it was constricting.
Castiel narrowed his eyes and felt further.
The two beats began to separate, began to take on new shape, fought with one another. New harmonies played in - something dark and ominous came to the rebel beat, coaxing him away from that familiar restriction, and one joined the Soldier which made Castiel frown, because it felt like his own song. But it couldn't be, because it ended, and the two went on, darting suddenly together again, a single complex knot - right at the end of time.
Castiel released his chord and listened to it shimmer in the air of the teething world. There. He thought. You are the beginning. I have given you your end.
Doctor Who, evil!Doctor/good!Master, did you miss me?
"Did you miss me?"
The Master stands up from his desk in a rush of tailored suit. "Doctor." He breathes, half wonder, half fear, and the Doctor smirks in the doorway.
"Master. The one who rules. Isn't that a bit pretentious? Oh, but look. It was fate, I suppose, that you were elected." He circles, examining the bookshelves, glasses perched on the end of his nose.
"I can help these people. I can guide them." His voice is politics, trying to make people accept promises he's not sure he can keep. Then, quieter, "I thought you were dead."
The Doctor ignores him, flipping through a book at high speed, his eyes catching, reading, understanding every word. "My own name, now. That makes sense. Because humans...humans of all the races are so fragile. So easy to break...and, ultimately, so easy to fix. Oh, there is so much about them to be fixed, Master."
The Master shivers at the use of his name, shivers again as the Doctor turns to him with a sideways grin. "Us, now." He continues. "Us, we're harder. More complex. And ever so much rarer." He stepped closer, and the Master fought the urge to put a chair between them.
"I have an old friend..." He was a foot away, now, looking at the Master with a glance like science but a warmth in them that spoke of other things. "An old, old friend. Recently, he lay dying at my feet."
"My condolences." The Master rasped out, and took a deep breath when the Doctor's smile only grew.
"He had some cryptic last words for me." He even closer, now, his hands on the Master's hips, his chin hooked over his shoulder. "Do you know what he said?"
The Master shook his head and tried not to make a sound as the Doctor's stubble slid against his cheek. "He said..." The Doctor's breath was hot against his face. When he spoke, it was with their hundreds of years of history flavoring his words, all the tenderness and hatred, violence and passion.
"You are not alone."