Nine ficbits in 1260 words, twenty seven sentences, four fandoms, rated G to NC-17
Today's theme at comment_fic has been 'Three sentences'. You could answer as many prompts as you wanted to, but only in three sentences. There are a lot of short, delicious little snippets over there.
And then there's me, who can apparently squeeze 200 words into those three sentences, with some reckless abuse of commas and semicolons, with the occasional non-semi colon for variety.
Below are nine ficbits in four fandoms, two of them I have never written in before, though I do watch the shows. I have no excuse, no clue what happened, but it was fun.
Prompted by: merihn - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, car, 200 words, NC17
Unusually Exhibitionistic Impromptu Roadside Sexcapades
The Impala’s hood is desert-sun, five-hundred-miles-in-six-hours hot beneath Dean’s ass; heat bleeding almost immediately through worn denim and thin cotton, making him squirm and struggle - held in place by Sam’s weight, his hands and mouth, his intensity - until he’s forced to call out, "Dude, seriously, I’m burning up here."
"Hottest fuck in the state of Nevada," Sam mutters agreeably into Dean’s mouth before returning for another kiss, all tongue and teeth - an edge of pain, a side of sweetness - while his huge, careful hands move with intent to Dean’s belt.
Dean falters, unable to decide which outcome would be worse: pissing off Sammy by calling an untimely halt, passing on the - such a fucking turn-on - unusually exhibitionistic impromptu roadside sexcapades, or letting his baby brother peel away the minimal protection of his favourite jeans and washed-to-paper-thinness cotton briefs, leaving the delicate - baby-soft, baby, and don’t you forget it! - skin of his ass to be seared by the overcooked metal, but before he’s had a chance to even try to come to a decision, Sam’s already got his belt buckle open, his jeans unbuttoned and is eagerly pulling his leaking cock out and bending to swallow it down - the perfect compromise.
Prompted by: merihn - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, hug, 108 words, G
Until The Struggling Stops
It takes Sam an embarrassingly long time to start paying attention to how Dean flinches - a minute twitch, barely noticeable, except for how Sam should have noticed; should have seen this sooner, dammit - whenever someone moves to touch him.
It makes Sam hurt inside; makes him want to reach out and scoop Dean into a hug that goes on long past their usual ‘grab and squeeze, pat and step back to a safe distance’ fifteen-twenty seconds - never longer than a half a minute. He wants to hold on tight, until the struggling stops, until Dean knows he’s safe and loved, until he actually hugs back - and means it.
Prompted by: hunters_retreat - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, final, 47 words, G
No Great Flash of Revelation
In the final moments, there's no difficult decision to be made, no great flash of revelation, no voice booming from on high - or whispering from down below.
Sam and Dean against the world; against the odds; against demons and gods; against nature, some would say.
Together, always.
Prompted by: hunters_retreat - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, don't say it, 126 words, G
Declarative Sentences Are For The Birds
They only say it when they're drunk, or drugged to the gills on pain pills or anaesthetic or supernatural mojo of some kind; or when they think they're past saving, bleeding out - or in - while the other one holds them tight and begs them not to go.
When they're sober, straight and not running a couple of quarts low on the red stuff, but one of them still wants to share a… a moment, he usually manages to stutter out something along the lines of "I… Y'know, I really do-" before the other breaks in with something not dissimilar to: "Dude, check your pants; I think you're turning into a girl."
It's not a classic declaration of undying love, to be sure, but it's wholly theirs.
Prompted by: maerhys - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, easy like a Sunday morning, 77 words, R
Inchoate
Muted sunlight filters through the faded motel curtains, turning the bodies tangled naked on the bed to a still life of erotic perfection.
Their sated tableau is kissed with golden highlights, streaked with tawny slashes of shadow that don't quite obscure the way they probably should, and a few charcoal lines and smudges of Stygian blackness hide the tightest seams and joins from prying eyes.
It's too fresh and new for others to see - inchoate, incipient, incestuous.
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, make you mine, 190 words, PG-13
This is a snippet from the Medlar!verse, starring demon!Sam/evil!Dean..
Shackles
They're coiled around each other like snakes amongst the silken sheets - limbs tangled and entwined, bejewelled with sparkling beads of sweat, of blood and come - when Sam finally breaks the silence that has lingered since his brother's return, pressing lips to ear so he can whisper, "You have no idea how much it hurt me, Dean, having to let them drag you into the Pit without being able to follow, but I had work to do, an army to raise. The only thing that made these months liveable - years for you, I understand that - was knowing they were breaking you for me; reshaping you, so you could take your rightful place, at my side and in my bed.
"You bled and died for me ten thousand times, and each time came back stronger, more determined to protect me from the torment you'd endured, and I love you for that, never doubt it, but the sweetest sound I've ever heard was the cry that came when you finally broke the shackles of your humanity and turned your new face to the flame; for that I will cherish you always."
Next in Medlar!verse: Playtime
Prompted by: beautybecks - Stargate Atlantis, John/Rodney, bored, 143 words, PG
Indecision
Between them, they'd rejected every movie on the server, every game - computer, card and board - and every pastime - seriously, no more golfing tips; I don't want to learn, dammit - and had already wasted over an hour of their hard-earned day off.
When John started poking at Rodney's bookshelves, muttering under his breath about 'the rule book' and 'social.b.99.1', Rodney's first reaction was to call him out as a web-comic-reading geek and get an argument going, because at least a good-natured fight was better than sitting around, slowly going out of your mind from boredom. Then he mentally slapped himself sharply on the back of the head and jumped to his feet, dipped one hand into the bedside cabinet and out again before he lost his nerve, offering up his prize with a wobbly-pitched "I won't use Crisco, but would Astroglide do?"
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Torchwood, Jack/Ianto, desk-sex, 198 words, R
Custom-Built and Drop-Tested
The first time they had wildly inappropriate sex on the desk in Jack's office, with only an unlocked door separating them from the rest of their insatiably curious team, they managed to kill a not-quite-as-rugged-as-advertised laptop, an oddly fragile stapler, and a black marker pen that left indelible ink stains on the back of Ianto's smoke grey trousers, his white cotton underwear and even his previously flawless, palest Welsh cream buttocks - Jack's words, not his.
By the second time they had wildly inappropriate sex on the desk in Jack's office, with only a - yes, intentionally - unlocked door separating them from the rest of their now quietly amused and most definitely aware team, Ianto had conscientiously replaced the stapler with a stronger model, found a caddy for the marker pens, and had a custom-built drop-tested laptop in place.
He also stocked the bottom drawer with seven different kinds of lubricant, a blindfold and some handcuffs, a thumb-sized vibrating bullet with detachable latex ring, and a gross of condoms in various colours and flavors, ribbed and bobbled, lubed and not - because, while skin-to-skin is great, it can end up too damned messy when emergencies crop up, and they always do.
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Leverage, Nate/Eliot, toys, 171 words, R
Three Thumbs Up
Nate has just finished lubing up the butt-plug when Eliot notices a movement from the corner of his eye and rolls his head to the left - about the only freedom of movement he has right now, the way Nate has him tied, at wrist and ankle, to the desk.
Parker is hanging upside down outside the window, insanely cheery grin plastered across her face, head tilted at the unmistakeable 'Parker is learning something new about people and their interactions' angle, two thumbs up to show her wholehearted approval - though if she's upside down and her thumbs are pointing towards her feet, does that really mean…?
The plug slides home with a wicked twist, dragging a yelp from Eliot and a gleeful chuckle from Nate, who flashes a thumbs-up of his own in Parker's general direction before replying to the question framed by Eliot's eyebrows with a shrug and a cocky, "You said I should bring some toys to the party, so I chose that plug, this blindfold, and Parker's endless curiosity."
aaaaaaaaaaaaand, I'm done. *collapses*
And then there's me, who can apparently squeeze 200 words into those three sentences, with some reckless abuse of commas and semicolons, with the occasional non-semi colon for variety.
Below are nine ficbits in four fandoms, two of them I have never written in before, though I do watch the shows. I have no excuse, no clue what happened, but it was fun.
Prompted by: merihn - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, car, 200 words, NC17
Unusually Exhibitionistic Impromptu Roadside Sexcapades
The Impala’s hood is desert-sun, five-hundred-miles-in-six-hours hot beneath Dean’s ass; heat bleeding almost immediately through worn denim and thin cotton, making him squirm and struggle - held in place by Sam’s weight, his hands and mouth, his intensity - until he’s forced to call out, "Dude, seriously, I’m burning up here."
"Hottest fuck in the state of Nevada," Sam mutters agreeably into Dean’s mouth before returning for another kiss, all tongue and teeth - an edge of pain, a side of sweetness - while his huge, careful hands move with intent to Dean’s belt.
Dean falters, unable to decide which outcome would be worse: pissing off Sammy by calling an untimely halt, passing on the - such a fucking turn-on - unusually exhibitionistic impromptu roadside sexcapades, or letting his baby brother peel away the minimal protection of his favourite jeans and washed-to-paper-thinness cotton briefs, leaving the delicate - baby-soft, baby, and don’t you forget it! - skin of his ass to be seared by the overcooked metal, but before he’s had a chance to even try to come to a decision, Sam’s already got his belt buckle open, his jeans unbuttoned and is eagerly pulling his leaking cock out and bending to swallow it down - the perfect compromise.
Prompted by: merihn - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, hug, 108 words, G
Until The Struggling Stops
It takes Sam an embarrassingly long time to start paying attention to how Dean flinches - a minute twitch, barely noticeable, except for how Sam should have noticed; should have seen this sooner, dammit - whenever someone moves to touch him.
It makes Sam hurt inside; makes him want to reach out and scoop Dean into a hug that goes on long past their usual ‘grab and squeeze, pat and step back to a safe distance’ fifteen-twenty seconds - never longer than a half a minute. He wants to hold on tight, until the struggling stops, until Dean knows he’s safe and loved, until he actually hugs back - and means it.
Prompted by: hunters_retreat - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, final, 47 words, G
No Great Flash of Revelation
In the final moments, there's no difficult decision to be made, no great flash of revelation, no voice booming from on high - or whispering from down below.
Sam and Dean against the world; against the odds; against demons and gods; against nature, some would say.
Together, always.
Prompted by: hunters_retreat - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, don't say it, 126 words, G
Declarative Sentences Are For The Birds
They only say it when they're drunk, or drugged to the gills on pain pills or anaesthetic or supernatural mojo of some kind; or when they think they're past saving, bleeding out - or in - while the other one holds them tight and begs them not to go.
When they're sober, straight and not running a couple of quarts low on the red stuff, but one of them still wants to share a… a moment, he usually manages to stutter out something along the lines of "I… Y'know, I really do-" before the other breaks in with something not dissimilar to: "Dude, check your pants; I think you're turning into a girl."
It's not a classic declaration of undying love, to be sure, but it's wholly theirs.
Prompted by: maerhys - Supernatural, Sam/Dean, easy like a Sunday morning, 77 words, R
Inchoate
Muted sunlight filters through the faded motel curtains, turning the bodies tangled naked on the bed to a still life of erotic perfection.
Their sated tableau is kissed with golden highlights, streaked with tawny slashes of shadow that don't quite obscure the way they probably should, and a few charcoal lines and smudges of Stygian blackness hide the tightest seams and joins from prying eyes.
It's too fresh and new for others to see - inchoate, incipient, incestuous.
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Supernatural, Dean/Sam, make you mine, 190 words, PG-13
This is a snippet from the Medlar!verse, starring demon!Sam/evil!Dean..
Shackles
They're coiled around each other like snakes amongst the silken sheets - limbs tangled and entwined, bejewelled with sparkling beads of sweat, of blood and come - when Sam finally breaks the silence that has lingered since his brother's return, pressing lips to ear so he can whisper, "You have no idea how much it hurt me, Dean, having to let them drag you into the Pit without being able to follow, but I had work to do, an army to raise. The only thing that made these months liveable - years for you, I understand that - was knowing they were breaking you for me; reshaping you, so you could take your rightful place, at my side and in my bed.
"You bled and died for me ten thousand times, and each time came back stronger, more determined to protect me from the torment you'd endured, and I love you for that, never doubt it, but the sweetest sound I've ever heard was the cry that came when you finally broke the shackles of your humanity and turned your new face to the flame; for that I will cherish you always."
Next in Medlar!verse: Playtime
Prompted by: beautybecks - Stargate Atlantis, John/Rodney, bored, 143 words, PG
Indecision
Between them, they'd rejected every movie on the server, every game - computer, card and board - and every pastime - seriously, no more golfing tips; I don't want to learn, dammit - and had already wasted over an hour of their hard-earned day off.
When John started poking at Rodney's bookshelves, muttering under his breath about 'the rule book' and 'social.b.99.1', Rodney's first reaction was to call him out as a web-comic-reading geek and get an argument going, because at least a good-natured fight was better than sitting around, slowly going out of your mind from boredom. Then he mentally slapped himself sharply on the back of the head and jumped to his feet, dipped one hand into the bedside cabinet and out again before he lost his nerve, offering up his prize with a wobbly-pitched "I won't use Crisco, but would Astroglide do?"
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Torchwood, Jack/Ianto, desk-sex, 198 words, R
Custom-Built and Drop-Tested
The first time they had wildly inappropriate sex on the desk in Jack's office, with only an unlocked door separating them from the rest of their insatiably curious team, they managed to kill a not-quite-as-rugged-as-advertised laptop, an oddly fragile stapler, and a black marker pen that left indelible ink stains on the back of Ianto's smoke grey trousers, his white cotton underwear and even his previously flawless, palest Welsh cream buttocks - Jack's words, not his.
By the second time they had wildly inappropriate sex on the desk in Jack's office, with only a - yes, intentionally - unlocked door separating them from the rest of their now quietly amused and most definitely aware team, Ianto had conscientiously replaced the stapler with a stronger model, found a caddy for the marker pens, and had a custom-built drop-tested laptop in place.
He also stocked the bottom drawer with seven different kinds of lubricant, a blindfold and some handcuffs, a thumb-sized vibrating bullet with detachable latex ring, and a gross of condoms in various colours and flavors, ribbed and bobbled, lubed and not - because, while skin-to-skin is great, it can end up too damned messy when emergencies crop up, and they always do.
Prompted by: merry_gentry - Leverage, Nate/Eliot, toys, 171 words, R
Three Thumbs Up
Nate has just finished lubing up the butt-plug when Eliot notices a movement from the corner of his eye and rolls his head to the left - about the only freedom of movement he has right now, the way Nate has him tied, at wrist and ankle, to the desk.
Parker is hanging upside down outside the window, insanely cheery grin plastered across her face, head tilted at the unmistakeable 'Parker is learning something new about people and their interactions' angle, two thumbs up to show her wholehearted approval - though if she's upside down and her thumbs are pointing towards her feet, does that really mean…?
The plug slides home with a wicked twist, dragging a yelp from Eliot and a gleeful chuckle from Nate, who flashes a thumbs-up of his own in Parker's general direction before replying to the question framed by Eliot's eyebrows with a shrug and a cocky, "You said I should bring some toys to the party, so I chose that plug, this blindfold, and Parker's endless curiosity."
aaaaaaaaaaaaand, I'm done. *collapses*