fic: Merry (Really Freaking Late) Christmas! - Presents, presents presents! (Part 2)
And so I carry on, next verse, same as the first... ♥
cyphersushi:
Leverage/Burn Notice, Eliot/Mike, "No proper christmas in Florida, darlin'":
I learned a long time ago not to bother arguing with Eliot, at least not unless I really needed to; the man could out-stubborn a mule and go head on with a bull like some kind of rockstar matador who uses only his bare hands.
“There’s no snow, for one thing,” Eliot’s saying, ticking his points out on his fingers, “and no, a palm tree ain’t no proper replacement for a proper fir, I don’t care how great your mama is at hangin’ ornaments on one…” But he’s in Miami, in my bed and naked on Christmas Eve, and that’s got to count for something, right?
Spy AU, Blondie/Chris, unconventional gifts:
Sometimes it’s art, traditional and sometimes ancient pieces from around the world carefully arranged and, surprisingly, perfectly legal. Sometime’s it’s perfectly mundane, a song that hadn’t been on an mp3 player before or a book slipped in his suitcase, precisely what is wanted, or needed, in the long stretches of waiting. Always it’s a connection, one that few besides the two of them can understand an interpret.
Steampunk AU, Steve/Chris, paint flecked skin:
“I thought only children were given to painting without tools,” Christian murmurs, trying not to stare at the stains on Master Carlson’s hands, the remnants of colors more exotic and nearly luminous against his fine skin.
“But these are the tools the gods gave us,” Steven says, moving them to where Christian might see them better in the splash of sunlight, “to move and hold and shape with all the best our minds, and hearts, dare to design. Nor is linen and hemp our only canvas.”
~
Christian shivers - the paint is cool against his skin, heightening his awareness to every movement and caress of Steven’s fingers, even only just on the inside of his arm. Even simple flecks of paint seem to hold some meaning, some impression of beauty that he’s sure only Steven could possibly begin to see.
“It is certainly a beginning,” Steven says as he reaches up for the buttons on Christian’s waistcoat.
~
“You have traveled,” Steven murmurs, leaning close, his breath tickling Christian’s stomach as he corrects some detail with his thumb just below a rib, “so perhaps you have heard of Mandala? It is ritual art, created carefully by the devout over several weeks in intricate detail, with gorgeous depictions of deities in perfect geometry, and once completed, are destroyed.” There is barely any hesitation as he stands back, taking a good look at his work, and then he steps in, pressing their bodies together and smearing the paint as he slides his hands down Christian’s sides.
Firefly/Wolverine, Logan/Remy, one night and we never talk about it again:
The man is a thief, and a conman, and a wong ba duhn, and Logan can’t keep his mind off of him, couldn’t help the coil of want low in his belly that he can only barely keep a reign on. The way Remy looks at him don’t help any, bright eyes that are the first thing he can actually remember, true and whole without even tryin’.
“Just the once,” Logan growls, low in his chest so Wade can’t hear, “and no one hears about it, we never speak of it again.”
~
“You always jin joh bu chi chi fah joh?” Remy asks when Logan finally leans back for breath.
“Joo koh,” Logan hisses and tears at his shirt, sending delicate buttons flying before grinding his hips up. Thankfully for once Remy listens, abandoning words in favor of moans and setting clever fingers to work at Logan’s fly.
~
Remy arches between him and the bulwark, panting and tightening his legs around Logan’s waist, bracing himself as he encourages him deeper and harder. They never quite made it to his bunk, though at least they’re in Logan’s quarters, because he obliges Remy, setting a nearly brutal pace that pushes the younger man right up to the edge, whimpering and begging. Logan reaches between them and barely needs to stroke him to push him over; and the way Remy tightens around him and writhes is enough to make him follow after.
Firefly/Wolverine, Bradley/River, toys:
Bradley ain’t quite sure how she wandered up into The Wolverine without ever bein’ noticed by Wade or Wraith or somebody, but she plopped herself right down and comfy next to the engine and asked him how he made the stars glow. Not that he had a damn clue what that meant, but he had to think of something didn’t he? So he strung up lights all around that flickered and glowed like the ones in the deepest part of the Black, and pulled out a few of the toys he was workin’ on for his cousin’s daughter; they needed a little somethin’ extra anyways and stars just about did the trick.
RPS (Apollo AU), When the music plays...:
It’s magnetic, mesmerizing, watching Steve on stage, like the man tunes out and becomes something more, something greater, something more… real and connected and Chris hasn’t got words for it. For the look on Steve’s face as he plays, the notes and the words all falling into place as a matter of perfection. The way his head falls back like he’s making love to the music and Chris feels small in comparison.
~
Finding out what Steve is (or rather who, cos Jesus, the man is Apollo) really doesn’t help any; Christian recognizes now that sense of power, of divinity, that comes together when he plays, fueled on by worship from the crowd. He’s just… just insignificant, and feels the fool for thinking that he could stand up to that, let alone be any part of it. Then Steven opens his eyes - they’re the color of the Mediterranean - and Chris doesn’t hear the lyrics so much as feel them resonating in his chest, in his very bones.
elebridith:
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot, Jayne; Vera:
“Were you just … talkin’ to yer gun?” Eliot asks, stopping halfway between the mule and the next batch of cargo.
“Gwon ni tze jee duh shr,” Jayne responds, but Eliot could swear he was blushin’, whether from pride or embarrassment he’s not sure he wants to know. “Ain’t no business o’yourn what I do with Vera.”
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot, Shepherd Book, suspicions:
The man looks familiar, in a vague sort of way, like there’s something half glimpsed in a dusty memory from his most… uncomfortable days with the military. Ain’t just that, though, oh no, the way he even moves is distinctive, and Eliot knows without thinkin’ that the man weren’t always a Shepherd, assumin’ that the man really did take up the cloth and it ain’t just the most convenient, most peaceful cover. Except for how Eliot can’t quite put his thumb on it, not yet, but he will…
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, The Matrix:
“I’m just sayin’,” Hardison says, not for the first time since he pressed play on the DVD, “it ain’t humanly possible to even perceive that many running lines of code coherently, no matter how much training you got, cos there’s limits, limits ok, to how much the human brain can even multi-task, even if the code to run something like the Matrix would need ten times as many screens to-”
Eliot tunes him out, taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose and wondering how it is, exactly, a simple action movie got to be so damn complicated. He could always use sex as a distraction, but then there’s the question of whether or not one or the other of them is becoming subject to pavlovian reward responses.
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, shower:
The water is hot, steaming the glass door to the shower and fogging the mirror beyond it, facts which Hardison only half notices and tries to cling to in an effort not to come too quickly. Eliot seems to be determined to crack his resolve, filthy words pouring like a litany down his back with the water, hands everywhere, teasing his cock as he presses deeper, and it’s all Alec can do to hold on to the frame. And then he just comes undone with the right flick of the wrist, the right angle, the feeling of Eliot filling him, and he can’t tell if the rushing in his ears is his heartbeat or the sound of the shower.
RPS AU, Kitten!Chris/Vampire!Steve, candles:
The thunder cracks loud enough to shake the windows and the lights go out, and Chris yowls, bolting under a blanket on the couch, curled up tight with his nose buried under his tail. Shadows form against the blanket as Steven brings over a candle, and it’d be scarier, except that Chris can smell hot chocolate. Steven scritches him behind the ears as he sits down, pulling the blanket back just enough for the kitten to take his mug.
RPS Waiter!AU, Steve/Chris, Nutella and strawberries:
The nutella is smooth, just the right balance of creamy and thick, rich with chocolate and just a hint of nuttiness that does nothing to overpower the burst of sweet juice as he bites into the strawberry. Steven’s barely swallowed when Chris kisses him, reclaiming his mouth from the flavor, teeth dragging over his bottom lip as he pulls away again.
“More,” Steve breathes, tipping his face up to chase Christian’s lips.
Leverage/Burn Notice, Eliot/Mike, mistletoe:
Hardison had hung the stuff, probably intending to try and lay one on Parker or Fiona (or if he were really lucky, Parker and Fiona) but he really hadn’t been counting on both Michael and Eliot having separate but equally harrowing near death experiences. Fi took one look at Eliot standing under the mistletoe alone, a fact which Mike had yet to notice, and shoved the man hard in the right direction. To say Mike recovered from it well would be an understatement - Hardison peeks through his fingers to see that they are, in fact, still kissing, but hey, at least they’re still wearing their clothes…
Lovesong/Rescue 77, Billy/Wick, snuggle:
Billy yelps as Wick throws himself onto him, and the bed, in nothing but a tank top and his boxers, and yelps again as the man half wrestles half wriggles his way under the sheets and latches himself to Billy, skin to freezing skin.
“LA ain’t supposed to get this cold,” he grumbles, shivering a little as he presses closer still, the words muffled because his face is buried against Billy’s neck. “You wanna warm me up?”
Goth!verse, Chris/Steve, hidden romantic:
“Chris,” Mikey asks, eyes wide as he looks between Pauley and Jensen, “as in our Christian, Christian mother-fucking-Kane, Christian I-chew-up-drummers-for-lunch Christian, that Christian? You expect me to believe that he’s a closet romantic and now he’s gleefully happy with the new blond guy from Hawaii?”
Of course, at that very moment Christian wanders in, cell phone pressed to one ear as he talks about when he’s getting off of work and what to have for dinner, all with a small (yes, gleefully happy) smile and a blush tinging his cheeks; Mike pours himself a shot of the nearest whiskey to hand, cos it’s gotta be the end of the world…
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, hidden romantic:
Everyone expects Eliot to be the romantic - he’s the southern gentleman (barring the whole head bashing thing) and his mama raised him right, and besides, there was that whole thing between him and Aimee where he gave the girl a freaking promise ring. They expect Hardison to be sweet, but kind of an idiot, always doing things geek-ass backwards, like his idea of a date is baking his Hot Pockets instead of microwaving them and adding a splash of tequila to the orange soda while playing World of Warcraft.
Eliot doesn’t feel the need to correct them, not when he comes home from a side job in Moscow to an apartment lit softly by candles, a delicious wine breathing on the counter, and filet mignon and pasta; the man waits just long enough to be sure Eliot won’t react on instinct, and then wraps him up in a hug so tight it feels like he might not let go.
shannonrita:
Goth!SC/Goth!CK/Were!Nate, first christmas together:
Nate fidgets with the bows, wondering for the nth time if he should have chosen a more traditional Christmas color over black for the wrapping paper; Steve and Christian added color to their lives in ways he never expected, and he has the feeling he’s being ridiculous just because this is the first Christmas he’s been vaguely sober for in a few years.
Christian opens the door and his eyes light up, a brilliant smile splitting his face as he pulls Nate inside and hugs him before pushing him toward the kitchen so Steve can do the same. “Thought you said you weren’t coming,” Steve murmurs, but Nate can hear how pleased he is.
Goth!Jensen/Goth!Jared, christmas candy:
Jared tastes like candy canes and ginger bread men when he kisses Jensen, there in the middle of the salon. His lips are just a bit sticky, though Jensen can’t bring himself to mind, not with Jared grinning into the kiss and Adrienne giggling from the front desk.
“Hot chocolate when I’m done here, with marshmallows and whipped cream?” he asks when he pulls away, smiling like a kid in a candy store.
RPS/Steampunk AU, Steve/Christian, listening to the music:
The music is gentle, fluttering over his ears like fingers on his skin, something with a violin, Christian thinks, but he can’t bear to grant the gramophone so much attention, not with Steven draped over him. He much prefers the soft sounds of slumber, of breathing deep and even, and the subtle rustle of sheets as Steven shifts closer. Steve hums softly, almost a purr, as Christian cards his fingers through his hair, stroking the back of his neck.
RPS/AU, Kitten!Chris/Vampire!Steve, building a snow man:
The base is twice as big around as he is, if he curls up in a ball, but Chris is determined to push it all by himself until it’s in just the right spot for him to build it a tail in the snow. He gets Steven to help with the middle, but only a little bit cos it’s got big sticks in it for arms, and then he gets the vampire to pick him up so he can put the smallest ball on top cos it’s just too high for him to reach; he’s got colored stones for the eyes and mouth and his mama gave him a nice big carrot for the nose.
“Stevie’s gonna love it,” Steven says as he lifts Christian up to put on the floppy hat and bright blue scarf.
RPS/Steampunk AU, Steve/Christian, laughter:
Steven knows that Christian laughs, but it’s a quiet, tired sound that isn’t much as far as laughter goes, always guarded or self conscious, and it makes him curious. Makes him wonder how to make him really laugh, to be relaxed enough, comfortable enough (happy enough) to open up and just the sound spill out. Makes him wonder if Christian’s eyes crinkle at the edges and his head falls back, if he’ll still blush…
Goth!SC/Goth!Jared/Goth!Mikey, Trying to figure out what to buy:
Jensen managed to talk Steve into babysitting Mikey the day before Christmas, and promptly talked Jared into going with them to keep Steve from killing Mikey, all so the crazy-assed bartender could try and find an appropriate gift for Tom - a smart maneuver, to be sure, but Jared has every intention of making Jensen pay for it. He’s got one hand on Steve’s chest and the other on Mike’s, and for once he’s thankful he’s taller by far than the both of them because he feels like he’s holding back overgrown children.
“Guys, guys,” he says, and pushes them a little farther apart, farther away from the shelving, “I’m sure they’ll have another … Nerf N-Strike Firefly REV-8 with glow in the dark darts in the back…”
Goth!SC/Goth!Chris/Were!Nate, Christmas Eve:
It almost feels blasphemous, doing this beneath a Christmas tree, on Christmas Eve, feels so wrong and dirty when he can still so clearly remember the way Sam would run to the tree for his gifts, paper and ribbons flying in his excitement. But Steve’s head falls back on his shoulder, gasping as he presses back into him before his hips hitch forward again, making Christian keen with need, and all Nate’s thoughts of before scatter like Christmas lights.
Waiter!Steve/CK, What are you doing for the holidays?:
Steve already knows when he asks the question that Christian will be going to Oklahoma for Christmas, and that at some point he’ll be in Nashville recording, but Steve doesn’t know where he fits, if he fits, in the man’s chaotic travel schedule.
“Well, I was thinkin’ the day before Christmas Eve you’d come over an’ we’d spend the day’n bed except for cooking,” Chris says, “cos I ain’t leavin’ unless I’ve given you your present. And of course I’ll be back on the 31st; got no plans on seein’ in the new year without you…”
RPS/AU, Goth!MB/Author's choice, he makes me smile:
It’s the soft sound of the piano that wakes him, notes played as gently as a caress, and the delicious aroma of coffee that makes Matt sit up, stretching and yawning before padding to the doorway and leaning against the frame. Lee’s at the piano, hair sticking every which way like he only barely remembered to set the coffee brewing before sitting down to play, but he looks up, a sleepy, lopsided smile gracing his lips. Matt slides onto the bench beside him, because he can’t not smile and he can’t not kiss him.
Goth!MB/Author's Choice, I think you're beautiful:
He pulls Ewan closer, letting his fingers card through his hair, as they resettle, their legs tangled together and Ewan’s head tucked under Matt’s chin. Matt can feel the way Ewan’s shoulders still tremble when he breathes, the way he keeps tensing like he’s trying to force himself to relax, to force himself not to cling. He kisses Ewan’s temple, murmuring I love you and he’s wrong and you’re beautiful into his hair.
No, the "he" is not Lee.
RPS/AU, Goth!MB/Goth!Ewan/Goth!Lee, first Christmas together:
“Coming, coming,” Ewan calls out, grumpy at being woken so bloody early on the bloody eve of Christmas and not really giving a damn at the fact he’s only in his boxers. He pulls the door open without bothering to look through the peep hole and then stops short; Ewan hadn’t been expecting to see either Matt or Lee for a few more days at least, not when both of them have to travel to see family, and yet here they are on his doorstep, leaning into each other and grinning and holding out a few wrapped boxes and a bottle of Jameson.
“Merry Christmas,” Lee says cheerfully, kissing him as he moves past him into the apartment and making room for Matt to wrap Ewan up in a tight hug.
RPS, Spy!Steve/Author's choice (if any), Visiting Joven for Christmas:
You never know what to expect at an Agency office party, especially during holidays; spies and assassins are notoriously wound tight under layers of brilliant lies designed to show how uptight they’re not, and gathering them anywhere together and telling them to cut loose…
Needless to say, Blondie isn’t surprised about being tackled to the ground as he walks through the door, though for a few brief moments the sheer weight and proportions confuse him for a few moments, until he hears Babydoll giggling and he has to laugh. “Merry Christmas to you too, Jo…”
Technically she borrowed my spy, but I don't mind returning the favor!
RPS, waiter!Steve + BT, getting the job offer:
Steve blinks, eyes wide as he looks over the kitchen, the perfect, huge kitchen, and back at his friend. His mouth opens and closes for a moment, because what can he say to an offer like that, to something so completely crazy as making him the executive chef? To someone having so much faith in him when he’s just a waiter that likes to cook?
Yeah, this is in the future from most anything I'll write for this verse...
cosmicviolet:
SPN, Dean/truckstop waitress, vibrating bed:
It’s halfway between there and wherever-the-fuck-else that Dean finally stops for gas, finally concedes that he needs to eat before his stomach decides to eat itself. Sam is Not Here, at the School Which Will Remain Unnamed, and it feels strangely hollow sliding into this ramshackle truckstop diner alone, so he eats up at the counter instead of taking a booth cos at least then he won’t have to stare at the empty seat in front of him. She’s petite, all smooth curls, her eyes a deep rich brown and her hair a mess of strawberry blond curls, and when he smiles at her she blushes straight up to her hairline.
~
She’s a sweet little thing, and shy, and gives him a piece of pie without putting it on his bill. That alone would’ve been enough to make him stick around a little longer, if for nothing besides the pie, but she blushes all over again when he says thank you and he just can’t bring himself to sneak her off to the bathroom. There’s a motel off the side of the diner, but that place isn’t much better than the bathroom, if he’s honest; the way she laughs when he realizes the bed’s a Magic Fingers makes up for it (makes up for Sam not mocking him).
~
He can tell she hasn’t done this before - but that she’s thought about bringing someone to the motel before - all from the way she bites her lip as she unties her apron and starts in on her buttons. Her hands don’t shake though, don’t hesitate when he touches her, so he doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t take his time even if he does hold back. She’s too soft, too small, and for once he wants to slide between the sheets without counting scars or leaving bruises, wants to walk away with a pleasant memory of this whole godforsaken trip.
~
She’s warm and wet and tight as Dean slides inside, smells sweet like apples and cinnamon, tastes faintly of chocolate, and she arches into him, tightens around him more as he rolls his hips up. Then she surprises him, rolls them over so he’s on his back, so she’s riding him, leaning over him so her nipples drag lightly over his chest to drop quarters into the machine. She giggles a little as the bed starts to vibrate, but Dean thrusts up and turns it to moans: she leans back, touching herself, thumbs sliding over her own nipples and lower to where he enters her.
~
His orgasm startles him, caught between the vibrations below him and the girl -the girl whose name he hasn’t even learned- his toes curling in the sheets as he bites his lip to keep from crying out. She isn’t far behind him, coming as he’s buried in deep, and she collapses beside him for a few moments before she kisses his cheek and gets up to put her clothes on. Dean’s almost disappointed at being alone again already, but the bed’s stopped vibrating, and really, he needs a couple hours sleep before he gets going again.
earthquakedream:
Leverage: Eliot/Hardison, rescue:
There aren’t any guns here, no bullets, no knives - well, Eliot probably does have knives, and not just the ones in his kitchen, but that’s beside the point; the point is there’s no one here to try and hurt him (that is, try to kill him). But it’s the vacuum, the empty space of nothing where all Eliot has is him and himself, that makes things hard, that keeps him up so all he ever gets are a few scant hours of sleep, that make him look away when Alec tries to look him in the eye.
But Hardison isn’t going anywhere, he slips into bed beside him and wraps his long arms around him, whispering into his hair.
Leverage: Eliot/Hardison/Parker, seduction:
She doesn’t get it, though she tries, leaving a pile of raw ingredients (obviously dug up from someone’s garden) for Eliot on Nate’s kitchen counter in a confused mess, and ten liters of orange soda lined up next to Hardison’s gaming station. She tries poetry next, but she stops that pretty quickly because Eliot’s face goes studiously blank and Hardison mutters something under his breath about taking lessons from Sophie. They finally get the hint when she leaves a trail of small gold coins all the way to the back room, and ok, so maybe swinging down from the ceiling was a bad idea, but it lands her straddling Eliot’s hips, his hands sliding up her thighs as she reaches up to pull Hardison in for a kiss without anyone yelling her or hitting her; in her book, that’s gotta count as a win.
RPS: goth!JDM/anyone, whiskey:
Jeff smiles to himself as he sips his whiskey, leaning against the doorway to his office as he watches the crowd, watches his friends as they dance and drink and laugh. Sam slides up behind him, her fingers tangling suggestively in his belt loops like she regrets letting him put them back on, but she chuckles.
“You sure know how to choose family,” she murmurs, reaching out to take his whiskey and take a long sip.
RPS: Chris/Steve, lost:
He can’t tell which way is up, the world just spinning, spinning, spinning, and he wants to let himself fall, he does, but he can’t seem to remember where he is. It makes him want to scream, to pull his hair out, to collapse down and weep because there’s something he’s forgetting, something, someone and he can’t… why can’t he remember?
“Shhh,” a familiar voice whispers, hands soothing down his back before lifting him back to his feet (when did he fall, had he fallen all along?), “I’ve got you, I’m here.”
Don't know where it came from....
RPS: Jared/Jensen, tickling:
Clever fingers find their way to skin with delicate, feather light touches that flitter from his ribs to his navel and up his sides along his ribs. Jensen yelps, flailing, but it does him absolutely no good whatsoever as Jared ducks and dodges, then twists them around and pins him to the couch with his hips to continue tickling him.
“Uncle!” he finally shouts, gasping, but he can tell from the mischievous look on Jared’s face the reprieve won’t be for long…
RPS: Jared/Steve, hands:
Jared’s hands are huge; at any other time, Steve’d have said freakishly huge because they make him feel like a girl in comparison, but right now he can’t remember any of that, can’t really seem to focus at all. Not past the way those fingertips glide over skin, broad palms stroking down his sides, sliding down to cup his ass, to lift him up and rock him forward. And when those fingers tease inside, curling, any thoughts left scatter and Steve rocks back against them.
RPS: Chris/Jensen/Jared, stubble burn:
It’s unusual, all three of them being in the same city at the same time with nothing to do, that he would be caught between them, so inseparable. That he’d feel that stubble, once so familiar, against the inside of his thigh, teasing him, infuriating him, almost giving him what he wants, what he needs. That he’d be held firm, large hands holding him still, more stubble rubbing rough against his cheek, his neck, as his head falls back and he moans.
RPS: Jared/Jensen/Jeff, anger:
It’s the sense of loss bubbling up inside him, turning cold, exhaustion swept away in the chilly rush of adrenaline, every hair standing on end, eyes too watery to see clearly, hands fisted at his sides just waiting for something to hit. They don’t notice him, not while he’s there, not when he sees, not til the door is slammed shut behind him so hard the whole wall shakes.
When his phone finally rings he doesn’t bother answering it, just throws it so hard against the side of his truck it cracks to pieces, and he waits alone with his whiskey for the shock of anger to pass, swallowed in grief.
SPN: Sam/anyone, bruises:
He hits the wall hard, but not too hard, flung around like a cat’s play toy, and it’s hard to keep from crying out, to bite back even the smallest grunts of pain. It’s harder still to look up, to see the face of his brother smiling down at him so calmly, so serenely; it hurts to see none of Dean’s humor in those bright green eyes, hair glittering in the streetlamp like a halo.
“The sorry bastard was right after all,” Lucifer murmurs with his brother’s voice, crooning in a way Dean only ever used on the girls he really liked, “build one to take an archangel, and he can take the brightest of them all… such a shame it didn’t change anything at all…”
Castle: Castle&Alexis, Christmas:
It’s the way the lights reflect on every surface of the house, scattering blinking bits of rainbow like so much wrapping paper, and the way the entire place smells like cinnamon and pine and fresh baked cupcakes. It’s the pile of presents under the tree, specially chosen and carefully placed, and the small (read: gigantic) collection of ornaments nestled in amongst the tinsel.
But really, it’s the way Alexis still curls up with him on Christmas Eve with hot coco and a plate of cookies to wait for the clock to click over to Christmas Day.
canadiangoddess:
Firefly/RPS, Christian/Mal, the corner of no and where:
“But even split up like that, we wouldn’t jin weh sung shiuh, not then, not ever,” Mal says, “and so of course the Lieutenant…” It’s a funny story, the way he tells it, and his mouth keeps movin’, his voice still telling that selfsame tale. But if anyone sees the look in his eyes when he talks about the three nights spent with Lieutenant Kane, alone behind enemy lines, with nothin’ and no one but each other to tend wounds and keep warm, if anyone notices the shadows of desire and somethin’ else… well, no one utters a word.
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot/Mal, dance of the mayflies:
They’re standing back to back, a pair of guns in Mal’s hands and a large, rather heavy lookin’ piece of engine in Eliot’s, and there ain’t either one of’m looking much happy about it.
“Well this is just yeh lu jwo duo luh jwohn whei jian guay,” Mal grunts, turning to look when the clunking and shouting gets closer, the Reavers not so slowly making their way through the maze to where they’ve gotten stuck, “and I’m of a mind to take back what I said ‘bout claimin’ this gorram piece of gosset.”
“Damn straight,” Eliot grinds out as the first of’m breaks through some of the grating, “cos if we get out of this alive I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you walk away with it!”
~
The Reavers are fast, but Eliot is faster; Mal ain’t never seen someone move that fast that weren’t River, and even then, he didn’t see it his own self, only on account of his crew. Mal holds up his end, but it works out mostly to coverin’ Eliot’s ass and killin’ those he misses with a bullet between the eyes. It takes near an hour, and Mal’s near out of bullets, but somehow, somehow they make it out of the damn mess alive.
Leverage/RPS, Eliot/Steve, chance meetings with vaguely familiar faces:
He’s in Vegas, sitting alone at the bar despite several girls making more than one offer, drinking Jack despite the fact that he’d rather be drinking tequila, but it’s his drink (the only way he can seem to remember what he tastes like anymore). It’s a reflection in the mirror behind the bottles on the back wall of the bar that makes him stop, shot glass halfway to his mouth, but it only takes a heartbeat to realize that it isn’t him, too tall, too muscular, and the hair’s too long (probably); there’s something harder about the guy too, but it doesn’t stop Steve from staring. Doesn’t stop him from wanting, even if it isn’t him, maybe because it isn’t him, like some kind of karmic retribution, or the universe apologizing for not giving him the one he actually wants.
~
Steve isn’t sure how the fight starts. It’s all a fuzzy blur and then there’s a bottle breaking beside him, nearly hitting him, and someone’s shoving him out of the way, this stranger that could almost be Chr… almost be him. He returns the favor buy punching a few guys in the face; they take it hard, but it buys him (not Christian, it’s not) a few more moments to kick a few other guys’ asses before he gets to them.
~
The stubble burns, but Steve moans anyway, needing more than wanting so he’ll take what he can get, what he can actually have, no matter how impermanent. Bites instead of kisses, hard and rough instead of gentle, bruises, instead of caresses, but Steve takes it, he gives as good as he gets because there’s nothing and no one else. He lets the guy take him over the edge, keening, and if the guy’s still holding him when he breaks it’s more than Steve thought he’d deserved.
RPS/Waiter!au, Chris/Steve, first morning after:
He’s holding his breath when he wakes up, not sure if he’ll feel anything in the bed beside him, if there will be anyone in the room with him at all, if it wasn’t all just a gloriously amazing dream.
“Mornin’,” Chris says, voice rough with sleep, and Steve opens his eyes to find Chris smiling at him, head pillowed on one arm; he reaches out, brushing a few stray curls away from Steven’s face. “‘S early yet, so you can just keep sleepin’, instead of thinkin’ you gotta make breakfast.”
You know you should prompt this for more than 3 sentences?
RPS/Waiter!au, Chris/Steve, lazy Sunday morning:
There’s a tray with the remains of breakfast on the floor beside the bed, even if Christian can’t understand why Steve made the effort of getting out of bed long enough to make crepes and parfait and coffee; at least they ate it sprawled in bed, barely covered by the sheets. He’s curled against Chris again now, their legs tangled together, an arm thrown over Chris’ stomach and his head on his chest as he dozes.
“I love waking up with you here,” Steve murmurs, and Chris kisses his hair, because he does too.
RPS, Chris/Mike Rosenbaum, we're what neither of us is really looking for:
Christian’s too short, too quiet, his hair’s too long and he growls too much, but at least he’s muscular, at least he’s pushy. Mike talks to much, he’s too soft, and the fucker is bald, but at least he can take everything Chris throws at him, at least he gives as good as he gets. There’s neither of them that really want the other, but they need, need something, right here, right now, and if Mike can’t have Jared, if Chris can’t have Steve, well - they’ll just have to do.
Leverage, Eliot. this is how the world ends:
This is how the world ends, with a bang and a whimper, echoing in his ears over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, and he isn’t fast enough, not today. This is how the world ends, with a scream and startling silence, and there’s blood on his hands, blood that should be his own. This is how the world ends: digging four graves, digging two more, and finding revenge as cold as the one already beating inside his chest.
ctrokj:
Kane, RSP Goth Chris/Goth Steve, after glow:
Christian is beautiful like this, in the moments just after, still cuffed to the headboard, still spread out on the bed, a fine sheen of sweat shining over tan skin and dark tattoos, his head fallen back as he just breathes. Deep breaths, and steady, and Steven can’t not touch, calming, soothing, can’t not feel that connection, that satisfaction of need, heart and mind, balls to bone. He kisses him, languid, giving now not taking, as he reaches up and unlocks the cuffs.
RPS, Goth!Andrew Lee Potts, these are my friends:
Gray smiles at him, dragging him away from the bar towards the far corner where a small collection of tables have been pushed together to accommodate a large group who are laughing and drinking, and just on the welcoming side of rowdy. “Guys,” he says calmly, and not so loudly, but they all look up anyway as he’s pointing people out, “this Andy; Andy, this is Steve, Chris, Jeff, Jared, Abby, Ewan, Lee, Jason - he owns the shop I was telling you about - Tom, Matt, and the evil one in the corner is Mikey.”
Andrew smiles and manages to wiggle his fingers a little in greeting (gods, there’s no way he’ll remember all those names) before the tall chick gleefully hooks her arm around his waist and pulls him down into a chair he could swear wasn’t there a second ago…
~
He’s surprised at how easy they all are to get on with, how easily they accept him; at first he thought it was just because a round of drinks will buy anyone’s friendship for an hour, but then they include him when someone else buys the next round, and then again come the next night, and then again. They fuss over where he’s staying, over the fact he hasn’t got a flat yet a week and a half later, and even offer him some place to stay. It’s strange to hope, let alone realize - these people are his friends now too.
Kane, RPS, Steampunk!Steve/Steampunk!Chris, these hands can make magic:
He marvels at the sound of Steven breathing, at the way he sighs and moans at the slightest brush of Christian’s fingertips, the way he arches his back as they drag over his nipples and down across his belly and lower. Christian never would have thought he’d be able to reduce the man to whimpering, just by curling his hand around him, thumb sliding teasingly along the head. That his hands, so dirty and calloused, could work such beautiful magic…
RPS, Steampunk!JDM, Kind hearted soul:
Mister Kane is not the first that Jefferey has taken into mind and under wing, not the first with whom he has shared his home as needed, or offered protection when warranted. Some say it is a weakness, a waste of money or an opening to those who would harm him, and perhaps it is, but as he looks down at Christian - whose fever has broken, finally - he knows in his bones that these people have few others who would do as much.
“You’re a saint,” Steven says as he enters without knocking, Ever on his heels to collect his snow peppered coat.
medjai_trowa:
Leverage, Eliot and Parker, babysitting:
Eliot wasn’t the only one to realize that it would be damned foolish to leave Parker alone to care for the kid, but he was the one to point out that Parker was the only one she trusted and so somehow had managed to volunteer himself for babysitting duty. Even Nate couldn’t placate him with mentioning Eliot’s useful protective streak, but when Sophie gave him the big round eyes he just growled and agreed. Hell, at least this way he knows neither of’m are gonna end up dead while he’s on the other side of the damn city…
~
It’s disconcerting, thinking he’s alone in the kitchen only to turn around and find two pairs of big blue eyes staring at him, enough that he sends up a prayer to whatever the hell might be listening that Parker never, ever, ever has children.
“We’re hungry,” Parker says cheerfully, “and we’ve nominated you to make lunch.” The kid tugs at her sleeve a little and gives her a look (and thank Christ Hardison ain’t here, cos he’d start swearing up and down that the two of’m are psychic), and Parker chirps, “oh, right, and we want macaroni and cheese!”
~
It’s in the afternoon, while Parker’s teaching the kid to pick locks and the Smurfs (or whatever, cos Eliot is not admitting he remembers or likes the goddamn Smurfs), that the sloppy mother fuckers kick the front door in. It pisses Eliot off that they’ve got guns to come after a kid that’s supposed to be alone, and he’s got to be careful, so it takes him a little longer than usual, but he made it a lot more painful to make up for it. He turns, looking for the girls; he can’t say he’s particularly surprised when they both peek their heads down from the ceiling tiles.
~
They spend the rest of the afternoon in the park, out in the sun, out where there’s people and Eliot can look over his shoulder and keep an eye on most things. The girl doesn’t seem too badly affected, but if Parker keeps a hand on her all the time and tries just a little too hard to seem happy, well, Eliot ain’t about to mention it. He buys them both ice cream cones, and tries not to be surprised when they both rest their heads against him while they wait for Sophie and the girl’s mother.
SPN/Leverage, Dean/Cas + Eliot, "Told you humans were fun..." *smirk*:
“I told you,” Dean murmurs, eyes black, his voice blown out, grin lazy and sated as he trails a finger down Eliot’s spine toward his ass. Eliot whimpers but doesn’t move, tension evident as his muscles quiver with effort, or perhaps from the welts raised angry and red, bruised in some places and a little bloody in others.
Castiel hums his agreement, kneeling in front of Eliot to brush his hair from his face, and is all too pleased to find there’s still strength in those bright blue eyes, strength and no small part of desire - humans really are more fun…
chatona:
RPS (Elsewhere verse), David/Christian, aftermath of a fight:
David slams the door because he can, because it’s his damn office in his own goddamn club, and he thinks for a moment it makes him feel better. Except for how he’s alone in his office, and he can hear Christian stomping his way downstairs, cussing and angry as he makes his way out of Plainsight.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, but that empty feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, and it isn’t long before he’s following in Chris’ steps.
~
It isn’t love. He knows it isn’t love because it doesn’t burn, doesn’t consume him inside and out, doesn’t destroy him for what he is even as it makes him whole in all the ways he isn’t. But he wants it anyway, wants to keep it for as long as he can; sometimes he thinks maybe it’s as close as he’ll ever get…
~
As it turns out, it’s Christian who finds him, standing at the edge of the lake and staring out at the water, at the fog hanging over all of it, all shadows and mist. “You brood too much,” he says, hands shoved deep in his pockets as though to keep himself from reaching out, like he doesn’t know if he should.
“You were right,” David says, because neither of them were ever very good at apologies.
~
They were always good at this: skin on skin, hands grasping and scratching, limbs tangled as they kiss. Chris lifts his hips, taking more, taking as much of David as he can, his head falling back as he moans, and David can feel the tension building, can feel Chris nearly quivering with need. David strokes him slowly, counter to his thrusts, drawing it out until finally he captures Christian’s mouth in his again, stealing his breath and giving him release, filling him.
~
Chris curls into him, head on David’s chest, arm resting lightly across David’s stomach as he tries to sleep, as he tries to keep his breathing rhythmic and deep. But his thoughts keep spinning, worry and heartache making a tangle in his belly that closing his eyes can’t shut out, can’t turn off. And he can’t help but think, they’ve made up but they haven’t mended, and he can’t help but wonder how much longer they can keep it up before they break…
cyphersushi:
Leverage/Burn Notice, Eliot/Mike, "No proper christmas in Florida, darlin'":
I learned a long time ago not to bother arguing with Eliot, at least not unless I really needed to; the man could out-stubborn a mule and go head on with a bull like some kind of rockstar matador who uses only his bare hands.
“There’s no snow, for one thing,” Eliot’s saying, ticking his points out on his fingers, “and no, a palm tree ain’t no proper replacement for a proper fir, I don’t care how great your mama is at hangin’ ornaments on one…” But he’s in Miami, in my bed and naked on Christmas Eve, and that’s got to count for something, right?
Spy AU, Blondie/Chris, unconventional gifts:
Sometimes it’s art, traditional and sometimes ancient pieces from around the world carefully arranged and, surprisingly, perfectly legal. Sometime’s it’s perfectly mundane, a song that hadn’t been on an mp3 player before or a book slipped in his suitcase, precisely what is wanted, or needed, in the long stretches of waiting. Always it’s a connection, one that few besides the two of them can understand an interpret.
Steampunk AU, Steve/Chris, paint flecked skin:
“I thought only children were given to painting without tools,” Christian murmurs, trying not to stare at the stains on Master Carlson’s hands, the remnants of colors more exotic and nearly luminous against his fine skin.
“But these are the tools the gods gave us,” Steven says, moving them to where Christian might see them better in the splash of sunlight, “to move and hold and shape with all the best our minds, and hearts, dare to design. Nor is linen and hemp our only canvas.”
~
Christian shivers - the paint is cool against his skin, heightening his awareness to every movement and caress of Steven’s fingers, even only just on the inside of his arm. Even simple flecks of paint seem to hold some meaning, some impression of beauty that he’s sure only Steven could possibly begin to see.
“It is certainly a beginning,” Steven says as he reaches up for the buttons on Christian’s waistcoat.
~
“You have traveled,” Steven murmurs, leaning close, his breath tickling Christian’s stomach as he corrects some detail with his thumb just below a rib, “so perhaps you have heard of Mandala? It is ritual art, created carefully by the devout over several weeks in intricate detail, with gorgeous depictions of deities in perfect geometry, and once completed, are destroyed.” There is barely any hesitation as he stands back, taking a good look at his work, and then he steps in, pressing their bodies together and smearing the paint as he slides his hands down Christian’s sides.
Firefly/Wolverine, Logan/Remy, one night and we never talk about it again:
The man is a thief, and a conman, and a wong ba duhn, and Logan can’t keep his mind off of him, couldn’t help the coil of want low in his belly that he can only barely keep a reign on. The way Remy looks at him don’t help any, bright eyes that are the first thing he can actually remember, true and whole without even tryin’.
“Just the once,” Logan growls, low in his chest so Wade can’t hear, “and no one hears about it, we never speak of it again.”
~
“You always jin joh bu chi chi fah joh?” Remy asks when Logan finally leans back for breath.
“Joo koh,” Logan hisses and tears at his shirt, sending delicate buttons flying before grinding his hips up. Thankfully for once Remy listens, abandoning words in favor of moans and setting clever fingers to work at Logan’s fly.
~
Remy arches between him and the bulwark, panting and tightening his legs around Logan’s waist, bracing himself as he encourages him deeper and harder. They never quite made it to his bunk, though at least they’re in Logan’s quarters, because he obliges Remy, setting a nearly brutal pace that pushes the younger man right up to the edge, whimpering and begging. Logan reaches between them and barely needs to stroke him to push him over; and the way Remy tightens around him and writhes is enough to make him follow after.
Firefly/Wolverine, Bradley/River, toys:
Bradley ain’t quite sure how she wandered up into The Wolverine without ever bein’ noticed by Wade or Wraith or somebody, but she plopped herself right down and comfy next to the engine and asked him how he made the stars glow. Not that he had a damn clue what that meant, but he had to think of something didn’t he? So he strung up lights all around that flickered and glowed like the ones in the deepest part of the Black, and pulled out a few of the toys he was workin’ on for his cousin’s daughter; they needed a little somethin’ extra anyways and stars just about did the trick.
RPS (Apollo AU), When the music plays...:
It’s magnetic, mesmerizing, watching Steve on stage, like the man tunes out and becomes something more, something greater, something more… real and connected and Chris hasn’t got words for it. For the look on Steve’s face as he plays, the notes and the words all falling into place as a matter of perfection. The way his head falls back like he’s making love to the music and Chris feels small in comparison.
~
Finding out what Steve is (or rather who, cos Jesus, the man is Apollo) really doesn’t help any; Christian recognizes now that sense of power, of divinity, that comes together when he plays, fueled on by worship from the crowd. He’s just… just insignificant, and feels the fool for thinking that he could stand up to that, let alone be any part of it. Then Steven opens his eyes - they’re the color of the Mediterranean - and Chris doesn’t hear the lyrics so much as feel them resonating in his chest, in his very bones.
elebridith:
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot, Jayne; Vera:
“Were you just … talkin’ to yer gun?” Eliot asks, stopping halfway between the mule and the next batch of cargo.
“Gwon ni tze jee duh shr,” Jayne responds, but Eliot could swear he was blushin’, whether from pride or embarrassment he’s not sure he wants to know. “Ain’t no business o’yourn what I do with Vera.”
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot, Shepherd Book, suspicions:
The man looks familiar, in a vague sort of way, like there’s something half glimpsed in a dusty memory from his most… uncomfortable days with the military. Ain’t just that, though, oh no, the way he even moves is distinctive, and Eliot knows without thinkin’ that the man weren’t always a Shepherd, assumin’ that the man really did take up the cloth and it ain’t just the most convenient, most peaceful cover. Except for how Eliot can’t quite put his thumb on it, not yet, but he will…
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, The Matrix:
“I’m just sayin’,” Hardison says, not for the first time since he pressed play on the DVD, “it ain’t humanly possible to even perceive that many running lines of code coherently, no matter how much training you got, cos there’s limits, limits ok, to how much the human brain can even multi-task, even if the code to run something like the Matrix would need ten times as many screens to-”
Eliot tunes him out, taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose and wondering how it is, exactly, a simple action movie got to be so damn complicated. He could always use sex as a distraction, but then there’s the question of whether or not one or the other of them is becoming subject to pavlovian reward responses.
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, shower:
The water is hot, steaming the glass door to the shower and fogging the mirror beyond it, facts which Hardison only half notices and tries to cling to in an effort not to come too quickly. Eliot seems to be determined to crack his resolve, filthy words pouring like a litany down his back with the water, hands everywhere, teasing his cock as he presses deeper, and it’s all Alec can do to hold on to the frame. And then he just comes undone with the right flick of the wrist, the right angle, the feeling of Eliot filling him, and he can’t tell if the rushing in his ears is his heartbeat or the sound of the shower.
RPS AU, Kitten!Chris/Vampire!Steve, candles:
The thunder cracks loud enough to shake the windows and the lights go out, and Chris yowls, bolting under a blanket on the couch, curled up tight with his nose buried under his tail. Shadows form against the blanket as Steven brings over a candle, and it’d be scarier, except that Chris can smell hot chocolate. Steven scritches him behind the ears as he sits down, pulling the blanket back just enough for the kitten to take his mug.
RPS Waiter!AU, Steve/Chris, Nutella and strawberries:
The nutella is smooth, just the right balance of creamy and thick, rich with chocolate and just a hint of nuttiness that does nothing to overpower the burst of sweet juice as he bites into the strawberry. Steven’s barely swallowed when Chris kisses him, reclaiming his mouth from the flavor, teeth dragging over his bottom lip as he pulls away again.
“More,” Steve breathes, tipping his face up to chase Christian’s lips.
Leverage/Burn Notice, Eliot/Mike, mistletoe:
Hardison had hung the stuff, probably intending to try and lay one on Parker or Fiona (or if he were really lucky, Parker and Fiona) but he really hadn’t been counting on both Michael and Eliot having separate but equally harrowing near death experiences. Fi took one look at Eliot standing under the mistletoe alone, a fact which Mike had yet to notice, and shoved the man hard in the right direction. To say Mike recovered from it well would be an understatement - Hardison peeks through his fingers to see that they are, in fact, still kissing, but hey, at least they’re still wearing their clothes…
Lovesong/Rescue 77, Billy/Wick, snuggle:
Billy yelps as Wick throws himself onto him, and the bed, in nothing but a tank top and his boxers, and yelps again as the man half wrestles half wriggles his way under the sheets and latches himself to Billy, skin to freezing skin.
“LA ain’t supposed to get this cold,” he grumbles, shivering a little as he presses closer still, the words muffled because his face is buried against Billy’s neck. “You wanna warm me up?”
Goth!verse, Chris/Steve, hidden romantic:
“Chris,” Mikey asks, eyes wide as he looks between Pauley and Jensen, “as in our Christian, Christian mother-fucking-Kane, Christian I-chew-up-drummers-for-lunch Christian, that Christian? You expect me to believe that he’s a closet romantic and now he’s gleefully happy with the new blond guy from Hawaii?”
Of course, at that very moment Christian wanders in, cell phone pressed to one ear as he talks about when he’s getting off of work and what to have for dinner, all with a small (yes, gleefully happy) smile and a blush tinging his cheeks; Mike pours himself a shot of the nearest whiskey to hand, cos it’s gotta be the end of the world…
Leverage, Alec/Eliot, hidden romantic:
Everyone expects Eliot to be the romantic - he’s the southern gentleman (barring the whole head bashing thing) and his mama raised him right, and besides, there was that whole thing between him and Aimee where he gave the girl a freaking promise ring. They expect Hardison to be sweet, but kind of an idiot, always doing things geek-ass backwards, like his idea of a date is baking his Hot Pockets instead of microwaving them and adding a splash of tequila to the orange soda while playing World of Warcraft.
Eliot doesn’t feel the need to correct them, not when he comes home from a side job in Moscow to an apartment lit softly by candles, a delicious wine breathing on the counter, and filet mignon and pasta; the man waits just long enough to be sure Eliot won’t react on instinct, and then wraps him up in a hug so tight it feels like he might not let go.
shannonrita:
Goth!SC/Goth!CK/Were!Nate, first christmas together:
Nate fidgets with the bows, wondering for the nth time if he should have chosen a more traditional Christmas color over black for the wrapping paper; Steve and Christian added color to their lives in ways he never expected, and he has the feeling he’s being ridiculous just because this is the first Christmas he’s been vaguely sober for in a few years.
Christian opens the door and his eyes light up, a brilliant smile splitting his face as he pulls Nate inside and hugs him before pushing him toward the kitchen so Steve can do the same. “Thought you said you weren’t coming,” Steve murmurs, but Nate can hear how pleased he is.
Goth!Jensen/Goth!Jared, christmas candy:
Jared tastes like candy canes and ginger bread men when he kisses Jensen, there in the middle of the salon. His lips are just a bit sticky, though Jensen can’t bring himself to mind, not with Jared grinning into the kiss and Adrienne giggling from the front desk.
“Hot chocolate when I’m done here, with marshmallows and whipped cream?” he asks when he pulls away, smiling like a kid in a candy store.
RPS/Steampunk AU, Steve/Christian, listening to the music:
The music is gentle, fluttering over his ears like fingers on his skin, something with a violin, Christian thinks, but he can’t bear to grant the gramophone so much attention, not with Steven draped over him. He much prefers the soft sounds of slumber, of breathing deep and even, and the subtle rustle of sheets as Steven shifts closer. Steve hums softly, almost a purr, as Christian cards his fingers through his hair, stroking the back of his neck.
RPS/AU, Kitten!Chris/Vampire!Steve, building a snow man:
The base is twice as big around as he is, if he curls up in a ball, but Chris is determined to push it all by himself until it’s in just the right spot for him to build it a tail in the snow. He gets Steven to help with the middle, but only a little bit cos it’s got big sticks in it for arms, and then he gets the vampire to pick him up so he can put the smallest ball on top cos it’s just too high for him to reach; he’s got colored stones for the eyes and mouth and his mama gave him a nice big carrot for the nose.
“Stevie’s gonna love it,” Steven says as he lifts Christian up to put on the floppy hat and bright blue scarf.
RPS/Steampunk AU, Steve/Christian, laughter:
Steven knows that Christian laughs, but it’s a quiet, tired sound that isn’t much as far as laughter goes, always guarded or self conscious, and it makes him curious. Makes him wonder how to make him really laugh, to be relaxed enough, comfortable enough (happy enough) to open up and just the sound spill out. Makes him wonder if Christian’s eyes crinkle at the edges and his head falls back, if he’ll still blush…
Goth!SC/Goth!Jared/Goth!Mikey, Trying to figure out what to buy:
Jensen managed to talk Steve into babysitting Mikey the day before Christmas, and promptly talked Jared into going with them to keep Steve from killing Mikey, all so the crazy-assed bartender could try and find an appropriate gift for Tom - a smart maneuver, to be sure, but Jared has every intention of making Jensen pay for it. He’s got one hand on Steve’s chest and the other on Mike’s, and for once he’s thankful he’s taller by far than the both of them because he feels like he’s holding back overgrown children.
“Guys, guys,” he says, and pushes them a little farther apart, farther away from the shelving, “I’m sure they’ll have another … Nerf N-Strike Firefly REV-8 with glow in the dark darts in the back…”
Goth!SC/Goth!Chris/Were!Nate, Christmas Eve:
It almost feels blasphemous, doing this beneath a Christmas tree, on Christmas Eve, feels so wrong and dirty when he can still so clearly remember the way Sam would run to the tree for his gifts, paper and ribbons flying in his excitement. But Steve’s head falls back on his shoulder, gasping as he presses back into him before his hips hitch forward again, making Christian keen with need, and all Nate’s thoughts of before scatter like Christmas lights.
Waiter!Steve/CK, What are you doing for the holidays?:
Steve already knows when he asks the question that Christian will be going to Oklahoma for Christmas, and that at some point he’ll be in Nashville recording, but Steve doesn’t know where he fits, if he fits, in the man’s chaotic travel schedule.
“Well, I was thinkin’ the day before Christmas Eve you’d come over an’ we’d spend the day’n bed except for cooking,” Chris says, “cos I ain’t leavin’ unless I’ve given you your present. And of course I’ll be back on the 31st; got no plans on seein’ in the new year without you…”
RPS/AU, Goth!MB/Author's choice, he makes me smile:
It’s the soft sound of the piano that wakes him, notes played as gently as a caress, and the delicious aroma of coffee that makes Matt sit up, stretching and yawning before padding to the doorway and leaning against the frame. Lee’s at the piano, hair sticking every which way like he only barely remembered to set the coffee brewing before sitting down to play, but he looks up, a sleepy, lopsided smile gracing his lips. Matt slides onto the bench beside him, because he can’t not smile and he can’t not kiss him.
Goth!MB/Author's Choice, I think you're beautiful:
He pulls Ewan closer, letting his fingers card through his hair, as they resettle, their legs tangled together and Ewan’s head tucked under Matt’s chin. Matt can feel the way Ewan’s shoulders still tremble when he breathes, the way he keeps tensing like he’s trying to force himself to relax, to force himself not to cling. He kisses Ewan’s temple, murmuring I love you and he’s wrong and you’re beautiful into his hair.
No, the "he" is not Lee.
RPS/AU, Goth!MB/Goth!Ewan/Goth!Lee, first Christmas together:
“Coming, coming,” Ewan calls out, grumpy at being woken so bloody early on the bloody eve of Christmas and not really giving a damn at the fact he’s only in his boxers. He pulls the door open without bothering to look through the peep hole and then stops short; Ewan hadn’t been expecting to see either Matt or Lee for a few more days at least, not when both of them have to travel to see family, and yet here they are on his doorstep, leaning into each other and grinning and holding out a few wrapped boxes and a bottle of Jameson.
“Merry Christmas,” Lee says cheerfully, kissing him as he moves past him into the apartment and making room for Matt to wrap Ewan up in a tight hug.
RPS, Spy!Steve/Author's choice (if any), Visiting Joven for Christmas:
You never know what to expect at an Agency office party, especially during holidays; spies and assassins are notoriously wound tight under layers of brilliant lies designed to show how uptight they’re not, and gathering them anywhere together and telling them to cut loose…
Needless to say, Blondie isn’t surprised about being tackled to the ground as he walks through the door, though for a few brief moments the sheer weight and proportions confuse him for a few moments, until he hears Babydoll giggling and he has to laugh. “Merry Christmas to you too, Jo…”
Technically she borrowed my spy, but I don't mind returning the favor!
RPS, waiter!Steve + BT, getting the job offer:
Steve blinks, eyes wide as he looks over the kitchen, the perfect, huge kitchen, and back at his friend. His mouth opens and closes for a moment, because what can he say to an offer like that, to something so completely crazy as making him the executive chef? To someone having so much faith in him when he’s just a waiter that likes to cook?
Yeah, this is in the future from most anything I'll write for this verse...
cosmicviolet:
SPN, Dean/truckstop waitress, vibrating bed:
It’s halfway between there and wherever-the-fuck-else that Dean finally stops for gas, finally concedes that he needs to eat before his stomach decides to eat itself. Sam is Not Here, at the School Which Will Remain Unnamed, and it feels strangely hollow sliding into this ramshackle truckstop diner alone, so he eats up at the counter instead of taking a booth cos at least then he won’t have to stare at the empty seat in front of him. She’s petite, all smooth curls, her eyes a deep rich brown and her hair a mess of strawberry blond curls, and when he smiles at her she blushes straight up to her hairline.
~
She’s a sweet little thing, and shy, and gives him a piece of pie without putting it on his bill. That alone would’ve been enough to make him stick around a little longer, if for nothing besides the pie, but she blushes all over again when he says thank you and he just can’t bring himself to sneak her off to the bathroom. There’s a motel off the side of the diner, but that place isn’t much better than the bathroom, if he’s honest; the way she laughs when he realizes the bed’s a Magic Fingers makes up for it (makes up for Sam not mocking him).
~
He can tell she hasn’t done this before - but that she’s thought about bringing someone to the motel before - all from the way she bites her lip as she unties her apron and starts in on her buttons. Her hands don’t shake though, don’t hesitate when he touches her, so he doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t take his time even if he does hold back. She’s too soft, too small, and for once he wants to slide between the sheets without counting scars or leaving bruises, wants to walk away with a pleasant memory of this whole godforsaken trip.
~
She’s warm and wet and tight as Dean slides inside, smells sweet like apples and cinnamon, tastes faintly of chocolate, and she arches into him, tightens around him more as he rolls his hips up. Then she surprises him, rolls them over so he’s on his back, so she’s riding him, leaning over him so her nipples drag lightly over his chest to drop quarters into the machine. She giggles a little as the bed starts to vibrate, but Dean thrusts up and turns it to moans: she leans back, touching herself, thumbs sliding over her own nipples and lower to where he enters her.
~
His orgasm startles him, caught between the vibrations below him and the girl -the girl whose name he hasn’t even learned- his toes curling in the sheets as he bites his lip to keep from crying out. She isn’t far behind him, coming as he’s buried in deep, and she collapses beside him for a few moments before she kisses his cheek and gets up to put her clothes on. Dean’s almost disappointed at being alone again already, but the bed’s stopped vibrating, and really, he needs a couple hours sleep before he gets going again.
earthquakedream:
Leverage: Eliot/Hardison, rescue:
There aren’t any guns here, no bullets, no knives - well, Eliot probably does have knives, and not just the ones in his kitchen, but that’s beside the point; the point is there’s no one here to try and hurt him (that is, try to kill him). But it’s the vacuum, the empty space of nothing where all Eliot has is him and himself, that makes things hard, that keeps him up so all he ever gets are a few scant hours of sleep, that make him look away when Alec tries to look him in the eye.
But Hardison isn’t going anywhere, he slips into bed beside him and wraps his long arms around him, whispering into his hair.
Leverage: Eliot/Hardison/Parker, seduction:
She doesn’t get it, though she tries, leaving a pile of raw ingredients (obviously dug up from someone’s garden) for Eliot on Nate’s kitchen counter in a confused mess, and ten liters of orange soda lined up next to Hardison’s gaming station. She tries poetry next, but she stops that pretty quickly because Eliot’s face goes studiously blank and Hardison mutters something under his breath about taking lessons from Sophie. They finally get the hint when she leaves a trail of small gold coins all the way to the back room, and ok, so maybe swinging down from the ceiling was a bad idea, but it lands her straddling Eliot’s hips, his hands sliding up her thighs as she reaches up to pull Hardison in for a kiss without anyone yelling her or hitting her; in her book, that’s gotta count as a win.
RPS: goth!JDM/anyone, whiskey:
Jeff smiles to himself as he sips his whiskey, leaning against the doorway to his office as he watches the crowd, watches his friends as they dance and drink and laugh. Sam slides up behind him, her fingers tangling suggestively in his belt loops like she regrets letting him put them back on, but she chuckles.
“You sure know how to choose family,” she murmurs, reaching out to take his whiskey and take a long sip.
RPS: Chris/Steve, lost:
He can’t tell which way is up, the world just spinning, spinning, spinning, and he wants to let himself fall, he does, but he can’t seem to remember where he is. It makes him want to scream, to pull his hair out, to collapse down and weep because there’s something he’s forgetting, something, someone and he can’t… why can’t he remember?
“Shhh,” a familiar voice whispers, hands soothing down his back before lifting him back to his feet (when did he fall, had he fallen all along?), “I’ve got you, I’m here.”
Don't know where it came from....
RPS: Jared/Jensen, tickling:
Clever fingers find their way to skin with delicate, feather light touches that flitter from his ribs to his navel and up his sides along his ribs. Jensen yelps, flailing, but it does him absolutely no good whatsoever as Jared ducks and dodges, then twists them around and pins him to the couch with his hips to continue tickling him.
“Uncle!” he finally shouts, gasping, but he can tell from the mischievous look on Jared’s face the reprieve won’t be for long…
RPS: Jared/Steve, hands:
Jared’s hands are huge; at any other time, Steve’d have said freakishly huge because they make him feel like a girl in comparison, but right now he can’t remember any of that, can’t really seem to focus at all. Not past the way those fingertips glide over skin, broad palms stroking down his sides, sliding down to cup his ass, to lift him up and rock him forward. And when those fingers tease inside, curling, any thoughts left scatter and Steve rocks back against them.
RPS: Chris/Jensen/Jared, stubble burn:
It’s unusual, all three of them being in the same city at the same time with nothing to do, that he would be caught between them, so inseparable. That he’d feel that stubble, once so familiar, against the inside of his thigh, teasing him, infuriating him, almost giving him what he wants, what he needs. That he’d be held firm, large hands holding him still, more stubble rubbing rough against his cheek, his neck, as his head falls back and he moans.
RPS: Jared/Jensen/Jeff, anger:
It’s the sense of loss bubbling up inside him, turning cold, exhaustion swept away in the chilly rush of adrenaline, every hair standing on end, eyes too watery to see clearly, hands fisted at his sides just waiting for something to hit. They don’t notice him, not while he’s there, not when he sees, not til the door is slammed shut behind him so hard the whole wall shakes.
When his phone finally rings he doesn’t bother answering it, just throws it so hard against the side of his truck it cracks to pieces, and he waits alone with his whiskey for the shock of anger to pass, swallowed in grief.
SPN: Sam/anyone, bruises:
He hits the wall hard, but not too hard, flung around like a cat’s play toy, and it’s hard to keep from crying out, to bite back even the smallest grunts of pain. It’s harder still to look up, to see the face of his brother smiling down at him so calmly, so serenely; it hurts to see none of Dean’s humor in those bright green eyes, hair glittering in the streetlamp like a halo.
“The sorry bastard was right after all,” Lucifer murmurs with his brother’s voice, crooning in a way Dean only ever used on the girls he really liked, “build one to take an archangel, and he can take the brightest of them all… such a shame it didn’t change anything at all…”
Castle: Castle&Alexis, Christmas:
It’s the way the lights reflect on every surface of the house, scattering blinking bits of rainbow like so much wrapping paper, and the way the entire place smells like cinnamon and pine and fresh baked cupcakes. It’s the pile of presents under the tree, specially chosen and carefully placed, and the small (read: gigantic) collection of ornaments nestled in amongst the tinsel.
But really, it’s the way Alexis still curls up with him on Christmas Eve with hot coco and a plate of cookies to wait for the clock to click over to Christmas Day.
canadiangoddess:
Firefly/RPS, Christian/Mal, the corner of no and where:
“But even split up like that, we wouldn’t jin weh sung shiuh, not then, not ever,” Mal says, “and so of course the Lieutenant…” It’s a funny story, the way he tells it, and his mouth keeps movin’, his voice still telling that selfsame tale. But if anyone sees the look in his eyes when he talks about the three nights spent with Lieutenant Kane, alone behind enemy lines, with nothin’ and no one but each other to tend wounds and keep warm, if anyone notices the shadows of desire and somethin’ else… well, no one utters a word.
Leverage/Firefly, Eliot/Mal, dance of the mayflies:
They’re standing back to back, a pair of guns in Mal’s hands and a large, rather heavy lookin’ piece of engine in Eliot’s, and there ain’t either one of’m looking much happy about it.
“Well this is just yeh lu jwo duo luh jwohn whei jian guay,” Mal grunts, turning to look when the clunking and shouting gets closer, the Reavers not so slowly making their way through the maze to where they’ve gotten stuck, “and I’m of a mind to take back what I said ‘bout claimin’ this gorram piece of gosset.”
“Damn straight,” Eliot grinds out as the first of’m breaks through some of the grating, “cos if we get out of this alive I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you walk away with it!”
~
The Reavers are fast, but Eliot is faster; Mal ain’t never seen someone move that fast that weren’t River, and even then, he didn’t see it his own self, only on account of his crew. Mal holds up his end, but it works out mostly to coverin’ Eliot’s ass and killin’ those he misses with a bullet between the eyes. It takes near an hour, and Mal’s near out of bullets, but somehow, somehow they make it out of the damn mess alive.
Leverage/RPS, Eliot/Steve, chance meetings with vaguely familiar faces:
He’s in Vegas, sitting alone at the bar despite several girls making more than one offer, drinking Jack despite the fact that he’d rather be drinking tequila, but it’s his drink (the only way he can seem to remember what he tastes like anymore). It’s a reflection in the mirror behind the bottles on the back wall of the bar that makes him stop, shot glass halfway to his mouth, but it only takes a heartbeat to realize that it isn’t him, too tall, too muscular, and the hair’s too long (probably); there’s something harder about the guy too, but it doesn’t stop Steve from staring. Doesn’t stop him from wanting, even if it isn’t him, maybe because it isn’t him, like some kind of karmic retribution, or the universe apologizing for not giving him the one he actually wants.
~
Steve isn’t sure how the fight starts. It’s all a fuzzy blur and then there’s a bottle breaking beside him, nearly hitting him, and someone’s shoving him out of the way, this stranger that could almost be Chr… almost be him. He returns the favor buy punching a few guys in the face; they take it hard, but it buys him (not Christian, it’s not) a few more moments to kick a few other guys’ asses before he gets to them.
~
The stubble burns, but Steve moans anyway, needing more than wanting so he’ll take what he can get, what he can actually have, no matter how impermanent. Bites instead of kisses, hard and rough instead of gentle, bruises, instead of caresses, but Steve takes it, he gives as good as he gets because there’s nothing and no one else. He lets the guy take him over the edge, keening, and if the guy’s still holding him when he breaks it’s more than Steve thought he’d deserved.
RPS/Waiter!au, Chris/Steve, first morning after:
He’s holding his breath when he wakes up, not sure if he’ll feel anything in the bed beside him, if there will be anyone in the room with him at all, if it wasn’t all just a gloriously amazing dream.
“Mornin’,” Chris says, voice rough with sleep, and Steve opens his eyes to find Chris smiling at him, head pillowed on one arm; he reaches out, brushing a few stray curls away from Steven’s face. “‘S early yet, so you can just keep sleepin’, instead of thinkin’ you gotta make breakfast.”
You know you should prompt this for more than 3 sentences?
RPS/Waiter!au, Chris/Steve, lazy Sunday morning:
There’s a tray with the remains of breakfast on the floor beside the bed, even if Christian can’t understand why Steve made the effort of getting out of bed long enough to make crepes and parfait and coffee; at least they ate it sprawled in bed, barely covered by the sheets. He’s curled against Chris again now, their legs tangled together, an arm thrown over Chris’ stomach and his head on his chest as he dozes.
“I love waking up with you here,” Steve murmurs, and Chris kisses his hair, because he does too.
RPS, Chris/Mike Rosenbaum, we're what neither of us is really looking for:
Christian’s too short, too quiet, his hair’s too long and he growls too much, but at least he’s muscular, at least he’s pushy. Mike talks to much, he’s too soft, and the fucker is bald, but at least he can take everything Chris throws at him, at least he gives as good as he gets. There’s neither of them that really want the other, but they need, need something, right here, right now, and if Mike can’t have Jared, if Chris can’t have Steve, well - they’ll just have to do.
Leverage, Eliot. this is how the world ends:
This is how the world ends, with a bang and a whimper, echoing in his ears over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, and he isn’t fast enough, not today. This is how the world ends, with a scream and startling silence, and there’s blood on his hands, blood that should be his own. This is how the world ends: digging four graves, digging two more, and finding revenge as cold as the one already beating inside his chest.
ctrokj:
Kane, RSP Goth Chris/Goth Steve, after glow:
Christian is beautiful like this, in the moments just after, still cuffed to the headboard, still spread out on the bed, a fine sheen of sweat shining over tan skin and dark tattoos, his head fallen back as he just breathes. Deep breaths, and steady, and Steven can’t not touch, calming, soothing, can’t not feel that connection, that satisfaction of need, heart and mind, balls to bone. He kisses him, languid, giving now not taking, as he reaches up and unlocks the cuffs.
RPS, Goth!Andrew Lee Potts, these are my friends:
Gray smiles at him, dragging him away from the bar towards the far corner where a small collection of tables have been pushed together to accommodate a large group who are laughing and drinking, and just on the welcoming side of rowdy. “Guys,” he says calmly, and not so loudly, but they all look up anyway as he’s pointing people out, “this Andy; Andy, this is Steve, Chris, Jeff, Jared, Abby, Ewan, Lee, Jason - he owns the shop I was telling you about - Tom, Matt, and the evil one in the corner is Mikey.”
Andrew smiles and manages to wiggle his fingers a little in greeting (gods, there’s no way he’ll remember all those names) before the tall chick gleefully hooks her arm around his waist and pulls him down into a chair he could swear wasn’t there a second ago…
~
He’s surprised at how easy they all are to get on with, how easily they accept him; at first he thought it was just because a round of drinks will buy anyone’s friendship for an hour, but then they include him when someone else buys the next round, and then again come the next night, and then again. They fuss over where he’s staying, over the fact he hasn’t got a flat yet a week and a half later, and even offer him some place to stay. It’s strange to hope, let alone realize - these people are his friends now too.
Kane, RPS, Steampunk!Steve/Steampunk!Chris, these hands can make magic:
He marvels at the sound of Steven breathing, at the way he sighs and moans at the slightest brush of Christian’s fingertips, the way he arches his back as they drag over his nipples and down across his belly and lower. Christian never would have thought he’d be able to reduce the man to whimpering, just by curling his hand around him, thumb sliding teasingly along the head. That his hands, so dirty and calloused, could work such beautiful magic…
RPS, Steampunk!JDM, Kind hearted soul:
Mister Kane is not the first that Jefferey has taken into mind and under wing, not the first with whom he has shared his home as needed, or offered protection when warranted. Some say it is a weakness, a waste of money or an opening to those who would harm him, and perhaps it is, but as he looks down at Christian - whose fever has broken, finally - he knows in his bones that these people have few others who would do as much.
“You’re a saint,” Steven says as he enters without knocking, Ever on his heels to collect his snow peppered coat.
medjai_trowa:
Leverage, Eliot and Parker, babysitting:
Eliot wasn’t the only one to realize that it would be damned foolish to leave Parker alone to care for the kid, but he was the one to point out that Parker was the only one she trusted and so somehow had managed to volunteer himself for babysitting duty. Even Nate couldn’t placate him with mentioning Eliot’s useful protective streak, but when Sophie gave him the big round eyes he just growled and agreed. Hell, at least this way he knows neither of’m are gonna end up dead while he’s on the other side of the damn city…
~
It’s disconcerting, thinking he’s alone in the kitchen only to turn around and find two pairs of big blue eyes staring at him, enough that he sends up a prayer to whatever the hell might be listening that Parker never, ever, ever has children.
“We’re hungry,” Parker says cheerfully, “and we’ve nominated you to make lunch.” The kid tugs at her sleeve a little and gives her a look (and thank Christ Hardison ain’t here, cos he’d start swearing up and down that the two of’m are psychic), and Parker chirps, “oh, right, and we want macaroni and cheese!”
~
It’s in the afternoon, while Parker’s teaching the kid to pick locks and the Smurfs (or whatever, cos Eliot is not admitting he remembers or likes the goddamn Smurfs), that the sloppy mother fuckers kick the front door in. It pisses Eliot off that they’ve got guns to come after a kid that’s supposed to be alone, and he’s got to be careful, so it takes him a little longer than usual, but he made it a lot more painful to make up for it. He turns, looking for the girls; he can’t say he’s particularly surprised when they both peek their heads down from the ceiling tiles.
~
They spend the rest of the afternoon in the park, out in the sun, out where there’s people and Eliot can look over his shoulder and keep an eye on most things. The girl doesn’t seem too badly affected, but if Parker keeps a hand on her all the time and tries just a little too hard to seem happy, well, Eliot ain’t about to mention it. He buys them both ice cream cones, and tries not to be surprised when they both rest their heads against him while they wait for Sophie and the girl’s mother.
SPN/Leverage, Dean/Cas + Eliot, "Told you humans were fun..." *smirk*:
“I told you,” Dean murmurs, eyes black, his voice blown out, grin lazy and sated as he trails a finger down Eliot’s spine toward his ass. Eliot whimpers but doesn’t move, tension evident as his muscles quiver with effort, or perhaps from the welts raised angry and red, bruised in some places and a little bloody in others.
Castiel hums his agreement, kneeling in front of Eliot to brush his hair from his face, and is all too pleased to find there’s still strength in those bright blue eyes, strength and no small part of desire - humans really are more fun…
chatona:
RPS (Elsewhere verse), David/Christian, aftermath of a fight:
David slams the door because he can, because it’s his damn office in his own goddamn club, and he thinks for a moment it makes him feel better. Except for how he’s alone in his office, and he can hear Christian stomping his way downstairs, cussing and angry as he makes his way out of Plainsight.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, but that empty feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, and it isn’t long before he’s following in Chris’ steps.
~
It isn’t love. He knows it isn’t love because it doesn’t burn, doesn’t consume him inside and out, doesn’t destroy him for what he is even as it makes him whole in all the ways he isn’t. But he wants it anyway, wants to keep it for as long as he can; sometimes he thinks maybe it’s as close as he’ll ever get…
~
As it turns out, it’s Christian who finds him, standing at the edge of the lake and staring out at the water, at the fog hanging over all of it, all shadows and mist. “You brood too much,” he says, hands shoved deep in his pockets as though to keep himself from reaching out, like he doesn’t know if he should.
“You were right,” David says, because neither of them were ever very good at apologies.
~
They were always good at this: skin on skin, hands grasping and scratching, limbs tangled as they kiss. Chris lifts his hips, taking more, taking as much of David as he can, his head falling back as he moans, and David can feel the tension building, can feel Chris nearly quivering with need. David strokes him slowly, counter to his thrusts, drawing it out until finally he captures Christian’s mouth in his again, stealing his breath and giving him release, filling him.
~
Chris curls into him, head on David’s chest, arm resting lightly across David’s stomach as he tries to sleep, as he tries to keep his breathing rhythmic and deep. But his thoughts keep spinning, worry and heartache making a tangle in his belly that closing his eyes can’t shut out, can’t turn off. And he can’t help but think, they’ve made up but they haven’t mended, and he can’t help but wonder how much longer they can keep it up before they break…