~round up, round up~ - a very lazy collection post of little fics scattered all over
Sam/Cas, how Balthazar knows about Sassy, total crack: here.
Castiel/McCoy (uh, ish) for verizonhorizon :
It’s been a while since McCoy’s been drunk enough to hallucinate, but this really takes the cake.
The blue eyes, unwavering, are actuallly kind of starting to disturb him.
“Can I help you?” he growls out, hand tightening unconsciously on the bottle.
“I hope so,” the apparition says, apparently unmoved. “Leonard McCoy, I have come to you from the past - “
“Oh, Jesus,” snaps McCoy, and raises the whisky flask a little jerkily to his lips.
The vision tilts his head a little, questioning.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No,” McCoy says expansively, waving a hand, “No, really. Go on; I’ll just be here, pullin’ m’self together.” He rocks a little on his toes, as if for emphasis. “Well? Something to say?”
The vision hesitates for a moment, as if rethinking. The pause gives McCoy time to consider just how considerable the vision is in itself, all wide blue eyes and tousled hair, kind of hair you couldn’t achieve after a night’s worth of angry sex. God, but McCoy hadn’t been laid in far too long.
“Forgive me,” the vision says, “I - perhaps - never mind - “
and then he’s gone, in a charcoal flash of - wings? - leaving nothing but the scent of ozone behind.
McCoy studies his bottle for longer than necessary, wondering what exactly went wrong with the scotch this time.
Still, if it gives him visions like that one, he isn’t sure that wrong is exactly the word.
“Fuck all,” McCoy grumbles, lifting the flask of whisky to his mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
He throws the contents back in two swallows, and hell, maybe this is why he has hallucinations.
He takes another three swigs, just in case. Wouldn’t want to stop anything vital getting through.
Gabriel/Jimmy, bloodplay, for midnight-cowboy:
Gabriel’s kept his current vessel a long time, now; picked him up during the Wars of the Roses, and dammit, he’s pretty fond of him. A little short by today’s standards, maybe, but Gabriel can work with that; can pull all kinds of tricks to keep the quirky blacksmith-face appealing.
Jimmy Novak was the first Potential in centuries to make Gabriel even consider jumping, and really, that should say it all.
Jimmy is pliant under Gabriel’s fingers, in the moments of Castiel’s absence; and Gabriel feels strangely like a cheating husband, getting away with it. Jimmy says nothing, only arches his back as Gabriel looses rivulets of blood across his chest; carves his name over his hipbone in indelible Enochian.
Castiel will not notice, because Castiel never strips his vessel naked, and he never talks to Jimmy. This is the joy of it all. Gabriel will not be caught.
“Jimmy,” Gabriel mouths softly, lapping up the blood as it beads along the scratches of the lettering, following the ridges of Jimmy’s pectorals. “God loves you, y’know? Jesus loves you.”
And Jimmy just says yes, and lifts his hips, his brain addled. Probably from all the explosions.
Gabriel doesn’t care. Should, probably, but really, at this stage, doesn’t. Jimmy’s skin is stupidly smooth against his, Jimmy’s body accommodating and hot. His hips are narrow, neat in Gabriel’s hands. He bleeds like a dream, like heaven.
With Castiel in him, he moves like a different person, without his own fluid grace, without that kick that makes Gabriel want him. Strange, really, how possession alters a person, how entirely the term is meant.
Strange, really, how fixated Gabriel is, on Jimmy’s possession of himself - Jimmy’s blue eyes and soft hair and starry-eyed, uncomprehending stare, worshipful and endless.
“Jim,” he whispers, from the far side of the world, and Jimmy doesn’t hear him.
He’ll find someone else to cut tonight, to mark up, but it won’t be the same.
Jimmy Novak is a chosen one of God, and God, does Gabriel know it. He never expected for it to pan out quite so literally.
Still. He’s a surprise. And at Gabriel’s age, surprises are worth hanging on for.
Worf’s hands are overstrong, nipping little patterns of heat up Riker’s sides. Riker growls, low and deep in his throat; cups the nape of Word’s neck.
“C’mon,” he mutters, a jibe, and an incentive, gruff and goading. “C’mon, Worf, fuck - ” and Worf’s hands close the distance; pull their mouths together.
Against him, Worf is thunderous, inhuman and violent. Riker embraces the aggression; lets it swallow him.
More Wesley/Riker, for candesgirl :
Wesley's hands: that's what gets Riker most. Stupid, really; such an inconsequential thing, the fine pale fingers threaded through Riker's, or fisting in the bedclothes when they fuck. Stupid, that all the other things that make Riker's heart seize up in his throat - the way Beverley looks at them sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, like she's proud they're friends, oblivious; or the rapt look Wesley gets in his eye,still, when he talks about Starfleet - stupid, that all these things pale in comparison, but they do.
Wesley's hands tell a story all their own, the way a woman's hands tell her age and station in all the old-time tales, and Riker isn't strong enough to keep his eyes open and see it written there. Wesley's beautiful against him, underneath him, all lithe and growing like a weed, and sometimes, Riker can lose himself in that; in the way Wesley says his name, Will, Will, like it's all he wants. The strong muscle in Wesley's thighs; the sinuous curve of his back with sweat in its shallows; Riker wants to taste every part of Wesley there is, and feel no shame.
But then - then there are his hands, again. They're strong enough, biting into Riker's hips, pulling him closer as Wesley's back arches; or fisting in his hair, holding steady as Riker sucks him deep. But when their hands entwine, there's nothing that can take away the starkness of that contrast, the way Wesley's hands are swallowed up entirely in Riker's: boy's hands, narrow and young. The skin of them is smooth beyond all measure, pale and fine-grained, and Riker feels the jolt in his throat like an ache, how wrong he is - how impossible it would be to stop.
Wesley says his name like nobody's ever said it: "Will, c'mon. Will, please." Riker can't give that up any more than he could give up air, and he hates himself for the fact of it, but hating's never done much to change anything. It is what it is, and Riker - Riker is, too.
He learns to close his eyes when he feels the need to, blocking out the sight of fine wrists that taper, soft palms and gentle fingers. Wesley strokes his hair, kisses his face, and it hurts a little, but not as much, not with his self-preservation in place.
Wesley says his name like he's something precious, like he's worth his weight in gold.
Not-looking doesn't do very much against the kind of sick guilt that rises in his throat at that, but Riker can't help that.
Riker can't help any of it.
Annnnnnd a tiny little Sam/Dean 'it has to end where it began'.
All of these were, as usual, originally somewhere else, so, posted here for archiving purposes only, to serve my OCD.
Castiel/McCoy (uh, ish) for verizonhorizon :
It’s been a while since McCoy’s been drunk enough to hallucinate, but this really takes the cake.
The blue eyes, unwavering, are actuallly kind of starting to disturb him.
“Can I help you?” he growls out, hand tightening unconsciously on the bottle.
“I hope so,” the apparition says, apparently unmoved. “Leonard McCoy, I have come to you from the past - “
“Oh, Jesus,” snaps McCoy, and raises the whisky flask a little jerkily to his lips.
The vision tilts his head a little, questioning.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No,” McCoy says expansively, waving a hand, “No, really. Go on; I’ll just be here, pullin’ m’self together.” He rocks a little on his toes, as if for emphasis. “Well? Something to say?”
The vision hesitates for a moment, as if rethinking. The pause gives McCoy time to consider just how considerable the vision is in itself, all wide blue eyes and tousled hair, kind of hair you couldn’t achieve after a night’s worth of angry sex. God, but McCoy hadn’t been laid in far too long.
“Forgive me,” the vision says, “I - perhaps - never mind - “
and then he’s gone, in a charcoal flash of - wings? - leaving nothing but the scent of ozone behind.
McCoy studies his bottle for longer than necessary, wondering what exactly went wrong with the scotch this time.
Still, if it gives him visions like that one, he isn’t sure that wrong is exactly the word.
“Fuck all,” McCoy grumbles, lifting the flask of whisky to his mouth. “Jesus Christ.”
He throws the contents back in two swallows, and hell, maybe this is why he has hallucinations.
He takes another three swigs, just in case. Wouldn’t want to stop anything vital getting through.
Gabriel/Jimmy, bloodplay, for midnight-cowboy:
Gabriel’s kept his current vessel a long time, now; picked him up during the Wars of the Roses, and dammit, he’s pretty fond of him. A little short by today’s standards, maybe, but Gabriel can work with that; can pull all kinds of tricks to keep the quirky blacksmith-face appealing.
Jimmy Novak was the first Potential in centuries to make Gabriel even consider jumping, and really, that should say it all.
Jimmy is pliant under Gabriel’s fingers, in the moments of Castiel’s absence; and Gabriel feels strangely like a cheating husband, getting away with it. Jimmy says nothing, only arches his back as Gabriel looses rivulets of blood across his chest; carves his name over his hipbone in indelible Enochian.
Castiel will not notice, because Castiel never strips his vessel naked, and he never talks to Jimmy. This is the joy of it all. Gabriel will not be caught.
“Jimmy,” Gabriel mouths softly, lapping up the blood as it beads along the scratches of the lettering, following the ridges of Jimmy’s pectorals. “God loves you, y’know? Jesus loves you.”
And Jimmy just says yes, and lifts his hips, his brain addled. Probably from all the explosions.
Gabriel doesn’t care. Should, probably, but really, at this stage, doesn’t. Jimmy’s skin is stupidly smooth against his, Jimmy’s body accommodating and hot. His hips are narrow, neat in Gabriel’s hands. He bleeds like a dream, like heaven.
With Castiel in him, he moves like a different person, without his own fluid grace, without that kick that makes Gabriel want him. Strange, really, how possession alters a person, how entirely the term is meant.
Strange, really, how fixated Gabriel is, on Jimmy’s possession of himself - Jimmy’s blue eyes and soft hair and starry-eyed, uncomprehending stare, worshipful and endless.
“Jim,” he whispers, from the far side of the world, and Jimmy doesn’t hear him.
He’ll find someone else to cut tonight, to mark up, but it won’t be the same.
Jimmy Novak is a chosen one of God, and God, does Gabriel know it. He never expected for it to pan out quite so literally.
Still. He’s a surprise. And at Gabriel’s age, surprises are worth hanging on for.
Worf’s hands are overstrong, nipping little patterns of heat up Riker’s sides. Riker growls, low and deep in his throat; cups the nape of Word’s neck.
“C’mon,” he mutters, a jibe, and an incentive, gruff and goading. “C’mon, Worf, fuck - ” and Worf’s hands close the distance; pull their mouths together.
Against him, Worf is thunderous, inhuman and violent. Riker embraces the aggression; lets it swallow him.
More Wesley/Riker, for candesgirl :
Wesley's hands: that's what gets Riker most. Stupid, really; such an inconsequential thing, the fine pale fingers threaded through Riker's, or fisting in the bedclothes when they fuck. Stupid, that all the other things that make Riker's heart seize up in his throat - the way Beverley looks at them sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, like she's proud they're friends, oblivious; or the rapt look Wesley gets in his eye,still, when he talks about Starfleet - stupid, that all these things pale in comparison, but they do.
Wesley's hands tell a story all their own, the way a woman's hands tell her age and station in all the old-time tales, and Riker isn't strong enough to keep his eyes open and see it written there. Wesley's beautiful against him, underneath him, all lithe and growing like a weed, and sometimes, Riker can lose himself in that; in the way Wesley says his name, Will, Will, like it's all he wants. The strong muscle in Wesley's thighs; the sinuous curve of his back with sweat in its shallows; Riker wants to taste every part of Wesley there is, and feel no shame.
But then - then there are his hands, again. They're strong enough, biting into Riker's hips, pulling him closer as Wesley's back arches; or fisting in his hair, holding steady as Riker sucks him deep. But when their hands entwine, there's nothing that can take away the starkness of that contrast, the way Wesley's hands are swallowed up entirely in Riker's: boy's hands, narrow and young. The skin of them is smooth beyond all measure, pale and fine-grained, and Riker feels the jolt in his throat like an ache, how wrong he is - how impossible it would be to stop.
Wesley says his name like nobody's ever said it: "Will, c'mon. Will, please." Riker can't give that up any more than he could give up air, and he hates himself for the fact of it, but hating's never done much to change anything. It is what it is, and Riker - Riker is, too.
He learns to close his eyes when he feels the need to, blocking out the sight of fine wrists that taper, soft palms and gentle fingers. Wesley strokes his hair, kisses his face, and it hurts a little, but not as much, not with his self-preservation in place.
Wesley says his name like he's something precious, like he's worth his weight in gold.
Not-looking doesn't do very much against the kind of sick guilt that rises in his throat at that, but Riker can't help that.
Riker can't help any of it.
Annnnnnd a tiny little Sam/Dean 'it has to end where it began'.
All of these were, as usual, originally somewhere else, so, posted here for archiving purposes only, to serve my OCD.