Drabbles written by request from yesterday! Lots of RPS, some Supernatural, some other randomness. PG-NC-17 so you know, beware of that if you're like, innocent and stuff and for some reason came to my journal without the understanding that I am a giant pervert.
For
lazy_daze:
rps | jared/chad | 404 words
"They call me 'mayhem.'"
"Who's 'they'?" Jared lets the boredom bleed into his voice because-shopping. Chad, for some inexplicable reason, loves it, and his fiancée is like, at home with her babysitter or something so Chad made Jared come along, mainly so he can ignore any helpful suggestions Jared might have (although, 'You look like a fag in that' probably isn't exactly helpful) and stare at his own ass in the mirrors like he's wondering just how he managed to get so perfect-looking. Chad's arrogance knows no bounds, especially when it comes to his ass.
"The fangirls. They call me 'mayhem.' How badass is that?"
"What do they call me?"
"You don't have a cool nickname. But they do think you and Ackles are fucking."
"Dude, that's sick. We play brothers."
"They think the brothers are fucking too. They write stories about it."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Something about the way he's always touching your chest in pictures."
"It's not his fault I have an extremely touchable chest. Man, where did you hear this shit?"
"It's all over the TwoP boards. You gotta keep up, J. Know thy enemy and all that."
"The fans aren't the enemy."
"They're the ones who think you and Ackles are fucking."
"Point taken. So, 'mayhem,' huh? Yeah. I can kind of see it."
"How's that?" Chad's voice is muffled by the shirt he's pulling over his head. He picks up another-silver fishnet-and Jared rolls his eyes because seriously? Is Chad actively trying to make people think he's a twink?
"Your wife just divorced you for fraud and now you're gonna marry a girl who's still in high school. I read Defamer, man. I heard all about that prom thing." Jared tries not to smirk too much, because Chad's a good guy, mostly, and he doesn't deserve all this-but then who's he really kidding? Chad's the one engaged to a girl who's barely old enough to vote, for fuck's sake. He brings it upon himself.
"Oh. That. Well, it's not as bad as what they call you."
"You said I didn't have a nickname."
"No, I said you didn't have a cool nickname." Chad twists in front of the mirror, attempting to see the silver monstrosity from all angles. "It's Paddywack."
"What does that even mean?"
"Who the fuck knows, man. Fangirls are crazy."
"Says the man in the silver fishnet."
"Fuck you."
"In your dreams, Mayhem."
For
babyofthegroup:
from interests: dean and sam | supernatural | harry potter | 281 words
"Dude. Sammy. What the fuck, man?"
Sam grunts and rolls over in his sleep, pulling his pillow strategically over his head to block out the light from the lamp on the bedside table.
"Sammy. Sam. Seriously. Wake up."
Sam makes an angry noise that vaguely resembles a dying cat and throws his pillow at Dean, who bats it aside and holds up his book. And by 'holds' Sam means 'shakes' and by 'his' Sam means Sam's, which dude-not cool. He got that book at a midnight release party right after he and Jess started dating, and she dressed up as a house elf with miss matched socks and everything. The last thing he wants is for Dean to fuck it up just because he doesn't respect the sanctity of books.
"What, Dean? What? I am trying to sleep."
"Excuse me, sleeping beauty, but this is fucking important, man."
And then Dean gets this look on his face, all sad and pensive, like maybe Dad called and something's going down, whatever it is it's bad, because Dean looks lost and like he might start crying. Sam fumbles with his blankets and sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
"What's going on? Is it Dad? Did something happen? The demon, is it-"
"No. Just, uh. Sirius? He's not like, really dead, right? He's coming back? Necromancy. Or like, zombie, maybe? I could deal with a zombie plotline. Sirius was cool, dude. He had a flying motorcycle. It's no Impala, but…"
Sam just stares at him. Then he throws his other pillow, and only laughs a little when Dean lets it hit him square in the face.
"So, no zombies then?"
for
estralla30:
from her interests: battlestar galactica/supernatural | texas hold 'em | 588 words | seriously lame, sorry man
It turns out earth isn't at all what they thought it would be like, but at least there aren't any frakkin' cylons.
There's also no full colors, no ambrosia, and no credits. She gets paid in dollars now, for what amounts to hiding on Galactica and hoping the cylons don't find them, but at least there's plenty to spend them on, and they do have vodka, of which Starbuck is growing increasingly fond. They also have poker, which is as close to full colors as Starbuck can get, and she ends up spending most of her leave in some dive bar in a place called Alabama, cheating men out of their money with a too-wide smile on her face while Helo throws darts and eyes her nervously, like she might take off her top and start dancing on the table.
It only happened once. He really needs to get the frak over it already.
Texas Hold 'Em is almost as good as full colors. Community cards, multiple betting rounds-but the best part is, game like this, you're not playing cards, you're playing the people, and this group is about to give her all their money. It's the river, down and dirty, and she's got top two pair, king-queen. Not bad, but there's a potential straight on the board that's worrying her some, and the only guy left in the hand is a cocky son of a bitch who reminds her way too much of Lee, acting like he knows everything and just as pissy about it, too.
And there's this kid looming up behind him, almost as tall as Helo but he's a scrawny guy. Starbuck could take him a fight, no problem, but she knows it won't come down to that because-
"Dean. Seriously. We need to leave. Like, now."
"In a minute, Sammy. Can't you see I'm busy?" He grins at Starbuck, all smarmy and with what Starbuck is sure he thinks is charm, and she just raises her eyebrows. He calls her bet and the dealer turns the river-a queen, and she's golden, frakkin' full house, no way he's got her beat.
"I'm all in." She doesn't even try to play him out of more cash, just gives him a sweet smile and sits back in her chair, taking a long swallow of really really bad beer.
"You sure about that? It's a lot of money."
"You got the nuts to go with that talk?"
"Well," he drawls, counting his chips and meeting her bet. "Not exactly the nuts, but I do have these here kings, which kinda speak for themselves."
"Frack!" Starbuck tosses her cards down and leans back, crossing her arms over her chest and giving the guy a healthy glare, the one she usually reserves for attacking raiders and Helo when he's withholding booze.
"Dude, did she just say 'frack'?" the guy asks his friend, leaning over the table to pull his chips in, counting them so smugly that Starbuck is extremely tempted to shoot him where he sits for being such a total dick. Yeah, now he really reminds her of Lee.
"I think she did." The kid looks amused and gives her a wide smile.
"D'you think she's evil?" the guy asks in a stage whisper.
"Nah." The kid cocks his head to the side and Starbuck does not like the look he's giving her, like he's trying to read her mind. He's creepy. They're both creepy, actually, just in really different ways. "She's just not from around here."
For
danxsunday:
rps | jared/jensen | you probably couldn't see for the lights but you were staring straight at me | 528 words
Jared is way too fucking emo for his own good. For one thing, he likes the Arctic Monkeys, and Jensen cannot think of one possible way to make that be even slightly unlame. Especially when Jared feels the need to drag Jensen to a show to listen to them for almost two hours straight when they could be somewhere else, anywhere else, maybe plucking out their own eyeballs because seriously-anything has to be better than this. At least he's got booze, because if he had to listen to this shit sober he would never, ever survive.
Watching Jared, though, well, that's sort of makes it all worth it, because it's going to give Jensen months of material for mocking. He does this thing, Jared, when he gets really excited at shows, where he probably thinks he's dancing but what he's really doing is jumping up and down while flailing his arms like a giant windmill and sweating all over fucking everyone, which, from the look on the girl's face standing next to him, they really don't appreciate. Jensen stays safely at the bar, well out of windmill reach, with a pitcher of long islands all to himself and by the time the band is done, Jensen is totally fucking trashed and he feels good. Great. No, damn great. But.
But there's the whole thing where he can't stand up now because. Head. Swimming. Or maybe it's the room that's swimming, and his head is perfectly still. But either way, Jared just grins and pulls him off his stool, which-bad, because head swimming, or room swimming, whatever, and for a second, or maybe ten, Jensen thinks he might actually puke on Jared's shoes.
"Dude. Are you gonna puke, man? Because I just bought these shoes."
"No," Jensen puts as much disbelief as possible into his voice, only he ends up sounding like a pissed off little girl, and he can't help but notice that Jared's hands, fucking ridiculously huge, are wrapped around Jensen's arms, pretty much holding him up, which-good. Because legs so not working. And Jensen can feel the heat radiating off Jared, his cheeks all flushed and happy and Jensen can't help it, really it's Jared's fault for looking like… like that, or at least that's what Jensen tells himself when he leans up and gives Jared a long, messy kiss right there, in front of god and Canada.
Messy because Jensen can't actually feel like, his lips or teeth or tongue. God, he loves long islands. And Jared, he seems pretty okay with this because his hands move up from Jensen's arms to his face (and he's always doing that, cupping Jensen's face like Jensen's a fucking girl or something) and the kiss gets dirty, because Jared, he kisses dirty as hell, seven shades of sin and six ways from Sunday and yes. Ten times yes, if they're doing the numbers.
Thank god for Canada, man, because no one says a word, or looks at all, except a couple of giggling teenage girls in the corner who look like they might be on the cast of Degrassi, not that Jensen knows anything about Degrassi because seriously. He may be a fag, but he still has his pride.
For
starsouls1013:
rps | jensen/chris | smoke | 242 words
Chris gets the award for scoring the best pot ever scored in the history of the world, hands down, no contenders. They lay on their backs on the roof of his rented house just outside Nashville, pretending they can still see the stars while he packs the pipe, burns the first hit. Pulls Jensen in with a warm hand around the nape of his neck, lips seal, dry and chapped and the slow acrid burn of the smoke breathing between them. Jensen leans back, holds it, holds it, soaks in the burn before he lets it out, exhale, in out, stars faded in the orange wash of the city lights.
Chris hands him the pipe and Jensen takes the hit, savors the ritual of it all, not as good as tequila or church on Christmas Eve, but then he doesn't suppose god would care too much for his present situation and tequila is such a Texas thing, all Saturday nights driving the trucks out to the dead space between Hurst and Fort Worth, sitting on tailgates and sweating through the alcohol. But this, this is pure Chris, and when he hands the pipe back Jensen rolls with it, covers Chris's body with his, chest to chest, hips cradled just so, tasting the hollow of his throat, the spot behind his ear, while Chris sucks in, exhales into Jensen's face with a flash of a smile and calls Jensen his bitch. But fondly.
For
queenofallstart:
from her interests: rpf | katee sackoff/corona light/hot blonde chicks | 235 words
Katee tries to stay sober, she really does.
Except that's a lie, because she doesn't try at all. What she really does is get deliberately, thoroughly trashed while waiting for Tricia to get home, and it's not because she has a thing for hot blonde chicks or anything because she doesn't, she's totally straight and she does not have old Victoria's Secret back catalogs hidden under her mattress, and she certainly doesn't masturbate while staring at the spreads of Tricia, like ever, and even if she did have them, which she totally doesn't, it would only be for the underwear, because everyone has to buy underwear and it may as well be pretty, right?
Right.
And the thing is, it's pretty damned hard to get shit-faced on Corona Light, but it's all Tricia has in the house, and Katee is pretty sure Tricia doesn't drink the stuff like, ever, because Tricia, she's way more of a vodka kind of girl, it's the calories, Tricia has a thing about calories, vodka is virtually calorie free, and the Corona is probably for like, men she brings home. Bodies to use and hearts to break, but at least they get some beer out of it, right? Not that Katee cares like, at all, woman power and all that, except that she sort of does, but not really, because it's totally not a thing like, at all. Right?
Right.
For
without_me:
rps | chris/jensen | cup | 186 words
It's like this, at first: the slow burn and stretch, the way his hand forms a cup just so, just resting there until Jensen swears and his hips jerk, impatient, lips forming words like yes and now and harder, damnit. It's like this at first, the sudden heat and the sharp press of hips aligned, the scrape of one ragged nail just there on the back of his thigh when Chris presses him up and open, so open, leans down to whisper and it's so good and fuck and finally.
It's like this at first but later, later, all caught moments, after a show, the back hall of a party, everyone else just high enough not to notice them, fumbling fingers and quick breaths, wide glassy eyes and the hot press of Chris's palm. Jensen can feel the calluses on his fingers and the rough slide of them up and down, and the angles fucked but it doesn't matter, doesn’t matter. Chris's mouth on his neck, his jaw, open and gasping like he's the one getting jacked and it's need you and missed this and Jenny, yeah.
For
scottmpriz (who is insane):
Hitler/Stalin | 197 words
It starts with a letter, because they are civilized men above all else, aside from the whole part where they both enjoy such hobbies as genocide, world warfare, and the creation of secret brain-washed armies.
You do realize that you're making a classic mistake, underestimating, as always, the strengths of Russia and her people. Have we learned nothing from history that we cannot recognize the inadvisability of splitting one's army, regardless of how large or loyal, when one is up against elements one cannot hope to conquer by strength in numbers alone?
Were I you, dear Adolf, I would not attempt to stand against Russia. She cannot be taken except from within, and I fear for your entire cause.
Should this be the end, auf wiedersehen, my friend. Or not. You know, whatevs.
-Joe
The reply, understandably curt, conveys still the civility in friendship based on the common grounds of mass murder and a shared Machiavellian philosophy, and also that Roosevelt is a big fucking pussy who can't even walk, for fuck's sake.
Dear Joe-
Fuck you, dude. When I conquer Russia you're going to be so sorry, and also the first to die.
No love-
Adolf
For
baleheadedbabe:
from her interests: ewan mcgregor/jude law | 281 words
Jonathan does not like Jude Law. This is what he decides the first time Jude shows up on set (because it's London, so everyone and their aunt thinks it's all right to pop by and eat all the raspberry scones and take the last of the cream, or no, wait-that's just Jude Law, the arrogant prick) with his too pretty face and his stupid curling hair and his vests and ties. And honestly, what sort of man wears a bloody vest with watch fob in the summer, for fuck's sake? That wanker, Jude Law, that's who, and Ewan, well. Ewan seems to actually like the wanker, which makes Jonathan feel like he's got hives or possibly rage issues, particularly when he stops by Ewan's trailer on the way out to the pub and finds, well.
It's not a chaste kiss, that's for fucking sure. It's not Ewan's usual, 'I'm eccentric and British, I go full frontal in every film and I can kiss whoever I like, thanks' kind of defiant mocking. No, this is full out snogging, all tongue thrusts and moaning and a bit of biting as well, and Ewan's got that wanker Jude Law pressed against the wall with his hand down the front of Jude's pants and fucking hell, Jonathan never wanted to hear Jude make that sort of strangled groaning noise ever in his life, ever. He sounds like a bloody girl, Jude does, and Ewan seems ridiculously glad of the whole thing, which-no. Because not only is Jonathan prettier and younger, but he can also act, and when someone shoves their hand down his pants, he never sounds like a girl. Well, almost never.
For
geneli4:
smallville/angel | lex/lindsey | where you are | 267
When Lex wakes up in a pool of blood that isn't his, mainly because it belongs to the very dead girl lying next to him, the first thing he does is call his lawyer. His real lawyer, not the jacked up barracuda his father hired five years ago for the sole purpose of getting into her pants.
"Is the sky falling where you are?" This is how Lindsey Macdonald answers his cell. "Because if this isn't about an apocalypse, I am way too busy for your shit."
"Lindsey. It's Lex Luthor." Lex ignores Lindsey's actual words, because there's hardly ever a time when Lex has been able to make sense of anything he says. First it was all about evil hands and arrogantly annoying vampires. Lately it's been amulets and tattoos, does Lex know a good artist who doesn't mind working in virgin blood, and so on. And so what if the guy is out of his damn mind, he's a good lawyer, and insanity or no, he hasn't failed Lex yet.
"Leave me alone, Lex. Seriously, man. I have a lovesick vampire to win over and I'm pretty sure the world's about to end, or at least LA is, so I really really don't have time for your meteor freaks right now."
Lex rolls his eyes. Lindsey can be such a drama queen when it comes to the apocalypse. "Come on, Lindsey," he says, dropping his voice low. "I'll make it worth your while. Please."
"Fuck you, Lex. Alright, fine. But if the world ends while I'm saving your ass, you're gonna fucking owe me, man."
For
chriek:
veronica mars | wallace/logan | pudding | 287 words
It turns out that Wallace and Logan have more than just Veronica in common, especially when they're drunk. They both really love chocolate pudding, for one (it's pretty much all Logan has in his fridge aside from alcohol), and they both really like to watch porn. They both like to jerk off while watching porn, and neither of them is particularly bothered by the idea of jerking off in front of each other.
"That chick is fucking hot, man," Logan comments all casual, like his wrist isn't about to cramp up at the pace he's going.
"Something," Wallace breathes, trying not to moan out loud because the last thing he needs is Logan Echolls telling the whole school he sounds like a girl when he comes. "Something about the blondes…"
"Dude, seriously." But Logan isn't even watching the television, despite the whole part where this fucking hot blonde has like, dicks in every orifice. No, he's watching Wallace, all slumped down on the couch, mouth lax and eyes glazed, tongue sliding across his bottom lip as he spreads his legs just a little bit wider until-
"Fuck." Logan says it quiet, just this side of a groan as Wallace comes all over his own hand.
The world is spinning pleasantly as Wallace tucks himself back in his pants. The hot blonde is bouncing up and down on one guy and touching herself while she sucks off another, and damn, but being a porn star has gotta be long, hard hours. Logan's still sort of staring at him, which is a little creepy now that he's not jerking off too, which is even creepier that he thinks so, but then Logan's a pretty creepy guy. Just Veronica's type.