Ficlets with smut and snow!
Yesterday, in the midst of heat induced misery, I asked for ficlet ideas and got three amazing prompts in return. Yay!
And even though it wasn't 105 degrees again today (omg thank you), I managed to finish up two out of the three. :D
So! We have smut and snow!
For turloughishere
Chris/Lance, skiing
“You do know how much I hate the fucking snow, don’t you, Bass? Christ.” Chris flops back onto his sofa and sighs in relief as the overhead fan blasts him with cool air. “Snow. Cold fucking shit.”
“Yeah, shockingly enough that’s sort of a defining characteristic of snow.”
“Wow. And they say you’re not a genius,” Chris shakes his head, stretching his feet up onto the other end of the couch.
“Whatever. You’re a fucking comedian, Chris. So, do you want to go or not? It’s not like this is a complicated question.” Chris hears the echo of a door slamming somewhere in the background, and Lance’s voice muffles out for a second, yelling something that Chris can’t quite understand.
Chris shakes his head, remembers Lance and his houseful of friends that come over and eat his food and take his music and lounge around his pool. Lance has always been too nice, or, Chris thinks, probably just doesn’t care enough to kick them out. Between the parties, and the jet-setting around the globe, and his absolute devotion to one-night stands, it’s not like Lance actually spends much time at his house anyway.
“Dude. Hello? You’re supposed to be talking to me,” Chris says into the phone, tapping the mouthpiece with his finger and sort of hoping that the echo will give Lance a headache.
“And, wow, your level of maturity still manages to amaze me. Really.” Chris hears one final, loud slam of a door before Lance’s voice is back clear and obnoxious. “Yes or no, Chris. Do you want to come skiing or not? I’ve still got other things to finish up today.”
“It’s July.” Chris points out. “You know, that month between June and August when it’s like a hundred fucking degrees everywhere. So, of course, skiing. That’s what I’d be planning. Obviously.”
Chris snorts into the phone, kicks off his shoes and contemplates getting up and getting himself a beer out of the fridge. A Coronoa, maybe.
Or possibly a Heineken. He’s pretty sure Justin didn’t drink them all.
“Asshole. I didn’t say we were going skiing now,” Lance says.
And that gets Chris’ fucking attention, because like hell.
“Oh really? You said, and I fucking quote, that you could come over right now and hang for a while before we head to the summit.”
“And?” Lance asks, like, duh, he can’t possibly be the one asking the dumb fucking questions.
“And? And people do not hang out for six months.”
“Why not? I’m pretty sure I can keep you entertained for more than a few months,” Lance says, and his voice is more a deep rumble than anything else now, low and smooth as scotch and, okay, Chris is pretty sure that Lance could definitely entertain him in any number of ways.
“Yeah? Well--,” Chris starts because it’s possible that maybe he’s reading things entirely wrong. Lance is sometimes cryptic, and his voice always sort of sounds like it’s right off a really expensive 1-800 line.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Lance says. “I’m talking about sex. You and me and dirty, kinky, nasty sex. A whole lot of it. For the next six months. God forbid I try being subtle.” And, maybe Lance’s voice doesn’t always sound like porn because now it mostly just sounds annoyed.
Still sort of hot, though.
“Well, why didn’t you just say so? If that’s the plan, I’d love to go skiing with you.” Chris grins into the phone, already picturing months of hot, sweaty, humid sex by his pool. It’ll probably be worth a weekend of freezing his nuts off in the snow six months from now. But--
“Just six months, though?” Chris has to ask because snow. And six months isn’t really all that long. At least, it’s probably not going to be long enough.
“Well, I’m always open to some good renegotiation.”
For spikedluv
Sam/Dean, post-demon hunting smut
Dean’s shirt is already mostly unbuttoned and hanging half-way down his arms when they push through the door into the hotel room.
Sam's licking into his mouth with short, quick, thrusts of tongue, almost too hard, but still so fucking good that Dean can feel it damn near everywhere. And Dean's pushing and shoving, just hard enough that he can get a hand down between them to strip his shirt off the rest of the way, letting it slide down his arms and drop silently onto the floor.
It's only a second of space, and then quick hands and fast reflexes, and Sam suddenly has him pushed up against the wall before Dean’s hands are all the way lowered. “Come on, come on--,” Sam’s whispering into Dean’s mouth, wrapping hands around Dean’s waist, big hands spread wide and touching every last bit of skin that he can.
Dean can smell the demon on Sam’s clothes, damp and moldy, evil smells getting all mixed up with Sam and Sam’s soap and Sam’s smell, and it makes Dean’s head spin trying to separate them all out. That life and this life, and the places where they all come together and collide.
He shoves one knee between Sam’s legs, pushing up roughly, feeling Sam moan and shake and tremble against him. “Dean,” Sam’s saying still, just his name, over and over, and Dean’s pushing harder and winding his hands into Sam’s hair, pulling him in, and taking control of the kiss away from Sam.
He bites at Sam’s bottom lip, at the corner of his mouth, across his cheek, leaving marks he can see, small and red, opening up and blossoming across Sam’s face. Dean can’t remember where the demon touched Sam, can’t remember if it was on his neck or his back, or maybe his arm, just knows that this time it was close, too close, and Dean wants to take away that touch, strip it from Sam and erase it for them both, and leave only this behind.
Something real and visible to the rest of the world.
Dean trails his mouth down Sam’s neck, licking at his ear and sucking over his Adam’s apple, listening to Sam’s moans and answering them with harder thrusts, more and faster, pulling their bodies closer until there’s no space between them for anything else.
“Dean, please.” Sam sounds shattered, torn apart into pieces, and Dean reaches down and grabs onto Sam’s ass, moving quicker and quicker until he feels Sam shake apart under his touch.
And then Sam’s legs are folding and he’s tumbling to his knees, gasping out yes and fuck as he’s fumbling open Dean’s pants, and pulling out his cock, licking it once and swallowing it down. It’s all jerky, too-tight sucks, and Sam’s hand is grabbing onto his hips, hard enough that Dean can feel the blood welling up beneath his skin, already bruising, forcing Dean’s hips to move to Sam’s rhythm.
Fast and more and nownownow, and Dean comes with Sam’s name tumbling from his lips.
And even though it wasn't 105 degrees again today (omg thank you), I managed to finish up two out of the three. :D
So! We have smut and snow!
For turloughishere
Chris/Lance, skiing
“You do know how much I hate the fucking snow, don’t you, Bass? Christ.” Chris flops back onto his sofa and sighs in relief as the overhead fan blasts him with cool air. “Snow. Cold fucking shit.”
“Yeah, shockingly enough that’s sort of a defining characteristic of snow.”
“Wow. And they say you’re not a genius,” Chris shakes his head, stretching his feet up onto the other end of the couch.
“Whatever. You’re a fucking comedian, Chris. So, do you want to go or not? It’s not like this is a complicated question.” Chris hears the echo of a door slamming somewhere in the background, and Lance’s voice muffles out for a second, yelling something that Chris can’t quite understand.
Chris shakes his head, remembers Lance and his houseful of friends that come over and eat his food and take his music and lounge around his pool. Lance has always been too nice, or, Chris thinks, probably just doesn’t care enough to kick them out. Between the parties, and the jet-setting around the globe, and his absolute devotion to one-night stands, it’s not like Lance actually spends much time at his house anyway.
“Dude. Hello? You’re supposed to be talking to me,” Chris says into the phone, tapping the mouthpiece with his finger and sort of hoping that the echo will give Lance a headache.
“And, wow, your level of maturity still manages to amaze me. Really.” Chris hears one final, loud slam of a door before Lance’s voice is back clear and obnoxious. “Yes or no, Chris. Do you want to come skiing or not? I’ve still got other things to finish up today.”
“It’s July.” Chris points out. “You know, that month between June and August when it’s like a hundred fucking degrees everywhere. So, of course, skiing. That’s what I’d be planning. Obviously.”
Chris snorts into the phone, kicks off his shoes and contemplates getting up and getting himself a beer out of the fridge. A Coronoa, maybe.
Or possibly a Heineken. He’s pretty sure Justin didn’t drink them all.
“Asshole. I didn’t say we were going skiing now,” Lance says.
And that gets Chris’ fucking attention, because like hell.
“Oh really? You said, and I fucking quote, that you could come over right now and hang for a while before we head to the summit.”
“And?” Lance asks, like, duh, he can’t possibly be the one asking the dumb fucking questions.
“And? And people do not hang out for six months.”
“Why not? I’m pretty sure I can keep you entertained for more than a few months,” Lance says, and his voice is more a deep rumble than anything else now, low and smooth as scotch and, okay, Chris is pretty sure that Lance could definitely entertain him in any number of ways.
“Yeah? Well--,” Chris starts because it’s possible that maybe he’s reading things entirely wrong. Lance is sometimes cryptic, and his voice always sort of sounds like it’s right off a really expensive 1-800 line.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Lance says. “I’m talking about sex. You and me and dirty, kinky, nasty sex. A whole lot of it. For the next six months. God forbid I try being subtle.” And, maybe Lance’s voice doesn’t always sound like porn because now it mostly just sounds annoyed.
Still sort of hot, though.
“Well, why didn’t you just say so? If that’s the plan, I’d love to go skiing with you.” Chris grins into the phone, already picturing months of hot, sweaty, humid sex by his pool. It’ll probably be worth a weekend of freezing his nuts off in the snow six months from now. But--
“Just six months, though?” Chris has to ask because snow. And six months isn’t really all that long. At least, it’s probably not going to be long enough.
“Well, I’m always open to some good renegotiation.”
For spikedluv
Sam/Dean, post-demon hunting smut
Dean’s shirt is already mostly unbuttoned and hanging half-way down his arms when they push through the door into the hotel room.
Sam's licking into his mouth with short, quick, thrusts of tongue, almost too hard, but still so fucking good that Dean can feel it damn near everywhere. And Dean's pushing and shoving, just hard enough that he can get a hand down between them to strip his shirt off the rest of the way, letting it slide down his arms and drop silently onto the floor.
It's only a second of space, and then quick hands and fast reflexes, and Sam suddenly has him pushed up against the wall before Dean’s hands are all the way lowered. “Come on, come on--,” Sam’s whispering into Dean’s mouth, wrapping hands around Dean’s waist, big hands spread wide and touching every last bit of skin that he can.
Dean can smell the demon on Sam’s clothes, damp and moldy, evil smells getting all mixed up with Sam and Sam’s soap and Sam’s smell, and it makes Dean’s head spin trying to separate them all out. That life and this life, and the places where they all come together and collide.
He shoves one knee between Sam’s legs, pushing up roughly, feeling Sam moan and shake and tremble against him. “Dean,” Sam’s saying still, just his name, over and over, and Dean’s pushing harder and winding his hands into Sam’s hair, pulling him in, and taking control of the kiss away from Sam.
He bites at Sam’s bottom lip, at the corner of his mouth, across his cheek, leaving marks he can see, small and red, opening up and blossoming across Sam’s face. Dean can’t remember where the demon touched Sam, can’t remember if it was on his neck or his back, or maybe his arm, just knows that this time it was close, too close, and Dean wants to take away that touch, strip it from Sam and erase it for them both, and leave only this behind.
Something real and visible to the rest of the world.
Dean trails his mouth down Sam’s neck, licking at his ear and sucking over his Adam’s apple, listening to Sam’s moans and answering them with harder thrusts, more and faster, pulling their bodies closer until there’s no space between them for anything else.
“Dean, please.” Sam sounds shattered, torn apart into pieces, and Dean reaches down and grabs onto Sam’s ass, moving quicker and quicker until he feels Sam shake apart under his touch.
And then Sam’s legs are folding and he’s tumbling to his knees, gasping out yes and fuck as he’s fumbling open Dean’s pants, and pulling out his cock, licking it once and swallowing it down. It’s all jerky, too-tight sucks, and Sam’s hand is grabbing onto his hips, hard enough that Dean can feel the blood welling up beneath his skin, already bruising, forcing Dean’s hips to move to Sam’s rhythm.
Fast and more and nownownow, and Dean comes with Sam’s name tumbling from his lips.