Friday Free For All
Jan. 1st, 2010 11:56 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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comment_ficHAPPY NEW YEAR and welcome to 2010! I hope you've all recovered from last nights festivities and are ready and raring to go with another year of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic
Not only is it New Year's Day, it's also Friday which can mean only one thing: Friday Free For All
Any prompts, any pairing, any fandom. The only limit is your imagination!
Just remember to place them in the correct format:
RPS, Christian Kane, new years resolution
Leverage/White Collar, Nate & Neal, hangover
Please be kind to our codemonkeys, only three prompts per fandom, and only five prompts. If one of them is filled, you can go ahead and post another. Play fair!
And if you don't see anything that you like, you can always go through our Lonely Prompts
Have fun!
comment_ficNot only is it New Year's Day, it's also Friday which can mean only one thing: Friday Free For All
Any prompts, any pairing, any fandom. The only limit is your imagination!
Just remember to place them in the correct format:
RPS, Christian Kane, new years resolution
Leverage/White Collar, Nate & Neal, hangover
Please be kind to our codemonkeys, only three prompts per fandom, and only five prompts. If one of them is filled, you can go ahead and post another. Play fair!
And if you don't see anything that you like, you can always go through our Lonely Prompts
Have fun!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-01-01 11:56 am (UTC)Short but sweet
Date: 2010-01-01 02:56 pm (UTC)The new Kane album will be released in 2010.
I will not keep my fans in suspense any longer.
And I will get the band together for a good long USA and European tour to promote it.
Note: Okay more my wishful thinking. And if anyone has a longer version please feel free to write that too.
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Date: 2010-01-01 11:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 11:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 11:58 am (UTC)Young Face, Old Bones
Date: 2010-01-03 10:14 pm (UTC)His senses are driving him wild. The TARDIS tastes alright, although trying the conductor coolant had not been the best idea. Everything is bright in wonderful colour. He spends a whole evening in the garden just looking at flowers. He's very proud that he didn't even eat one.
Still, there's something pulling at him. Something beyond the wonder and joy of a new body. It smells like oil and war and hate. It burns his nostrils and gives him horrible shivers.
On the surface, he denies it. But somewhere, sometime, the Dalaks still live. He can smell them. He's not looking for them but he knows, under this young face, in these old bones, he will find them.
(I have just realized that this is possibly off-prompt. Still hope you enjoy! Squees for Eleven!)
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Date: 2010-01-01 11:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:32 pm (UTC)I miss his thoughts, his passion.
I miss his hands, his energy.
I miss their midnight smiles, the secret moments tucked away in my corners, the long shared showers where I embraced them embracing each other to build the strength to fight again.
I miss knowing I could count on them to take care of what mattered.
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Date: 2010-01-01 12:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-02 04:03 am (UTC)~~~~~
Jack O’Neill was 19 and whippet thin when he was sent to Germany the first time. He was learning how to be an explosives expert, or a master of the fine art of making shit go boom, when he first saw him. Tall and broad with a cocky grin and a fast trigger and a set of blue eyes Jack could get into a lot of trouble over. He was American but worked for the British and did something, but no one was really sure what.
Jack was in the mess when those shoulders and eyes were suddenly right there in front of him. “Captain Jack Harkness,” a solid hand was thrust in front of him and Jack took it without thinking.
“Lieutenant Jack O’Neill,” he shook the Captain’s hand.
Something that looked a bit like recognition flashed across the smiling face. “Good name! So tell me, O’Neill, what’s a cool drink of water like you doing in a hell hole base like this?”
The flirtation was obvious and Jack felt his throat try to close up on him. “Just… um… I just go where they send me, sir.”
For some reason that Jack O’Neill never understood why Jack Harkness took such an interest in him, but he did. He took Jack aside and taught him tricks – that over his career in the military saved not only Jack’s life countless times, but countless other lives as well. He taught him how to shoot straight while running through active fire and the best places to set C4 depending on what you wanted to accomplish. There were also lessons that Jack didn’t understand; all about how not all monsters looked like monsters and how it didn’t matter where someone came from or what they looked like, always give them a chance.
And he flirted. A lot.
One day, in early October, Harkness showed up at Jack’s quarters. “Come on, O’Neill, I have to show you something.” He didn’t wait for Jack, just turned and started down the hall, his great coat flowing behind him.
Jack grabbed his bomber jacket and followed.
They walked to the middle of a field as the sun was sitting. Harkness turned and smiled that huge, flirty smile in Jack’s direction. “Happy Birthday, Jack.” He stepped out of the way and there was a telescope set up.
“A telescope? Isn’t that… a bit impractical?”
Jack smiled and his eyes danced with mischief. “You never know.” He laid his callused palm against Jack’s cheek. “Let me be the first to show you the stars."
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Date: 2010-01-01 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 12:36 pm (UTC)VodkaTea Is Bad For The Health.
Date: 2010-01-04 12:15 am (UTC)Jesus, George was a lightweight. He had fallen asleep on top of Mitchell and was drooling on his favorite shirt. This would not do. Absently, still watching the tv, he slowly rolls George off the sofa.
"Huh?" George slurs, before hitting the floor with a thud. Annie totters in, a little drunk, with tea. Not just any tea. This tea had vodka.
"Almost time!" Annie enthuses, a little too loudly. Apparently, ghosts can get drunk too. Perhaps VodkaTea was not Mitchell's best idea. She's passes VodkaTea towards George. It sloshes on his jeans, just below his right knee and he sits up suddenly, from his drunken stupor.
"Annie! That hurt!"
Annie's reply is muted. George's neck is suddenly right in front of Mitchell's face. He smells good.
"Four!"
George is right there. Right there.
"Three!" Annie's getting louder.
His eyes are black, he can feel it.
"Two!"
George turns, to look at Mitchell. He's too far gone to care. George smells like and blood and crazy sex in woods that time after the full moon that didn't happen and they don't talk about. He smells like delicious off-the-wagon fun.
"One!" Annie shouts.
Mitchell surges forwards. He was aiming for George's neck, but it's all awkward and what was going to be a feast is now a wide open-mouthed kiss. George makes an odd noise like "mmpfgha" and while Mitchell is trying to find a way to break the kiss and drink him dry, George is trying to put his tongue in Mitchell's mouth. Then Mitchell's left fang catches the inside of George's cheek and Mitchell can taste him. It's disgusting.
"Uhhh!" Mitchell throws himself away. Oh god, he tried to feed off George. He wanted to bite George. George is looking at him, his eyes slightly unfocused, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
"Mitchell!" Annie shouts, without slurring.
"Oh god, oh god." Mitchell struggles to his feet. He has to get out. Now. He grabs his scarf on the way out the door.
---
He sees George at work twice and avoids him with all his vampire skils, which included Hiding In The Closet and Running. Two days later, Annie finds him sleeping in the park and pokes him with a stick.
"You." She says, angrily, with tears in her eyes. "Are coming home. Right Now. You and George are going to have a Chat. And then you will stop hiding from him!" She prods him with the stick for emphasis.
---
"So..." George manages. Annie has furnished them with tea, given Mitchell an almighty glare and left them in the living room. They are pretending that she isn't hiding in the kitchen. Mitchell spreads his hands in front of him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I thought-" George cuts him off with a chopping motion. It looks too sure coming from eternally insecure George.
"Why?" George says, looking at his knees and refusing to meet Mitchell's eyes.
"What?" Mitchell feels like he's been slapped. What is George talking about?
"Why is it, that every time, every time, something is going right, what we are has to get in the way?" George sounds like he's choking on something.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Mitchell says, desperately, taking two long strides across the room and falling to his knees beside George. George, quite suddenly, meets Mitchell's eyes before ducking down again.
"You don't have to be sorry. It's what you are. You can't help it any more than I can resist the moon or Annie can eat." George pauses. "Why does everything always have to be life or death? It's just...we can't even just kiss!" George's hands draw uncertainties in the air and Mitchell needs to touch him. Not to feed, just to touch. George wipes his eyes with his hands and sighs. His rant has lost momentum and the anger at the world is fading. He's unsure and awkward and twitchy.
"We could...we could.." Oh god, he's turning into George. Can't bloody finish his sentences. "Wecouldjustkiss." Mitchell manages, as one word. George looks up from his hands suddenly, his eyes wide.
"Just. Kiss?" He stutters.
They can hear Annie in the kitchen.
"Finally!"
Pause.
"Well, get a bloody move on! You haven't got all day to kiss him Mitchell, I've got to hoover!"
(Ehem, this rather got away from me...)
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Date: 2010-01-01 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 07:43 pm (UTC)The only organic sound in the room is a snort from Dean before he takes another drag on his bottle of beer. Sam wishes he could be optimistic, tell his brother to stop being so cynical but it's the damn apocalypse. Optimism is thin on the ground.
2009 hasn't been awesome. He raised the devil, two horsemen are loose, friends have been killed, the world is falling apart and seemingly the only way to stop it is for he and Dean to take part in some battle royale which only one of them will survive.
There was the fact they killed a Pagan God in Paris Hilton's body though. So the year wasn't without it's perks.
The crowd gathered on the TV start their countdown to the new year.
Sam looks across to his brother, his best friend. He's on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, bottle dangling loosely between his fingers. He looks exhausted, much older than his - physical - 31 years. Sam wishes there was some way he could just let his brother rest, let Dean be at peace for a change.
As the countdown hits 'one' on the TV, the older Winchester turns to look at his brother, a small smile upon his face, one Sam can't help but match. In sync, the brothers raise their bottles, reaching over the gap between the two beds and tapping them together.
They don't exchange any words, happy new year doesn't seem appropriate. Instead they simply sit drinking their beer in silence, trying not to focus on the fact that, once again, this could be their last.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 01:30 pm (UTC)Fresh Start
Date: 2010-04-11 01:06 am (UTC)Inside the potentials and her friends were getting ready to count down, and that was good. They could all use some fun. Just because she wasn't in the mood...
"What's on your mind, love?"
Buffy turned and saw Spike standing there. She smiled a little. "Just thinking about how much we have to do. It's a new year, but I don't see it being much of a fresh start."
Spike shrugged and walked over to her. "It's what we've got."
"I know. No, I don't know. Spike, what are we doing?"
He glanced at her. "Talking?"
"No, I mean, we're going up against the First Evil of all things. How can we take something like that?"
Spike shrugged. "Hell if I know. But I'll do anything I can to help. You know I've got your back."
Buffy nodded and smiled at him a little. "Thanks, that means a lot."
Inside, they could hear the whole group chanting. "Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"
On impulse, Buffy leaned up and brushed a light kiss across Spike's cheek. "Happy New Year," she whispered, listening to everyone else cheering inside.
Spike gave her a quiet smile. "Happy New Year, Buffy."
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Date: 2010-01-01 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 01:42 pm (UTC)Re: Deserve More (Lafayette/Sam)
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Date: 2010-01-01 01:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 01:56 pm (UTC)*very mad that I missed it last, damn you clouds, damn you!*
Stripped (Dean/Castiel, R)
Date: 2010-01-05 12:31 pm (UTC)Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, eyes tracking Dean as he paces. Dean is ranting about Gabriel and it's a familiar topic.
"I don't trust him. We need his help but I don't trust him or how much he hangs around Sam," Dean grumbles running a hand through his hair.
Castiel doesn't tell Dean that Gabriel helps them because he loves humanity in a way Castiel himself doesn't understand. He doesn't tell Dean that their brothers lie together and commit carnal acts.
Instead he watches the strong lines of Dean's throat. He watches the muscles shift under the fabric of his shirt and remembers touching - remaking this man. He remembers touching Dean's soul and wonders how Gabriel can stand for the limitations of physical touch.
Dean off his long sleeved outer shirt and tosses it on his duffel. "We should have just gotten one room. It's not like you angels need to sleep," Dean says suddenly. "It was weird though that she insisted there were only two rooms left and we'd have to share. It's almost like..."
He trails off and Castiel looks at him expectantly. Dean doesn't finish his sentence though. "It's almost like what Dean?"
Dean is smiling at him in a loose, happy way that fills Castiel with both joy and uncertainly. He's standing less than a foot from where Cas sits on the edge of the bed, limbs more relaxed than Cas as seen since he remade Dean.
"Dean, are you feeling well?" Cas asks.
Dean laughs and lifts his arms slowly above his head.
Stretching.
"I feel fan-fucking-tastic," Dean tells him, shifting his stance as he drops his arms.
Castiel eyes cannot help but watch Dean's muscles move under the layers of fabric. His fingers twitch, and the overwhelming, terrifying urge to touch has returned. Dean fingers run over his stomach, brush against his hip, rub across his shoulder -- touching himself everywhere Cas' fingers long to travel again.
He'd known it was wrong when he'd done it. Fingers mapping out newly created skin. Hand pressed too long, too possessively to Dean's arm and he hadn't wanted to let his charge go.
Dean is raising his arms again, taking his t-shirt with him this time. It's done slowly, revealing a band of bare skin at a time. And as Dean does so, his soul seems a little brighter to Castiel. As if Dean's stripping the covering from it as he does the clothes from his body.
The t-shirt winds up on the floor.
"Dean," Castiel says, protests. "Something is wrong."
Dean's eyes dilate at the sound of his own name. "Yeah," he agrees. "One of us is wearing too much clothes."
His fingers go to his jeans, and it seems Dean has deemed he is the one wearing too many clothes. Castiel knows he should protest again, should stop Dean, should leave the room.
The sound of the zipper dragging down is impossibly loud. Castiel feels pinned by it, like a butterfly.
Dean licks his lips, then his fingers before sliding his hands into his jean. Into his underwear. His head falls back as he moans at his own touch.
Castiel wants to mark that throat with his human teeth, while he presses his hand to the mark on Dean's arm. He doesn't know what this is gripping him - no he knows but he didn't think lust could feel like this.
Desire and lust shouldn't burn as brightly as the the wish to touch his soul - his grace to Dean's.
The jeans slid down, revealing more of Dean's skin, more of his soul. Castiel's fingers curl in the bedspread beneath him.
Dean is beautiful inside and out. And Castiel loves him.
Father help him, he loves this man.
"Dean," he pleads. He wasn't built to know this, to cope with this. He wishes -- he wants --
Dean steps out of his jeans and underwear, his own lust evident. He closes the distance between them, stopping a hair-breath away. Almost touching but not quite.
"I know," Dean tells him. "You can have it. You can have me, Cas."
Castiel shivers.
Then he reaches out with his hand, with his grace, and pulls Dean to him.
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Date: 2010-01-01 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 02:37 pm (UTC)