Comment!Fic collection Part 1
Don/Colby, R for
The wall makes a fantastic brace, which is a good thing because neither Colby nor Don are small men and they both have a tendency to shove, to twist, to demand their own way.
Colby thinks he might just be winning.
He has one leg pushed up between Don's legs, crushed into the ludicrously tight denim, and he's already managed to strip Don's t-shirt from him and fling it across the room.
He thinks he's being just a little more pushy than normal today but Don isn't protesting, he's the one that dug his fingers in Colby's waist and dragged him in this tightly to start with. Shifting and pushing against the wall like all the impatience in the world.
Which is, granted, more than a bit suspicious.
Don moves sideways just a little, hand sliding down the middle of Colby's back in a way that could easily be taken as friendly.
But Colby thinks the fingers could just as easily have a destination in mind, and sadly, it probably isn't his ass.
They reach his belt and then falter.
"I don't always keep them at my back," Colby says smoothly.
The fingers dig in to the thick waistband of his jeans, and Colby decides that maybe he does have the right idea after all.
"Were you going for my handcuffs?" Colby asks against the edge of Don's jaw and the skin is warm and shifting in quick little movements that suggest Don is peeved at suddenly finding himself holding the short end of the stick.
The fact that Don has non-verbally broached the subject is both startling and impossibly hot.
Colby's pocket is really very easy to get into from this angle.
He finds Don's hand where it's braced on the wall, one long drag of warmth and then metal on the edge and round Don's wrist.
Colby catches Don's other hand where it's still shoved under the edge of his t-shirt and folds it behind his back, joins it to the other with a clank and a quiet click.
The fact that Don doesn't protest, that he just lets him, he has to breathe through that for a second.
Don moves to accommodate the new position of his arms, curving into Colby's body and Colby can't resist snagging the chain and pulling it down tight, until he can grasp Don's chin with his other hand, tilt it up and kiss him, and he makes Don work for it.
God he's good without his hands, all that focus goes into his skin, and that skin tastes fantastic. And this is...oh this is something he's going to take advantage of.
He lets Don go, leaves him breathing against the wall, and he holds the chain tight enough that he can't lean down, that he can't reach him.
"Stay there," Colby says roughly. Which gets him a flash or irritation and arousal, and finally a rough nod.
He's still there when Colby gets back, head tilted into the wall, arms held against the curve of his own ass, and for a moment Colby wonders how the hell he ever managed to leave.
Then Don see's what he's holding, a half empty bottle of chocolate sauce, left abandoned after dessert. He takes a quick, surprised breath.
Colby shakes the bottle.
Torchwood/Being Human, Jack/George, for toestastegood
The world comes back in quick flashes of blue and green.
George is staring at the sky, it's dull and barely bright at all. It's been a long time since he's been conscious just after changing back, since he's been aware in those seconds after, rather than waking up in the morning.
His stomach is a cramped knot that he knows will take a minute to ease out, and he has images of his internal organs not shifting back quite right. Of being left with intestines the wrong shape and it's hilarious and horrible and he breathes cold morning air for a long moment while he tries to work out why he feels different. There's something-
He shifts upright in one long movement that aches like hell.
There's material laid over him, a blend of heavy wool and soft lining. It's a very large coat, a very large military issue coat, which isn't his, which means someone-
He swivels round.
There's a man sitting on the curve of a fallen tree.
"Good morning," he says simply.
There's nothing else under the words, no vein of terror, no suspicion, no question as to why he's lying naked in the middle of the woods. There's an effortless calm, a certainty. It's something George has never seen on anyone but Mitchell.
"Who are you?" He manages, which is a strange mixture of rude and bewildered but he's not exactly been caught at his best.
"Captain Jack Harkness, pleased to meet you." There's the ghost of a smile, something wide and loose and easy.
But it's the 'Captain' that conjures up images of military units and tranquilisers and experiments and suddenly George is something close to terrified.
Jack sees it all, sees it all and shakes his head.
"I'm not here for you. I'm here for that." Jack points across from where George woke up. To where there's a giant purple thing- no a giant purple corpse of a thing.
George appears to have killed an alien.
He swallows roughly a few times.
"Is that a-" George points and hopes vaguely that will be enough.
"Oh yeah," Jack says, strangely cheerfully. "The world has an 'outside' as well as an 'inside' you know."
It strikes George that he understands that completely.
"But what I am going to need is for you to come with me, because I'm not entirely sure that our friend over there is supposed to be ingested, by either human beings or werewolves. Is that ok?"
George thinks that maybe, maybe it is.
He fingers the material of the coat draped over him.
Jack waves a hand "I can't take the clothes off of a naked man." This time the smile opens wide and impossible in his face and it takes George a faltering moment to realise that it's flirtatious. He's out of practice, badly out of practice.
"Well not unless he asks nicely," Jack adds and George suspects there have been more than a few who asked very nicely indeed.
"How do you- what are you- what?" George manages while Jack lends him an arm and weight enough that he can pull himself upright.
"You take every day at a time," Jack says simply.
Being Human, Mitchell/George, and biting for zeitheist
Mitchell is indulging in his own brand of exploration.
George breathes into the pillow, completely still under the attention.
Mitchell's fingers drift over the curve of his ass, through the shallow at the base of his spine to sweep over every one of his vertebrae, edging over the bones in tiny little movements. When George inhales they move higher, to the arc of his shoulder-blade, fingernails dragging ever so softly against the skin, fingertips smoothing the rounded edge of his shoulder.
But when they reach George's throat they shiver to a stop and slide away.
Mitchell won't let himself linger there, won't push that boundary, and George doesn't know how to say that there is no boundary, not here, not for them.
He rolls over in the sheets, looks a question at him, but Mitchell either chooses not to understand or chooses not to answer.
George catches his hand, long fingers twitching in his grip, and raises it. All the way back to his neck, he lays it against the edge, keeps it there with a hand.
Mitchell's throat shifts in a convulsive swallow.
"I shouldn't," he says quietly, a shiver of sound that's not entirely steady.
"Why not?" George very slowly moves his hand away, but Mitchell's stays, thumb drifting against the arch in one cool trail.
Mitchell doesn't answer.
"Why not?" George asks again.
Mitchell swallows and looks at him.
"You make me want-" he stops.
George has folded a hand round the back of his neck, one easy pull that drags Mitchell forward, folding from the waist.
"Oh god don't," Mitchell's voice is breathless but he doesn't resist the pressure, doesn't stop him, doesn't try.
"You think I don't want as well," George says roughly.
Mitchell's hair drags against the side of his face, and he twists on instinct, fitting his mouth into the curve, flare of breath against skin, tremble that wants desperately.
"We're all animals here," George says softly, and there's a very quiet sound that's almost a laugh, and then a bite.
Supernatural, gen Sam and Dean. Magic wand for partofthequeue2
They watch the witch burn until they're absolutely certain he won't be bringing himself back any time soon.
Dean crouches next to the smouldering ashes and sifts through them, just to be sure.
"Hey, he left his magic wand behind." Dean fishes the length of wood out of the ashes.
"There's no such thing as magic wands," Sam says carefully.
Dean is currently poking the thing through the ashes of it's now departed Wizard Master.
And Sam did not just use the phrase 'Wizard Master' in his head.
"Traditionally lengths of Oak, Birch or Alder have been used for concentration and channeling purposes, but actual magic wands that contain magical energy and work on their own like some sort of Disney prop, there's no such thing."
"Uh huh," Dean says flatly. "Yeah, then how come everything else in this pyre is charred mess of bone and ash and this little stick is-" Dean rubs it with his thumb. "Still pretty much intact, as intact as a stick gets anyway."
Sam eyes the stick.
Dean shakes it, as it to see if he can get stuff to fall out of the end.
Sam isn't sure what...flowers? A rabbit? Booze?
"Do you think shaking it is a good idea?"
Dean stops shaking it, raises an eyebrow at him.
"You think it's magic," Dean says with a grin.
"I don't think it's magic," Sam protests.
"Are you scared of it?" Dean says in a voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Are you scared of the magic wand Sammy?"
He snatches the thing out of Dean's hand. As if to prove he, in fact, isn't scared of the damn thing. And it's just a stick, just a damn stick. That's warm in his hand and smells a lot like smoke.
"Oh, oh, say Wingardium Leviosa, see if you can get stuff to float," Dean isn't even bothering to try and hold in his laughter.
"Shut up," Sam says.
"Seriously try something, what else is there, oh man that one that kills people with green lightening! No make something blow up!"
Sam shoves the stick back in Dean's hand, not entirely accidentally poking him in the face with it at the same time.
"You know what, knock yourself out. But don't come crying to me when you accidentally turn yourself into a frog."
Clover, Tin Man, Glitch/Cain, PG, for lionille
It's a warm enough night and all things considered the soft clover-covered ground between the roots of a tree isn't a bad place to sleep.
Or it wouldn't have been, if Cain was given the opportunity.
"Harmonius, which is a red giant, or at least I'm fairly sure it is," Glitch tells him. His fingers waft across the star-strewn sky in front of Cain's face.
"There's a rhyme that goes with it, I'm pretty sure I can remember at least half of it-"
"It's the night sky," Cain tells him. "It'll still be there tomorrow."
"But it won't be the same," Glitch protests. "It won't ever be the same."
Cain almost points out that the same or different won't make much difference since Glitch won't remember it anyway.
But he bites back the words, finds some that aren't quite so sharp.
"It'll be the same enough as makes almost no difference," Cain says tightly
Glitch huffs quietly, as though this distinction is clearly a gross simplification. That he will correct as soon as he can remember the more complicated parts.
Cain isn't sure if he should be worried or amused that he's apparently learned to distinguish between Glitch's many random noises.
Glitch hasn't bothered to roll up his coat and use it as a pillow so he's getting leaves and bits of twig tangled in his hair, he'll probably shed them all on the way home tomorrow.
"Remember a few stars and where and when they should be in the sky and you can find your way pretty much anywhere."
Glitch's fingers slip into his line of vision. Pointing, waving, quick fluid gestures that seem utterly random nonetheless.
Cain wonders if he should remind Glitch of the fact that he is almost always lost and therefore maybe isn't the best person to provide navigational information.
"Oh and that one there-"
Cain snatches Glitch's fingers out of the air and traps them against the floor.
"I was trying to point out a few important stars." Glitch tells him. "You know you're very grumpy when you're tired."
"You've already told me about the stars." Cain tells him.
"I have?" Glitch manages to be half surprised and half disappointed.
"Yes, it was fascinating," Cain growls. "But not exactly something I want to listen through twice."
Three times actually.
"Oh," The word is quiet and when Cain shifts his head sideways Glitch is wearing a complicated frown.
Not so long ago Cain had thought that silence would break him.
Glitch's fingers fidget against his own briefly, and then go still.
There was a time, not so long ago when Cain would have given anything to hear someone else's voice, just a ramble of noise in the background. Just someone else within touching distance.
He inhales cold night air,
"Tell me again," he says simply.
Glitch offers a crooked little half-smile.
Running, Chuck, Chuck/Casey, R for revenantrose
The thing about still being in danger and not being allowed to run anymore, is that it's not fair. Surely once you've given in to the 'flight' response you should be allowed to keep right on 'flighting' until you'd gotten far, far away from the danger. But instead he's being crushed into a door while Casey glares out of a crack in the curtains. No doubt to make sure the men who want to torture and murder them are nowhere to be seen.
Then, abruptly Chuck is no longer being crushed, because Casey is wandering about randomly checking things, and Chuck sort of misses the 'being crushed' part because that at least was keeping him upright.
Chuck thinks he might be about to have a heart attack.
He's not entirely sure which would be worse.
Also, he seems to have the most inappropriate erection in the history of the world ever. Seriously how could his body think this would be a good time? Is it not paying attention?
"You really need to calm down," Casey says sensibly, and there is a vein of annoyance there that Chuck hates.
"Are you kidding? Because I can't- now? I'm supposed to-"
He notices that his hands are shaking, a lot. It's like parts of him are quietly having a seizure while the rest of him is talking calmly.
Well ok, no, the rest of him isn't really calm because his voice is just a little too high. There may even be a faint strain of girlishness.
He's shaking his head, he's shaking his head a lot and Casey is looking at him like he might do something quick and painful to make Chuck stop having hysterics.
Chuck wonders if it would help, because if there's a chance then he's all for it...maybe. This isn't fun at all, this is...entire worlds of horrible un-fun-ity, or something more coherent.
"Why is my hand doing that?" He asks vaguely.
Then he's moving, moving back under a long insistent push until he thumps against the door again.
"Ow," he protests, though he's fairly sure there will be significantly more 'ow' where that came from. Possibly there will also be spindling, folding, and mutilating.
Chuck doesn't even know how to spindle a human being and he doesn't want to, but he's breathing so fast that he thinks he might scream accidentally.
Which will be the most embarrassing thing ever.
But there is no spindling.
There are, in fact, fingers dragging his pants open.
Which seems surprisingly and forward and for a moment he forgets quite how much he's breathing-
"What are you doing?" he manages, and it comes out polite and curious rather than surprised or possibly scandalised?
And oh, OH large hands, and part of him is cross because this is clearly a distraction and clearly an invasion of his intimate personal space but the other part of him is...distracted.
He's still breathing just as fast but now every exhale is a groan and every time he shifts his grip he can feel Casey's waist under his fingertips through the shirt.
When he tips his head back there's a stream of air across his cheek and Casey is really very close indeed, and that should be weird, it should be really weird, and for a long second it sort of is.
But then it's just, warm and interesting, and kind of hot.
And Chuck has never been in this position with someone he's never even kissed before, which seems sort of wrong. And like this it would be easy, he just has to turn his head a little to the left.
So he does.
Space Adventurer's Ianto/Jack/John Sheppard, R for miss_zedem
"Just out of interest," Ianto says lazily from where he's sprawled on the bed. "So I can mark the occasion appropriately in the future. Do you do this every year?"
Jack is sprawled somewhat less elegantly on the other side of the bed.
"Use St Patrick's day as an excuse to drink ridiculous quantities of Guinness and pick up any random space adventurer that happens to come strolling through the rift?"
"Look at him," Jack says pointedly.
He waves a hand, as if to indicate exactly why Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is not your average random rift debris.
Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard agrees with the gesture by murmuring in his sleep and raising one amusingly pointed eyebrow.
Ianto slithers slightly closer, which involves leaning on a slender length of naked back.
"It's not that I'm averse to surprise threesomes with very attractive random space adventurers," Ianto points out. "I'd just like some sort of advance warning."
Jack smiles at him infuriatingly wide.
"There is something to be said here for spontaneity."
"Hello," Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard provides with his eyes closed. "Random space adventurer trying to get some sleep here."
Ianto throws Jack a 'now look what you've done' expression, which he doesn't seem sorry about at all. In fact he uses it as an excuse to slide closer, to snatch at Ianto's hair and appease his irritation with an impossibly distracting kiss.
"Shall I take a number or just crash the party?" John says and when Ianto slides his head sideways he finds him watching with both interest and endless amusement.
"I always find crashing the party to be much more fun," Jack allows and shifts back far enough than John can get his knees underneath him. He uses Ianto's hips to pull him the rest of the way, hands sliding up the length of his waist until they're eye to eye.
Then John laughs and kisses him, and Ianto remembers that he's good at it. He even remembers how good he is at it. Slow and interested, you didn't realise how hard and how deep you were sinking until you were there.
Ianto can smell Jack, can feel the shift and slide of his fingers between his and John's skin.
"I have to be back in another galaxy by mid-morning," John says around the damp edge of Ianto's jaw.
"We have an intergalactic teleporter in the basement," Ianto manages, he's finding it remarkably difficult to remain annoyed because John has somehow managed to retrieve the lube from the rumpled sheets and is using it to great effect while Jack slides closer still, making everything hotter and more intent.
"I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear that," John decides.
"It runs on satsumas," Ianto adds because that's something worth sharing. "Well any type of citrus fruit really but satsumas work best. "
John is laughing at that, laughing helplessly and muttering something about 'poetic justice.' He sounds far too amused and then his breath catches in a way that suggests Jack has just done something remarkably filthy.
Mid-morning gives then plenty of time.
Pink, Ianto/Ianto/Ianto, Jack, for emony2
Jack has to return to the hub much earlier than he thought.
He fully expects Ianto to have gone home by now.
Which is why he comes to a stop just inside the main area of the hub.
Ianto is in fact there, but he isn't alone.
He's pushed into the desk, but there's a second figure kneeling, unbuckling his belt and sliding the crumpled edges of his bright pink shirt up the pale skin of his waist.
For a long moment Jack is uncertain whether to make his presence known or not. Ianto is particular about what he reveals about himself, and intimate details are an uncertain part of that.
Jack can't see who the figure is, they're knelt with their back to him, but they're dressed as immaculately as Ianto-
They are Ianto.
It comes to him abruptly and shockingly, and for one long second his brain catches on nothing. Jack knows exactly what Ianto looks like from the back, he hasn't made a mistake, but that isn't possible. He very slowly moves right until he has a side on view.
Definitely Ianto, both of them.
Ianto is balanced on the desk, one hand settled behind him for balance the other trailing shakily down the side of his doubles face.
There are two Iantos.
Two- no jesus three, he realises as a second figure shifts away from the desk, hands drifting over the wood, twitching ever so often like it wants to fall into the kneeling Ianto's hair and tangle tightly, like it wants to direct his movements in a way that will make everything more than a little obscene.
Jack can no longer breathe properly, every chunk of air catches in his throat and shivers out of him.
The Ianto leant against the desk gasps under the attention and the one standing to one side leans in far enough to kiss the mirror image of his own face, all amusement and sin.
Ianto murmurs something against his mouth when he eases away and though Jack reads the 'yes' that makes Ianto shiver and gasp for air he never hears the question.
Then, oh god, the kneeling Ianto catches the waistband of Ianto's trousers and slides them all the way down and off while his standing companions slithers into his place. Pale hands catch Ianto's thighs and slide them up and around his waist, then they shove the pink shirts tails high, catching them in one fist and pulling them tight. Then they're kissing again, furiously now, equals in height and weight and enthusiasm.
The one still on the floor roots in a drawer until he can retrieve lube, passing it up and across and Jack hears the wordless noise of encouragement one of them makes.
But then the kneeling Ianto rises to his feet and peels the jacket and shirt off of the second Ianto, tosses them over the desk in favour of tasting the skin of his doubles shoulder blade while he opens the Ianto across the desk with long, patient fingers.
It's seconds or an age after that when Jack watches Ianto pin his own double to the desk and slide into him in one, endless, indulgent thrust.
Jack leans into the wall, his skin feels alive and his breathing is a mess and he realises, startlingly, that he's just been outclassed.
Closer, SGA, Sheppard/Lorne, NC-17 for fredbassett
The one thing you learn, the one thing you don't fucking do, is take advantage of the men under your command. Because they trust you, they have to trust you, they have to know you have their back, that you won't use them for some screwed up end, or to ease your own damn conscience.
John's starting to worry that he doesn't have as tight a reign on that rule as he'd like.
Because two days after a fucked up mission, that left them all with more breaks, bruises and scrapes than they could count, he has Lorne pinned to the damn wall of the practice room in a position that he knows has to press and twist on every bruise he has, but he doesn't make a sound, not a god damn sound.
And John doesn't let go.
Because the world shifts on its head and he's suddenly aware of everything.
The vivid bruise on the side of Lorne's neck, the way he swallows under the curve of John's arm, movement catching on the tensed muscle, smooth and hot and sweaty through the material of his t-shirt and he's begging just as much as John is resisting and they're frozen in some moment that threatens to hang on the edge forever.
Until John is dragging Lorne's belt out of it's loops, quick and exact, breathing against the edge of Lorne's neck, breathing into that stark, angry red and purple mark, while Lorne breathes assent in quiet stilted words that make no sense. 'Yes' and 'please' and 'do it' which John only really registers when he's dragging Lorne's pants over the curve of his ass, low enough to catch on his thighs and dig there, pressing close and making a hash of getting his own trousers open, the metal edge of his belt lashing across Lorne's skin, and he does hiss then, one arm rising to clutch at John's arm the other sliding on the flat surface of the wall.
John's pockets after much rummaging, produce gun oil and Lorne knows what he's holding the moment the cap goes skittering across the floor. John feels the inhale drag over his arm and then catch when he pushes his fingers up and in.
Lorne makes the faintest noise of surprise and then relaxes into the sensation, nails digging into John's forearm, he makes an aborted movement to spread his legs wider until he realises that he can't.
When John moves his hand to the curved edge of Lorne's hip he moves so fucking obediently, hips tilted back, and it's so fucking smooth, one tight slide that buries him all the way inside. His own groan tangles all the way through Lorne's aching and ragged exhale, and for a long moment it's the only sound in the room.
Then John presses him into the wall and Lorne doesn't protest at all, he demands in short stilted movements that John suspects can't be comfortable, but there's a shaking impatience to them all the same. And it's only in that moment that John realises Lorne has been wanting exactly this just as much as he has.
Torchwood/Being Human, Ianto/George, nudity, changing back, Ianto's neat suit on a tree.
The grass is cold under Ianto's skin, and he's aware of this both because he's laying on it and because he's naked.
These are both less than ideal things to realise upon waking up.
For a second he's confused about where exactly he is and why. His first thought is that he got knocked out chasing an alien. His second is the fact that something very heavy is apparently laying on top of him.
And it isn't Jack.
But whoever it is they're drooling on the edge of his shoulder.
Ianto very carefully lifts a hand.
It settles on skin, smooth but peppered with leaves and bits of dirt. Which, come to think of it, is not a great improvement on his own. There's a rather large grass stain across his left shoulder, it trails down into a long vicious looking scratch. So he knows he was, perhaps, in a fight.
He moves one of his legs, which proves pointless because the other man is...there is no better word than tangled, tangled around his lower body. They're not in the sort of position where Ianto can simply slither out from underneath him. It will either involve rolling the man off of him or waking him up.
Ianto is not a fan of waking up under strange men any more than he suspects strange men will be fond of waking up on top of him. So he very careful settles his hand on a shoulder and pushes.
There's an explosion of leaves, and a very surprised noise of distress.
Ianto sits up before it can become too apparent where everyone originally came from.
"Oh," the strange man says, then he repeats the word in a rather more startled tone of voice.
There's a hand on Ianto's shoulder, tilting him and the strange man when awake looks confused, and rumpled, and his ears stick out in a way which Ianto is compelled to look at.
"Are you..." the sentence trails off on a frown and something that's earnest and astonished.
Ianto has never astonished anyone before.
"Ianto," Ianto offers for lack of anything else to say.
There isn't really any rule Ianto can follow about how exactly to introduce yourself to someone while you're both naked. But he's always found it never fails to be polite and to always seem like you have some idea what's going on.
"George," the other man says and then surprises him by blinking and then reaching out a hand.
They shake, rather politely, it's quite surreal. Then they stand up and manage not to look at each other for at least two minutes.
"So umm, you're-"
"Welsh?" George says at last, and then looks confused about why exactly he said that.
"Yes," Ianto says, just to be helpful. It's a rather awkward situation.
George wanders a bit further into the trees, finds something hanging neatly on one of the lower branches.
"I think these are your clothes," George tells him.
"How can you tell?"
"It's a three piece suit."
"Ah," Ianto says sensibly, and then wonders exactly how much he looks like someone who'd wear a three pieces suit.
He scratches the back of his neck and finds to his surprise and brief moment of embarrassment, a bite mark.
That's probably something he shouldn't share.</lj>