Xina Marie Uhl

Ficlet: Speaking of You (Dark Angel, R)

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 22:20:54 GMT

Title: Speaking of You
Author: twasadark
Fandom: Dark Angel
Pairing: Max/Alec
Rating: R
Words: 1300
Summary: Max is pissed at Alec ... so what else is new? Her reaction to him, that's what.
Notes: This little bit of PWP is in response to crackedbuthappy 's prompt here.

"Just shut up and do it, Pretty Boy," Max gasped, twisting under Alec's fingers, grinding her crotch into his hips. He made a pretty hilarious sound, something like, "Yuhhhhhhh," and his eyes rolled back into his head, face going slack with pleasure. He recovered quickly, though, swallowing and saying hoarsely, "You know you don't mean that, Maxie. My voice gets you all hot and bothered."

"It gets me bothered all right," she snapped. "Now get on with it, I've got things to do and people to see."

"Heh." Alec smirked as he fumbled with her belt, warm fingers on her waist, warm lips pressing slow wet kisses up her neck. "More like people to do. As in, me."

"Oh, yeah?" She asked, pissed off at Alec and Normal for sending her out into the alley to check on his golden boy, who she'd found lurking near the rear entrance to Jam Pony, smoking a cigarette, of all things. That, combined with the aggravation she already felt after Normal made her stay late to help the jackass with his last run, made her pounce on him, snarling and slapping. He cringed and protested innocence and yammered something about how she was sexually frustrated on account of no action from Logan and she said, "Well, at least I'm not sexually retarded like you."

"Yeah? I'll show you!" He surged forward, chin jutting out like some sort of rebellious street urchin.

"No, you won't," she retorted.

Then, somehow, she was stomping the cigarette under her boot and mauling him with her lips. He was a quick one, she gave him that, because after a brief instant of surprise he was returning her kisses with happy noises, palms curling around her hips, fingers sliding up the bare skin under her shirt to unhook her bra. And what was she doing while he was so obviously enjoying himself? Kicking him in the jewels and running away? Not hardly. She couldn't seem to get enough of that stupid, smirking, sinfully soft mouth.

A mouth that, per usual, kept running.

"Oh, Maxie, you're so beautiful ... so hot. Can't get enough of you." His voice had a hushed, confessional tone to it, threaded with want and sincerity, and she felt herself swept away on it like an ocean swimmer snagged by undertow.

He cupped her breast, smoothed a thumb over the hardened nub of her nipple, making her gasp. She felt him smile against her lips, murmur, "You like that, don't you, sweetheart? Feels good to be touched, doesn't it?"

"Stop talking to me like I'm one of your tramps," she reprimanded, inflamed with anger and frustration for wanting him so damn much.

She pulled at his stupid sweater, feeling the rough, thick texture of it underneath her fingertips, so at odds with what she wanted to feel: his smooth warm skin. When she touched skin at last she gave a sigh of something like relief, and slid her hands up his sides, underneath his sweater, felt his shudder and gasp at the scrape of her nails.

"You're so much more than that, baby. Wanted you for so long."

He kissed her on the lips hungrily, groaning when she finally, finally, got his belt unbuckled and fly unzipped and wrapped one hand around the silken hardness of his cock. He bucked his hips up into her, shivering.

"You, uh, you sure you want to do this?" He asked around kisses.

She squeezed his cock firmly in reply.

"I guess that's a yes," he murmured.

His scent was all around her, some expensive cologne made musky and spicy by his body
chemistry. The taste of cigarettes was still strong in his mouth, sharp and smoky. Cool air skated across her overheated skin where her button-down shirt gaped open, a victim of his clever fingers. He released her lips with a regretful sigh and kissed and sucked his way down her neck before twirling his tongue around her nipple, making her gasp and arch up into him.

"What are you ... what are you waiting for?" She taunted, trying to sound more pissed off than she actually did. "Get with the program, will you?"

"So impatient," he chastised. "Wanna enjoy myself a little."

She pressed the heel of his hand to her mound and showed him how she liked to be touched.

"This is good, too," he said, fingers working her flesh in a way that made her quiver and gasp and, a few moments later, come. Damn, but the boy was good!

When the aftershocks subsided enough to bring her back to earth, she began jacking him harder, determined to bring him the same blinding pleasure. He responded so prettily, too, just like she might have known another of Manticore's perfect genetic creations would respond. She liked the feeling of power this gave her - the knowledge that a flick of her wrist and tightening of her grip could make someone come apart at the seams. He wasn't talking now, except to make gasps of, "Max, I'm gonna--"

"Want you to," she hissed.

He stiffened, then, and flooded her palm with warmth. Afterward, all the tension seemed to leave his body and he sagged against her, replete. He leaned his sweaty forehead against her shoulder and breathed moist puffs onto her chest. The madness that had overcome her drained away slowly, to leave her strangely satisfied and unable to regret any of what she'd done. She and Alec had been dancing around each other for months now. He provoked strong emotions in her, so it's no wonder the result of their inevitable clash would be positively incendiary.

After a few moments she nudged him and began buttoning her shirt and zipping up her jeans. After protesting half-heartedly, he did the same.

"That was ... damn, if I'd have known how horny smoking cigarettes made you I would have done it a lot sooner," he commented.

She looked at him, suddenly taken by the bewildered look on his face, his mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips. She smiled. "Took you by surprise there, huh?"

Just then the door banged open and Normal appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips, looking irritated. "Where did you go, Missy Miss? You still have some--Oh, no, no, no, no!" He cried when he noticed her and Alec in the shadows then, and, gaping at their disheveled appearance, immediately drew the obvious conclusion. "I am not seeing this!" He ducked back into the doorway. "Never mind. We'll finish up tomorrow, after I'm done sterilizing my eyeballs." Then, as he walked away, he said, more softly, "Golden Boy, how could you?"

Max and Alec looked at one another. Alec cocked an eyebrow. "Think we'll still have jobs tomorrow?"

Max shrugged, put on her bad-girl-I-don't-give-a-shit demeanor. "Guess we'll find out." She pushed off the wall to head home.

"No, no, no," Alec said, crowding closer and slipping his arms around her waist. "We're going back to my place for the rest of the night. No way am I letting you have second thoughts about this while I have anything to say about it."

She couldn't resist herself. "You have something to say about everything, don't you?"

"Why you gotta be so mean to me all the time?" He asked, pouting a little.

"You like it," she said.

"Yeah," he grinned. "I do."

One of those days ...

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 03:39:13 GMT

... in which I feel like CRAP. Not just regular crap but mondo crap: anxious, depressed, and miserable. Sigh. Being unemployed is getting old, although I hopefully have at least some freelance work coming up soon. Also, you'd think this would be a good time to write, huh? The muse has been gone, my friends, just ... wallowing in the mud with the pigs or something. I am managing to get in at least 150 words per day to meet my mini_nanowrimo commitment, so that's something.

Saw Boondock Saints II the other day. It was so so - pretty much the same as the first movie except with Julie Benz and not as good. Although it did feature the shots of not one but both brothers' naked tushies. I rather liked that part. Also last night we saw 2012, which I found quite forgettable. The special effects were not all that magnificent, which surprised me.

TV-wise, I really enjoyed Supernatural's 5x08 Changing Channels, although I'm not quite sure how I feel about the Gabriel reveal. It ties the Trickster in with the angels and demons storyline but, I don't know, seems too contrived or something. 5x09 was okay but I must say that the fan storylines are getting a little old. I still find Becky hilarious, but overall the episode was kinda weak.

I'm still watching Flash Forward just because the hubby likes it, and we're also still hanging in there with Stargate Universe. I am quite confused by the ending of the last episode, however. It appears to require much too much thought out of us or something because hubby and I just went: huh? Also I still think that Robert Carlyse looks like a meerkat.

Anyhow, on days such as today I find it necessary to go in search of crazy kitteh piccies. Hope someone else will crack a grin at these. In particular, I identify with the last pic, lol.

Kissy Face

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 03:33:49 GMT

Because I've been blah down today ... maybe this will cheer me up?

X♥X ~ OPEN FANDOM & OPEN PAIRING KISS MEME ~ X♥X

Ficlet: Momentary Lapse of Reason (Dean/Castiel, R)

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 02:11:05 GMT

Title: Momentary Lapse of Reason
Author: twasadark
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Words: 900
Prompt/Summary: Slow, quiet, desperate sex as the world rages around them.
Note: For gen_annie as requested in the Fall Fandom Free-for-All. This is a sort of Future!Dean/Future!Castiel 5.04 AU.

Once, he watched as a supernova destroyed worlds; another time, as worlds were birthed in the gases of a cosmic nursery. Once, he joined a heavenly chorus that sung for joy as two cells became one and created the first living being.

Once, he was great and terrible and feared as an Angel of the Lord.

--

"Don't," Dean ground out, pressing a finger to Castiel's lips to silence the moan within. His voice came out in harsh little gasps as he rutted against Castiel's hip. "Be quiet. The others - Sam. Don't want them to hear."

Laughter from the nearby campfire sounded, chased by the crack of pine splitting and hissing, the scent of chili. Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo and the little ragtag band of hunters they ran with now that the world was imploding all around them. They looked almost ridiculous, sitting there, crouched closely together, a vulnerable, ragged little group huddled around a dim and wavering light as night soaked the world around them, thick and impenetrable.

Castiel nodded, let his head drop back against the rusted out hulk of the old truck they hid behind, and Dean sucked at his throat, his mouth sweet and wet, the rest of him all hardness and sweat and desperation. Castiel slid his hands from Dean's waist to his ass, felt the hard globes of muscle there, and canted his hips just so he could rub his aching hard, denim-covered cock into the crease between thigh and hip.

A flare shot high into the night sky, bursting white and red. It was the signal they'd been waiting for, and it meant that they had to pick up their arms again and move out as soon as possible.

"We should go," Castiel murmured, nodded to where the others were scurrying around, grabbing packs and calling orders.

--

Once, wings sprouted from his shoulders like majesty itself. He remembered the weightless bulk of them, the way they were so beautifully, intricately formed. He remembered the way they gleamed in the light of the spheres; the way they responded on an instant's notice to any direction he desired to go.

He had sparred with demons once, had raided the stinking, sulphurous pit of hell where the souls of the damned rotted like garbage.

Once, he burned out a woman's eyes with the glory of his true form.

--

"Not yet," Dean commanded, lips hardened and breath pistoning in time with his stuttering hips. "I need. Please. God damn it, not yet." His movements became more frantic; the dim orange light from the fire made his face look fierce and wild.

Castiel said nothing; he just continued jacking Dean's straining flesh, slow and deliberated. He felt Dean fumbling at his belt, then his hand slid around Castiel's erection. He bit at his lip to keep another moan back, carried away with the incredible intensity of the experience. Sensations overwhelmed him: the calluses on Dean's fingers as they clutched at his skin, the rough weave of his jeans in contrast to the soft cotton of his briefs, the humid puffs of Dean's breath on his neck, the slippery, salty taste of Dean's sweat on his tongue. He understood now, why lovemaking in all its various forms and fashions was so intoxicating to humans, why they pursued it with reckless, awful determination.

Dean stiffened and came, hot and thick, all over Castiel's hand. Castiel felt himself shudder with a peak of arousal at the knowledge that he had done this, given amazing pleasure to his human. "Come on," Dean whispered, rough and close. "Come for me, baby."

His fingers squirmed down further into Castiel's boxers, plying his balls between them in an utterly unexpected, utterly fantastic motion. "Oh," Castiel heard himself whimper, and it was as if a great plume of energy pulsed from his core and then he, too, was coming all over his partner's deft fingers. He heard the sigh he gave, but his vision was blotted out by color, fire and brimstone and pure, complete pleasure.

When it was over and his vision had cleared, he gave a shaky little laugh and pressed his forehead against Dean's cheek, then rested a palm against his chest, where it pulsed with the rapid thump of his heart, and the other curled around his waist, resting on the sweat-damp small of his back. Dean sighed, arms around Castiel's back, thumbs smoothing up and down in a gentle motion.

Together, they breathed as they came down from the high, and just held one another. Another flare burst in the sky, raining firecracker sparks down in a whistling fall. The burst of white light illuminated Dean's expression as he looked at Castiel, eyes full and dark, face radiating relief and affection and something like regret.

--

Once, he would have watched the desperate coupling of two humans as a dispassionate observer, mildly disgusted with the grubby physicality of the whole enterprise. He would have wondered at the appeal, at the frantic drives that caused such action. He would have looked to the stars and have known the shape of them, the cool burning light they gave off at their creation.

Once upon a time.

Orangutan and Hound Dog are Best Buds

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 16:53:09 GMT

Awwww! This is possibly the cutest thing EVAR:

Poetry

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 05:10:00 GMT

So I haven't written poetry in more than twenty years, but for some reason have felt inspired to do so lately. It's probably because of calamitycrow 's poetry recs. I don't even know if what I'm trying to communicate here comes across. I've never taken any sort of poetry class, and just one literature class - I'm a historian all the way, lol. Perhaps this is glaringly obvious. Anyhow, feedback on punctuation and word choice and meaning or the lack thereof is so so welcome! Even and especially the critical kind. :-)

I am a bird, fluttering, free,
squawking at
your hand that tries to wrap
around my beautiful spotted
plumage.
My intricate inlaid feathers
my hollow bones;
my inquisitive and seeking
eye
reveals my spirit,
soaring high and wide
unstoppable
unflappable,
diving, wheeling, chattering.
Knowing when to soar and
when to perch
on your finger,
a gentle breath:
alight
balanced
momentary

I watch it in
the dip above my heel.
Steady and thrumming,
predictable, and --
not.
Signaling power.
Purpose.
Perfection.
I feel it on my fingertips,
lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.
The beat carries on while
I sit and watch,
chair soft,
belly full,
night lying just outside my window.
Still, and
deep.

Podfic: Chrome by seraphwings (Dean/Castiel, PG-13)

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 23:14:42 GMT

Title: Chrome
Author: seraphwings
Reader: twasadark
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel... Impala?
Rating: PG-13
Format: mp3
Length: 26:01
Music: "I Am the Highway" by Audioslave
Summary: This isn't any sort of possession he can recognize. There is no demonic force he can sense, no ghost slipped into Dean's skin. The only sense of a soul at all is just Dean's, quiet and muffled beneath an odd, cold gloss.

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire / Sendspace

Permanent link to follow shortly courtesy of jinjurly's multifandom audiofic archive.

Podfic: The Stormy Present by musesfool

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 22:11:41 GMT

ladyrhyanne was kind enough to record this for me for the Fall Fandom Free-for-All:

Title: The Stormy Present
Author: musesfool
Reader: ladyrhyanne
Fandom: Supernatural/Battlestar Galactica Crossover
Pairing: Dean/Kara
Rating: Adult
Format: mp3
Length: 45:49
Summary: Kara's a pilot, and Dean hates flying.

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire

Permanent link to follow shortly courtesy of jinjurly's multifandom audiofic archive.

This eppy & fish!

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 05:33:20 GMT

Oh. My. God. A Supernatural episode this season that I actually LIKED??? What is happening here? Not that I hated the previous 5 eppies ... just that I was none too thrilled over them. They were just sorta okay. This one wasn't exactly the best thing evar itself, but I enjoyed it. Just a few reactions below the cut for spoilers ...

The boys are looking quite pretty in their suits, as usual. *wipes drool from chin*
Dean's hairy palm - AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA - I LOVE it. And, ah, the images THAT evokes in my fevered brain ....
Castiel is being a dick again when it comes to the kid. Sigh. It's like he remembers that he's supposed to be one every few episodes or so and gets his mean on. Come on, he's a cute kid even if he is (cue dramatic music) THE ANTICHRIST.
Love pissed off, hyperventilating Sammy. Rawr.
Castiel gets turned into an action figure. BWAHAHAHA. Is Dean caressing it or is that my fevered imagination again?
Why does the actor who played the antichrist look familiar to me? Hmmmmmm

Now for some compliment fishing. *looks hopeful*

One little compliment can make you feel amazing. So give me a compliment, anything in the entire world, even that my shoelaces are pretty. Put this in your journal. And once you get some comments, put that entry in a memory or tag and when you are feeling down, just go to that entry and this will remind you of how great you are.

What'd ya go and do thar, Ma?

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:41:46 GMT

I went ahead and signed up for the apocabigbang even though I don't yet know whether I'll be writing a Supernatural/Dark Angel crossover or not. I figure I'll brainstorm during the mini_nanowrimo and see what comes up. *is skeered* I know I can do this but it's a bit of a stretch for me, both because I've never done apocafic and because it's been a while since I wrote 10k of one story.

Bitchin' graphic by maharet83

Hmmmmm ...

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 23:31:41 GMT

Just committed myself for the mini_nanowrimo for the 3rd year in a row, and am contemplating writing an apocabigbang during November due to smilla02 's influence. It's only 10K rather than 20K, which I find vastly more do-able. I have no idea what shape my apocalypse might take and whether it would include Castiel in addition to the boys, or whether I would do a crossover with Dark Angel. My little brain is spinning and spinning thinking about it ...

I can tell that the weather is getting cooler because suddenly one of my kitties is MUCH more affectionate. She gets cold easily and is only really interested in affection when it comes with human warmth, lol.

Stargate Universe

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 03:56:35 GMT

The hubster and I watched the second episode of Stargate Universe tonight, and I have some ~~profound utterances~~ mutterings about it. (I fell asleep during the last half hour of the pilot episode, and according to the hubster I didn't miss a whole lot, so that's the level of excitement I approached this 2nd ep with). "Plot" related questions:

We were really confused about why the hell a bunch of highly trained military men couldn't run around in the desert for 12 hours without collapsing due to dehydration. And, more to the point, if they really were all that hot why did everyone have long-sleeved clothing on? And where was the sweating?
Why can't the ship get home again? That's not clear.
What's the deal with the dust devilly thing? It showed the hot soldier dude (no, I don't know anyone's name yet) where the lime was ... I guess) but then just disappeared? And we know absolutely nothing else about it. Huh?
What's the deal with that little ship taking off of the big ship at the end, there? Does that mean there's a spy looking in the portholes at everyone? Double huh?

General observances:

Everyone is really mean and mostly uncooperative with each other for no reason other than that the writers have decided that they should be, apparently.
Robert Carlyse reminds me of a meerkat.
The soldier that kicked and hit Robert Carlyse would totally have been brought up on charges if he tried that crap for reals. (So says my ex-Marine hubby)
Lou Diamond Phillips looks really old.

In conclusion: if the show had been written better I wouldn't have these plot questions. Still, I do like the characters, for the most part, even if I don't know their names, so I'll give it another episode or two before abandoning ship ....

Also, is anyone watching Flash Forward? It seems okay. Dave likes it, so we'll probably continue watching it, and it's got an intriguing plot. It just ... well, I haven't fallen in love with anyone from it yet. We'll see if I do.

Supernatural Recs - a mishmash

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 00:55:14 GMT

I'm rather bored and on home rest due to doctor's orders, so I figured I would do something of worth to someone, lol. Hope you enjoy these. Feel free to rec me similar fics as well - especially the h/c and Dean/Castiel ... I know there are many more great Dean/Castiel's than I've been finding ...

From the Sick!Dean h/c comment meme

Qui Non Somnus (Those Who Do Not Sleep) by authoressnebula
Prompt: Gen or Sam/Dean. Dean is hit with a curse that keeps him from sleeping and he starts to suffer the symptoms of severe sleep-deprivation, ie: heightened emotions, hallucinations, confusion. But especially heightened emotions! If you make him cry, I'll marry you.

Sam is steadfast and comforting as Dean declines into near insanity. Made me go "awwwwww!"

Barrel of Laughs by zatnikatel
Prompt: Sam, Dean, gen. Since waking up in his coffin and having to claw out of his own grave Dean has suffered from claustrophobia. He gets trapped in an enclosed space during a hunt and has a panic attack. Luckily Sam is there to soothe and comfort.

Crackling narrative and a feeling of increasing terror until, of course, our boy Dean is saved at last.

The Dangers of Trigonometry by sinnerforhire
Prompt: Teen!Dean and chronic migraines.

Descriptively written and totally satisfying.

Het

Broken Hearts, Torn Up Letters, And The Story Of A Lonely Girl by justxusxtwo
Pairing: Dean/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Summary: PWP, mostly, with only a dash of plot. Or, a porny oneshot, maybe? Something like that.

The OFC felt real to me and the sex was hot!

Dean/Castiel

Chrome by seraphwings
Pairing: Dean/Castiel... Impala?
Rating: PG-13
Prompt(s): Dean/Impala, Dean/Castiel. Dean and the Impala wind up getting possessed and/or cursed, turn all homicidal and super creepy, and Sam and Castiel have to save them (yes, them - the car, too!). Take a look at Christine for some inspiration. Castiel should make sure to take special attention to the car because he knows how much Dean cares for her. </b> (I tried XD)
Summary This isn't any sort of possession he can recognize. There is no demonic force he can sense, no ghost slipped into Dean's skin. The only sense of a soul at all is just Dean's, quiet and muffled beneath an odd, cold gloss.

A wonderfully unique and beautifully written piece.

Our Bleeding Hearts by thevinegarworks
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R...? For sexuality and taking creative liberties with scripture.
Summary: In the midst of a war between Heaven and Hell, it's the quiet moments that mean the most.

A lovely, lyrical, and evocative piece.

A few Recs - Supernatural, Dark Angel & Merlin

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 19:14:00 GMT

I've been quite deficient in reccing things lately ... my apologies. Here are a couple of pieces that I couldn't resist reccing, though:

Supernatural

pbfate did a simply lovely podfic of No Greater Love Than This by gypsy_sunday, a coda to 5x04. pbfate's tones, inflections, story choice, song choice and technical skills are just great - and this is her FIRST podfic!! Please go give her some love and listen HERE.

Dark Angel

hunters_retreat wrote a hot, sweet, achy little Dark Angel piece for me for the Fall Fandom Free-for-All using the prompts twisted, dark, vulnerable, sweet. It's Ben/Alec: You Can Stay. Definitely not to be missed!

Merlin

random_merlin for general craziness and teh pretty.

Podfics: Terminator, SCC & Supernatural

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 20:35:49 GMT

Two little podfics for boombangbing and deirdre_c for the Fall Fandom Free-for-All

Title: A Blessed Angel Came
Author: boombangbing
Reader: twasadark
Fandom: Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: John/Cameron
Rating: G
Format: mp3
Length: 8:53
Summary: Cameron celebrates Christmas.

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire

----

Title: Telling Myself It’s Not As Hard As It Seems
Author: deirdre_c
Reader: twasadark
Rating: PG-13
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Pairing: none; Gen.
Format: mp3
Length: 12:57
Summary: After the fire, Dean sifts through what’s left in Jess and Sam’s apartment.

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire

Permanent link to follow shortly courtesy of jinjurly's multifandom audiofic archive.

Fic: Marking the Distance (Supernatural, PG-13)

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 01:32:01 GMT

Title: Marking the Distance
Author: twasadark
Pairing: none; Gen
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,500
Warnings: Should I warn for 2^nd person? This is the first time I’ve tried it, so maybe I should.
Summary: Wounded and scared, Dean’s alone in the woods with something dark on his trail.
Note: For july_july_july , who wanted Hurt!Dean, gen, hunting alone during the Stanford Years, as part of the Fall Fandom Free-for-All. Thanks to calamitycrow for the kick ass beta!

Your hand shakes so hard that the shotgun shells click together. They spill onto the mat of pine needles beneath your feet. “Shit!” you curse, breath frosting the early morning air. Loons call to one another on the lake a half mile through the woods, eerie ooo ooos in counterpoint to the heaving gasps of air tearing in and out of your lungs. Wind moves through the tops of the trees in that waving, vaguely eerie way that always makes you feel like you’re out to sea. But if you’re at sea now, you’re without a life jacket and a hurricane is gathering in the east.

You’ve grappled with the creature once already, an explosion of roars and snarls and long, sharp claws; the aborted explosion of the shotgun nicked the marke-something in the shoulder. The blast barely scratched it, but scared it enough that it took off. Now it hides in the clump of ferns and ancestor trees and thick brush. It has circled around; regrouped. You feel its eyes on you and you imagine what you look like -- just another dumbfuck deer hunter out on his own, nose red from the cold, shivering inside his flannel jacket, blood seeping out of the slash splitting apart the thigh of his jeans. Can’t even load the fucking shotgun right. Easy pickings. Just gotta wait til the right moment.

Yeah, like I’m gonna give you that, fuckwit.

You hear a rustle in the brush. It’s out there, crouching on enormous cat haunches. Waiting. You can feel it, feel its eyes on you, and panic slams hard though your midsection. Breathe. You force breath back into your lung. Breathe, damn it. Dad’s voice shrills through your mind. Get it together, Dean! Stop all this pussy shit and kill that motherfucker. Now!

You squeeze the shells in your hand, feel their comfortable weight – no salt here, just black powder and paper and steel balls, blessed and sprinkled in holy water. Your eyes snap open. You chamber them easy as you please, rack the gun and whip the muzzle out. You don't wait long – maybe half a second – before the creature explodes out of the brush straight at you, all two hundred pounds of lean muscle. A black-furred, red-eyed mountain lion, with a scream so loud and awful that you’re never gonna forget it. Never. You aim between its eyes, trigger finger spasming. The head bursts into a splatter of blood, bone, and brains, nun-in-a-blender red, black and white all over your brand new hiking boots and up your morning-cold stiff blue jeans.

It crumples half a foot in front of you, legs twitching, lungs gurgling. One long gasp wheezes out before all falls still around you. Whoop whoop screech echoes through the trees, some kind of bird you don’t know, sharp and loud. You look up at the treetops, slowly waving … peaceful and vast, and find your head nodding in time to the rhythm of the wind. When you look down again the mangled corpse is still there.

You stand there and look at it for a long time. Too long, you know, but there’s something so fascinating about the gruesome sight. Something that makes your head spin and your stomach roll and your hands start to shake again. You don’t have any way of salting and burning the thing, came out here half assed and unprepared. See, it’s just six months since Sammy left and you’re still orienting yourself. Yeah, that’s the ticket. That’s the problem. Dad’s off tracking down a chupacabra or some shit in New Mexico and you’re up here in North Dakota, the ass end of nowhere, thinking you were after some goddamn grizzly bear when really it’s a possessed mountain lion with a French name that you can’t pronounce so you call it a marke-something to yourself.

Some realization tugs at you like a little kid (Sam) pulling on your sleeve (gotta go to the bathroom, Dean). Something you gotta do … You’re not sure what, though, so you just start walking toward the borrowed Chevelle (Dad’s got the Impala), legs moving woodenly over the uneven ground, making you goosestep over badger holes and slip on dew-covered moldering leaves. You hope you’re going the right way. Too bad you don’t have a compass. Wait. You do have a compass. Right? You pat at the breast pocket of your jacket and halt while you look down at the lazily spinning needle that points you southeast.

Dark spots of blood fall pitter patter to the peat beneath your feet, and that’s when you realize that your sock is squishy because the claw mark in your thigh has been leaking blood since the marke-something ambushed you close to – what? – an hour ago?

You tear off your jacket and overshirt and rip the t-shirt off, sour stench of the sweat that’s dampened the underarms and small of the back. As you saw at the t-shirt with your Bowie you curse at yourself. Shit, Dad would tear you a new one if he were here. First hunt on your own and you risk bleeding out from a claw to the thigh. Dumbshit thing to do, Winchester. You rip the shirt into strips and tie off the wound. It doesn’t hurt, just feels numb and you’re not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.

Your jeans are drenched in blood all down the right leg, all dark and sorta thick. It’s probably thick because you’re dehydrated – haven’t had a chance to drink anything yet today – been kinda busy chasing down a marke-thing.

Whoop whoop screech

There’s that strange sound again, a little louder and more urgent and you’re not so certain it’s a bird after all now. Something’s off about it, something your mind keeps skittering around like a word on the tip of your tongue. You’d better get to the Chevelle sooner rather than later so you put a move on, feel your breath quicken again, feel the pull on your thigh from the wound and the disjointed way it makes you walk.

You check your watch, then tap the crystal watch face, realize that it’s working just fine. Your stomach drops. It’s almost 4 pm and how did that happen? You thought it was maybe 10 am, 11 at the latest, but time seems to be jumping around like a fish on the line and that scares you a bit, and not just because of your skewed perceptions. You checked in with Dad like you always do before you left the hotel room this morning and you’d better get your ass back there by 6 pm tonight to do it again or Dad’ll be royally pissed off and spoiling for a fight. Truth is you’ve both been fighting a lot since Sammy’s been gone. Dad’s been drinking more and you’ve been letting him, been hitting the bars more yourself than usual. When you start feeling bad about Sammy you just chase down another barfly or rack the pool cues, maybe slip a quarter or two in the jukebox and you’re fine. You don’t miss the little shit, nah, don’t miss him at all. You just wish he was back here for Dad’s sake, cause you know Dad’s feeling guilty for the way things ended, that last bitter fight when Sam took Dad at his word and stayed gone—

Whoop whoop screech

You stop in your tracks, head swiveling, trying to triangulate in on the sound, but it’s everywhere, closer than before. You’re starting to worry. Maybe the marke-thing wasn’t the only evil sonuvabitch out in these woods. Maybe you’re in some real trouble. You put a hand to the back of your head and damn when did you start sweating so much? It’s cold out here, too. You shouldn’t be soaked in sweat and blood, should probably figure out what that means, because it means something, you’re sure of it.

You try to swallow but your throat’s that much drier than it was a while back and fuck, a little voice inside your skull is ordering you to get a move on, son. Been doing so for a while now, you think, so you start loping again, swinging your injured leg to the side and forward in a hopping sort of rhythm. These woods are looking more ominous than before and you’re starting to wonder some things, like why you don’t remember the drive out here this morning. You remember getting up and talking to Dad. You remember Dad’s gruff voice in your ear, but you don’t remember driving out here and suddenly that seems pretty important. Seems pretty damn significant.

Whoop whoop screech whoop whoop screech

No! Not again. You want to grab your head and cry out, release some of the fear and panic zinging through your veins, but you just keep going, breath tearing in and out of your lungs and heart thundering, legs working and hand gripped tight on the stock of the gun, making sure to keep it pointed up and away from you because wouldn’t that just beat all if you accidentally shot yourself instead of whatever in the hell is after you now.

You hear it right behind you, breathing fast, feet sliding a little on the damp earth. You risk a glance over one shoulder and all you see is a roaring cloud of black smoke bigger than a grizzly bear. But how can that be? How can you hear it – much less kill it if it has no real form? You don’t know. All you know is that you can’t keep on running flat out like this. Your weak leg can’t take much more. Already it has buckled more than once. You know that you have to turn and fight. The damned noise is shrieking again, deeper than before, more … angry? Desperate? Closer, dammit, closing in on you.

You put the brakes on, stop yourself by grabbing onto the rough bark of a full grown pine and whirl around, trying to keep the shotgun up, remembering too late that you didn't reload it. You haul the gun up like a shield but the creature is a huge, unstoppable, screaming force.

Dizziness rears up like a maddened, frothing stallion, hooves kicking, and a split second before the darkness swamps you entirely you recognize that voice.

Dad.

You don’t so much wake up as jolt upright out of warm water into arctic winds. Your stomach twists and your eyes skitter over the scene twice before your brain catches up to them.

You’re in the front seat of the Impala. The actual, honest-to-God Impala. You’ve been propped you up against the door with your neck crooked and your forehead resting on the cool glass of the window. The motor hums smooth and deep but your body bounces from the spinning of the wheels on the uneven dirt road. Pebbles ping off the undercarriage with varying degrees of sound. Better slow down, Dad, you think. Gonna bust something.

Of course Dad’s at the wheel. Dad, dressed all in black, his head and beard a black fuzzy mask and his voice low but steady saying something all along. “—you listening to me, Dean? You with me again?”

“Yeah, Dad,” you say in a voice as gritty as sandpaper. You swallow and try again. “Where? How’d you get here? You … New Mexico.”

Dad makes a harsh exhalation that might have been a laugh at another time. “Shit, boy. You’re gonna be the death of me one of these days, I just know it. New Mexico was my last hunt. Remember? We’re on this hunt together, son. You think I’d let you go off on your own at twenty-two? I may be crazy but I’m not an idiot.”

You blink and try to sit up straighter. The blanket Dad had covered you with slides down and you see that the leg is cut off your jeans, just sawed right off. Dad must have used his favorite knife on them – you’ve seen him do that often enough. A fresh white bandage covers the meat of your thigh and there’s no pain, never really is when you’ve got a deep wound.

“But I thought … I wasn’t after the marke-cat alone?”

“Hell, no, you weren’t hunting it alone. You don’t remember us coming out here this morning, splitting up to cover more ground?”

You shake your head; immediately regret that motion because it’s like your brains are filled with water that’s swishing side to side in sloppy waves. “No, sir,” you slur.

“The claws must have had some sort of poison on them. I heard you yell when it got you and I chased you down for a good three hours afterward.”

Dad glances at you and you try real hard to focus on his face, to keep a hold of his gaze, because if you’re looking at him you’re going to be okay, gonna be alive and kicking and not lost in that place where you were all day long … that place where you were alone. You make yourself relax, because you’re safe and warm and okay. Pretty soon your head lolls and your eyes try to close. You stretch your eyes wide so that they’ll stay the hell open, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Dad’s hand snakes out to curl around the knob of your shoulder, then slides down your arm to squeeze at your elbow. Dad’s hand, short thick fingers with a fuzz of black hair on them, strong hands. The strongest. “You don’t need to stay awake, Dean, you hear me? It’s okay, kiddo. You can sleep if you want. We’ll be at Pastor Jim’s in a few hours. He’ll fix you right up.”

“Thought you were gone, Dad,” you hear yourself saying. “Thought you and Sammy were both gone.”

The line of Dad’s jaw tightens. “I’m here, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay, Dad,” you say. “Okay.” It’s not, though, not really. Sammy’s still gone, but Dad’s here and that’ll have to be good enough.

You let yourself drift off then, because you know your Dad’s not lying to you. He’s not gonna leave you like Sammy did. No, he’s never going to do that.

Podfic: Samson & Jack's Lament by clex-monkie89 (Supernatural)

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 03:11:19 GMT

Two little podfics for clex_monkie89 for the Fall Fandom Free-for-All

Title: Samson
Author: clex_monkie89
Reader: twasadark
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: G
Format: mp3
Length: 5:57
Summary: Dean gives Sam a haircut.

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire

----

Title: Jack's Lament
Author: clex_monkie89
Reader: twasadark
Rating: PG-13
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Pairing: none; Gen.
Format: mp3
Length: 7:36
Summary: Sammy doesn't care what he dresses up as Halloween when he's growing up, so Dean gets really creative picking out his costumes. Written for spn_halloween .

Link (temporary) -

Mediafire

Permanent link to follow shortly courtesy of jinjurly's multifandom audiofic archive.

Comment_Fic: Dark Angel (Max/Alec, R)

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 03:15:15 GMT

Peaking out

You like the feel of it between your knees: the leashed power, the strength and form and beauty of it, the way you can slide your ass onto that brushed leather seat and apply barely a flick of this wrist this way and that and it’ll just go that direction, just eat up those miles like they’re nothing, until the world all around you blurs into a single long smear and then disappears – and for one endless moment it’s just you and the stars above, all of existence balanced on the head of a pin, perfect and everlasting, yet just one discreet moment in time. You like to keep her in top form, like to smooth lambskin over her fenders and fork, change her oil and adjust her brakes – keep her chain just tight enough so she’s in fit fettle to take on the world. She’s a beautiful baby and she deserves to be treated like one, so you make sure your bike has all that it needs to run at 110%.

You like the feel of him between your legs, that coiled genetic masterpiece, tweaked and turned and honed to the highest level of human perfection. You feel that perfection when he surges beneath you, see it in the long line of his neck, the straining of his muscled chest, everything glistening with sweat and flexing with motion, long low groans and gasps letting you know that he’s feeling all this just as deeply as you are, just as perfectly. You love how his palms curl around your ass, fingers digging in and urging you on the roller coaster ride of his body, the smooth undulation of his hips and hard jut of bone and sinew and cock, but he doesn’t dare direct your motion, no, he urges and pleads but never directs, lets you do that all on your own, just flick your wrist or nod your chin and he’s off and going, so eager to please that it’s like he’s a fast running machine. When he comes at long last you’ve already been there before him and that last gasping moan, the rigid set of his body and the flutter of his eyelashes makes you feel wild and beautiful and truly, gloriously free, just like your baby makes you feel.

H/C Comment Fic Meme

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 21:39:10 GMT

*flails around a bit*

I've got so many wonderful h/c writers on my list (hint hint pdragon76 , july_july_july , art_savage , roque_clasique , dreamboat_kicks ... and whoever else I missed, TOO!) that I just know you want to hear about this and rush right over to write some. Right? RIGHT?

PSA

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 21:09:07 GMT

In the midst of the hysteria following ep 5.3 of Supernatural, I thought I would mention this while I'm thinking about it. If you happen to have a used cell phone laying around and are wondering what to do with it, I'd like to suggest you donate it to a worthy charity in my neck of the woods called Concerned People for Animals. They work tirelessly to fix and foster many animals, especially cats, and it's where we got two of our cats from. The efforts of this organization and others like it have reduced the kill rate at our local animal shelters by something like 80% over the last 10 years. That makes me feel good. :-)

Anyhow, if you're interested, here's the address for sending your used cellphone to:

CPA
PO Box 632
Somis, CA 93066

ETA: No, the animals don't USE the cell phones themselves, people. At least, I don't THINK they do. HAHAHAHA!! Anyhow, I think the charity sells them to an organization that uses parts from them.

House

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 05:14:15 GMT

Here's my non-spoilery response to House 6x01: Awwwwwwwwww! It was great, and it made me cry.

Also, doesn't my Semi Friends Banner look awesome?? My new friend chocca2 did it for me as a part of the Fall Fandom Free-for-All. Thank you, sweetie!!

Thing the third: I've had some kind of God-awful flu for about a week and a half now. ME NO LIKE. I imagine I'll have to get better soon. Right? And is it Thursday yet? Some Supernatural would go a long way toward making me feel better.

Ficlet: Two Fingers (Dean/Ellen, PG)

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 06:01:04 GMT

Title: Two Fingers
Genre: Dean/Ellen
Words: 575
Rating: PG
Notes: Coda to 5x02. For elanurel although this probably isn't what you had in mind when you were looking for Dean/Ellen. Hope I don't embarrass myself with this little bit.

The stairs creak as she makes her way down them, stepping carefully in the dim light of a single bulb. The door of the church basement where she had gathered all the townspeople just hours ago is open a little, spilling golden light into the hallway.

“Hey,” Dean says when she walks in on him and Johnnie Walker having a private conversation.

“Hey yourself.”

He looks half buzzed and worn down by more than the liquor, and their voices echo a little in the empty room. Jo said Sam had hitched a ride out of town, so Ellen reckons that's where the haunted look about his eyes comes from.

She goes to the cot where he'll be spending the night and strips off the bedding that smells like stale fear, and tucks the clean fitted sheet around the mattress. “You did a fine thing out there today,” she says. “You and Sam.”

He empties his shot glass and plunks it down. “Yeah, me and Sam did fine all right.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, but can't tell if he means the words to come out that bitter. She notices that there are two shot glasses in front of him. “You sassin' me, boy?”

“No, ma'am. I'm just drinking.”

She feels his eyes on her as she finishes putting the top sheet and blanket on and slipping the clean pillowcase on the deflated pillow, just watching like he doesn't know what to do with himself. She thinks about his upbringing, so hard and male and lacking the little comforts of a home, of a woman's touch.

When she straightens and turns, he's right there, and the space he takes up is large and warm and decidedly, unmistakably male. “Sit with me. Have a pull on the bottle.”

She freezes at the sound of his voice, low and unmistakable. She's been around the block a time or two, after all. It's just … well, it's been awhile since she heard a man sound like that around her.

“What are you …?”

He leans down and kisses her, warm luscious press of lips and slide of skillful tongue. She tastes the whiskey, smells its pungent fragrance on his breath. He pauses, pulls away and looks at her, eyes shadowed and lips parted.

She feels a flush rush up her body like heartbreak. She forces the quaver from her voice as she says softly, “Why did you do that?”

“You know why.” It's half a whisper, half a plea.

She's always thought of him as a smart ass, too young, too pretty, too much. But that was … before. He seems older now that he's back. Quieter, somehow. And maybe … No. There's Jo to think about. Silly, innocent Jo. And this, well … it's not what he wants. Not really. She hadn't been a bartender for all those years without learning a thing or two about the men who rode the barstools at her joint.

She takes his hand and guides him back to the table, sitting across from him. She fills both shot glasses, and they stare over the tops of the glasses at one another. There's not really anything to say that isn't shining in his eyes. Together, they drink.

Fall Fandom Free-for-All

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 01:50:55 GMT

Yay!!!! It's time for oxoniensis 's Fall Fandom Free-for-All again! *jumps up and down* Go see who's request you can fulfill! And request stuff for yourself!

Here's my thread.

Podfic!!

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 20:27:05 GMT

There are a couple of new podzines you may not have heard about. The first one below already has an issue out; the second is still organizing. GO PODFIC!!

spn_podzine

deancas_radio

Comment_Fics: Dark Angel

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 23:57:33 GMT

Here are a couple of Dark Angel comment fics I did that I haven't posted here, rated PG. I haven't been writing lately, which bums me out. I'm gonna have to get back on the comment_fic bandwagon. Or something. Someone kick my butt and MAKE me write?

Dark Angel, Max/Alec, Wanting more

It's a Thursday evening, late, and she's alone in the apartment for once. Original Cindy is out with some chick and she's not expecting company. When she opens the door she finds Alec standing there, head bent and hands jammed in his pockets, looking as uncomfortable as hell.

“Hey,” he says, soft and low.

“Hey,” she greets him uncertainly. “Come on in.”

He looks incredible in a dark green sweater and cargo pants – nothing different from what he normally wears, but now that she knows what lies underneath she can't help but flash on smooth skin and a warm willing mouth and strong arms.

“What is it?” She's half expecting some transgenic-related disaster. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that she's half hoping for one.

He looks aside, jaw tight. “Look, I'm not one for beating around the bush. We need to talk. About you and I.”

She feels a little sick. “There is no 'you and I.'”

He gives her a wry grin that's acutely painful. “Yeah, I'm aware of that. And I'm here to tell you that I'm tired of that. I'm tired of being nothing more than some dick you come to whenever your heat is on. I want more.”

And, wow, that's blunt. It shocks her and pisses her off. “You want more? More what? More action? Cause I gotta tell you, mister, you get plenty of action when I come around. Any more and you're going to have to find yourself another couple of heat-afflicted honeys at the same time.”

A quick flash of anger travels across his face. “Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I want a relationship. With you. Not just random sex whenever you feel like it … as good as that is.”

“Oh, come on, Alec. Random sex was all it was ever about.”

“You're right. That's how it started, but I don't want that anymore. And before you bring Logan up – just don't. We both know that is over before it ever really got going.”

She can't help it – that stings. He must see that in her eyes because his face softens. “Come one, Max. Give us a chance. I want us to give it a shot – you and me against the world. What do you say?”

“I say: you're crazy,” she snaps, not thinking, just reacting.

She sees her words hit him like bullets. His face crumples, but he nods, looking as though he expected that answer. There's a long awkward pause while he looks at the floor, then swallows with obvious effort. He clears his throat. “Then, when your heat hits again, don't come to me. There's not going to be a next time. I won't let you do that to me.”

He turns on his heel, back stiff, and reaches out for the doorknob.

“Alec, come on--”

“I mean it, Max,” he says over his shoulder. Then he opens the door and steps out into the hall, shuts it behind him with a final-sounding click. She hears his footsteps retreat outside her apartment door.

She's stunned. Alec wants more. Devil may care, smart ass, love 'em and leave 'em Alec wants more from her. Something else is stunning her even more, though.

She's actually considering giving it to him.

Dark Angel, Alec, a panther disguised as a kitten, a hurricane hidden as a light spring rain

There's always this moment of doubt, visceral and tangible and as real as anything has ever been, when she sees him fight for her, body lean and slender but strong, so strong. What if he isn't as invincible as he seems? What if he loses … ? See, that's the problem, the fear … the longing to keep him. It's a problem because she's daring to think of him with her, day in and day out, of living the small parts of life with him, the touches and laughter and green eyes smiling down at her after a kiss.

As he slams the X-5 to the ground, panther-quick, she knows he's won again, and she feels her heart warm with pleasure. Her champion. She's the leader of TC, has been since there little rebellion, but it hasn't been an easy position to occupy. The other X-5's were born and bred to strive for dominance, to compete for the right to rule and mate and subjugate others, so she's constantly being challenged. He answers every challenge, doesn't even need to be asked, just does it automatically because he wants to. As he looks toward her now, face uplifted and looking for approval, she smiles. He gives her what she wants – a position of power – so she gives him what he needs. Herself.