He clung to Q, scarred fingers clawing at the boy’s lower back like he’d slip away and drown beneath the weight of it all. He just needed…
“Shhh, I’ll take care of you,” Q murmured, cupping his hands behind James’ ears and turning his face upward with a press of his thumbs to James’ jawline; the calmness behind his soft eyes trickled down upon him like a spring rain.
James shivered and then went almost limp as Q ran the head of his cock across James’ lips; the taste of precome meeting his tongue like a wash of relief, comfort in a mad world, someone else to make the decisions so James could just float.
“That’s it,” Q said in that musical way that made James feel like young again, like his body wasn’t broken and sore, almost like there was nothing wrong in the world but a cloud passing in front of the sun. “So good. Now take it in your mouth and relax. I’ll do the work this time.”
“I couldn’t save them,” Steve rasped, unable to meet Bruce’s eyes. “I should have been able to save all of them.”
“Come here,” Bruce said, reaching up and cradling Steve’s face between his warm palms. “Next time you will be better, because you’ll remember this.” And immediately Bruce had Steve on the floor, pulling off his clothes and tying a pliant Steve’s wrists above his head.
The first slice of the switch burned, the second left a stinging trail across Steve’s abdomen, the third, fourth, fifth blurred into a warmth that straddled the line between agony and emotional comfort, and Steve took his punishment without a sound.
“Good,” Bruce murmured, closing a hand around Steve’s cock and stroking as he laid another and another stroke of the switch across his skin. “Let it out,” he said soothingly as Steve panted beneath his touch. “Good always comes with bad, and bad always comes with good. It’s the chaos of life, and you just have to make the best of it,” he said, and the sensations blended into a hum and almost obliterated the weight on his heart and the pleasure of his orgasm.
Sand pushed between Eric’s toes as he dragged himself out of the water, the smoke of the explosion biting his lungs and the shrapnel of the boat floating everywhere around him. Horatio’s strong hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled, folding Eric into his arms as they collapsed together on the beach; he brushed a wet strand of Eric’s hair off his face with a tender, seeking touch. Nose to nose they gasped for breath, grateful just to be alive, amazed by the fact they weren’t in pieces in the water too; Eric’s fingers tightened in Horatio’s shirt, fisting into it, desperate to touch another living person as his heartbeat thundered in his ears, beating away the ringing of the blast.
“Eric,” Horatio whispered, searching Eric’s eyes and finding the same glad to be alive desperation that flamed in his own. He rolled them over and frotted hard against him on the wet sand, Eric’s tongue in his mouth and eyes open, so eager to see that everything was ok.
Castiel’s hand passes over Sam’s wounded shoulder, and their eyes lock; they’re drawn together like magnets, lips brushing, and Dean’s hand tightens on Sam’s waist where he’s been holding him steady. Oh, God, he thinks, it’s beautiful, the way they connect, the wet slickness of their mouths on one another, and Dean wants to taste them both; he moans, pushes toward them and into the scant space between them. “Dean,” Sam says, voice choking, and Cas echoes him, their hands moving over Dean’s body, scrapes and cuts from the battle notwithstanding, and all Dean can only feel lightning whiting out every other sense, every inconvenience and pain.
He takes Castiel’s mouth first, then captures Sam’s, but he lingers there longer, sees more memories flash by and groaning with the weight of them all. Then there’s no more choice to make: they’re all three of them tangled up, wounds and scars forgotten, bodies and hands locked in a slow three-way exploration that soon erupts, like a brushfire, into a frenzy of touching and rubbing and just being together — blissfully, finally together.
“Another Chuck fill just went in the queue,” the Sterek prompt sighs, and the Destiel prompt peeks over the edge into the abyss, adding, “So many iterations of Mark Sheppard, too. Looks like we’re stuck with each other for a while longer,” Destiel adds, slipping his hand into Sterek’s. It’s intimate and daring, but what do they have to lose — if they were to go all the way, merging into an unlikely crossover, who would know, here in the depths of the message box?
Someday their time will come, but in the meantime, they have each other, and the knowledge that when they do come, it will be to a raft of likes and reblogs. So they draw close, meld together, tempting the dutifully chronological authors with their flashes of delicious popular-pairing possibilities.
Meanwhile, Wincest sits in the corner and jacks off, remembering the days when it was at the top of the heap.
A/N: WARNING for major character injury. This one is angsty!
The dim light of the lamp next to the hospital bed made Nate look like he was just sleeping, like any other pre-dawn moment when Brad slid out of bed to head out to the beach. Brad followed the lines on Nate’s palm with a finger, emotions swinging wildly between despair, emptiness, rage… how could something this fucked up happen stateside? How had they made it through the most ass-backward push through Mesopotamia and then this happened on the 101?
They’d been flying high on a mixture of moto and relief when they’d landed back in California, and it had broken everything loose between them; crashing into each other night after night until the urgency of it gave way to something easy, soothing, and permanent.
“Fuck, Nate… just, please,” Brad whispered into the quiet hospital room, and the slow beep of the monitor answered.
Q’s long, slender fingers were efficient, swabbing away the blood from James’ knuckles, tweezing out the shards of glass, two quick stitches through the worst gash. All the while he worked, Q sat straddled across James’ bare body, James’ hardening cock slotted — waiting rather patiently, considering — in the warm cleft of Q’s arse.
He laid a soft kiss across his handiwork and then looked up at James over the top of his glasses, squeezing his arse for emphasis and sliding along James’ length as he laid another kiss to James’ palm.
“Now, my darling double-0, I think it’s your turn to take care of me.”
Some time paradoxes are irreversible, but some are not, and when he loses then, he can never return to their past, only to his own. Older and younger, wiser and more patient versions of himself, those who have suffered and lost, guide him home, and they know he can only find solace in an experience that allows him to feel comfortable in his own body again. The one before him is ready with kisses, and the one before that strips him down, covers him with oil and massages his weary muscles. The Doctor moans into the kisses, allows himself to relax into stern, muscled hands, and tips his head back when soft tongues assault the back of his neck and the bare stretch of his stomach in tandem.
A hand wraps around his cock; another glides into him, and he’s being torn apart, pulled and pushed into heat from gentle warmth. All the while their presence is a constant consolation, a reminder that while he may lose others, he will always have himselves.
“I’m fine, Ray,” Walt said, blowing his nose into the ten millionth Kleenex; his nose felt like he’d just snorted a truckload of C4, but otherwise he was fine.
Ray was hovering around, pacing and biting all of his fingernails off. “Dude, though. But… what if, I mean, just… whatifwenevergettofuckagain,” Ray said all in one breath, looking at Walt with huge, watery, brown eyes.
“I have a frickin’ cold, not the plague or some shit.” Walt rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m laying here sick, and I’m trying to make you feel better,” he mumbled. “FINE. Suck me off, and then I’m sure we’ll both feel awesome.”
