STARGATE SG-1: Sam Carter/Jack O’Neill for alphabetdrabble
Sam and Jack have sex for the first time on a wet August day with the hot rain pounding the windowpanes of his house. The air is full of tension and heat and taking it slow just isn’t going to cover it. It’s frantic and desperate, and there is a ‘we’ve waited eight fucking years, I wonder if this will be as good as all those late-night fantasies’ kind of thing going on between them, so there’s a surprisingly large amount of pressure.
“Happy birthday, Sam,” Jack breathes into her ear afterwards, and she flushes happily because he’s actually remembered.
Jack has no idea where Jonas is, and although he knows he should feel bad about this, he honestly doesn’t care. He has only the vaguest idea that Teal’c is actually all right; what’s preoccupying him more is that ever since Niirti sent Carter back from her gene-fucking-up- chamber, Carter’s been getting increasingly tired and shaky, cold sweat beading on her face as she leans on his shoulder, eyes closed, trying to get some rest as her body disintegrates. Jack strokes his fingers through her hair, silently vowing that if she dies, Nirrti will go down in flames for this.
What are you waiting for? Are you waiting for Sam? She waits for you. Waits through every minute of every day of every year. That’s the long-haul waiting that takes the patience of a saint. But then there’s the other kind. She waits patiently for you to notice her, or smile at her, or congratulate her on something she’s done well. You don’t do that often enough any more, and seven years is a long time. She knows she needs to move on, but inside, something still lingers. Patiently counting down every second. Until… what? She doesn’t know. Do you?
HOUSE MD: House/Chase/Wilson for drabbles100
006. Hours (114)
The thing that Chase wants now, more than pretty much anything in the world, is to go home, have a hot, hot shower and fall into bed for a few hours. He aches, his mouth tastes like cheap instant coffee, and his aftershave went stale forever ago.
But he’s still here.
House and Wilson are still playing cards, puffing cigar smoke at each other and laughing like teenagers. So strange how they are together, when with him they’re so-
Anyway, he’s not allowed to go home yet. They’re not finished with him yet. Haven’t even started with him yet. So he’s not allowed to leave.
Nine hours and counting. Chase gets himself another coffee.
019. Pink (100)
Valentine’s day. Just to annoy him, Wilson sends House a large bunch of red roses. Card unsigned, but everyone knows who they’re from and snickers behind their hands. House pretends to be pissed, but Chase can tell he’s almost pleased (even though he presents half of them to Cameron, just to make her flush).
Chase isn’t really expecting anything- why would he- so he is completely shocked when he opens his locker that evening to put his labcoat away. He smiles, a hint of a blush in his cheeks.
Taped neatly inside the door is a single, beautiful pink rose.
025. Strangers (106)
In the beginning [God made light. Ha. Just kidding. Anyway] House and Wilson were next to nothing to Chase. Barely names in medical journals. Chase just wanted a job as far away from his father in Australia as he could get, the pin he dropped on the atlas landed on New Jersey, and that was where he ended up. Princeton/Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Too much glass, but it’s all right here.
The interview: two men on the other side of the desk, flicking special fried rice at each other and barely remembering to ask him questions. Almost perfect strangers.
Chase wishes that they’d stayed that way.
030. Death (100)
Wilson finds Grace dead in her hospital bed, pale and slim and resoundingly gone at nine a.m precisely. She’s emaciated and barely looks human and he pulls the sheet over her face with hands that he promises himself aren’t shaking.
Chase, when Wilson tells him, and after he’s been reminded who Grace is (Chase can’t be expected to remember everyone- or, you know, anyone), says “I’m so sorry,” and sounds like he means it, then gives Wilson a hug.
House, when Wilson tells him, says, “I know”, then leans back in his chair and gives him a challenging look. “And?”
036. Smell (100)
House likes to think that hours of careful planning have gone into ensuring that he doesn’t find out. That Chase has trained himself not to blush, and Wilson has already learnt how to give the but I’m not having an affair schtick with absolute sincerity. He likes to think that they made an effort to hide it, since they obviously didn’t make the effort to stop.
Still, Tuesday afternoon, he’s catching Chase’s arm to ask him just why he thinks that putting a file of useless lab results in front of House is doing his job, when it clicks. One slip-up is all it takes.
House gives him a nasty grin. He can smell Wilson all over Chase.
064. Fall (100)
When House walks in on Wilson and Chase in the former’s office, Chase with his lips pressed to Wilson’s neck, Wilson with his hands in Chase’s beige work slacks, the first thing that comes out of Wilson’s mouth, rather incongruously, is:
“It’s not what it looks like.”
However, when, three hours later, when Wilson walks into House’s office to find Chase on his knees between House’s thighs and House with his fingers tangled too hard in the other man’s hair, all he gets is a satisfied and dangerous smile.
“Now this,” House says, “This is exactly what it looks like.”
087. Life (111)
Life when you’re in love with your best friend is nothing less than painfully awkward.
Life when you’re in love with your best friend but sleeping with his employee because you can (and because you want to invoke some form of jealousy) is nothing less than sheer fucking insanity.
Life when you’re throwing away marriage number three just for the hell of it is full of awkward silences and broken crockery (but you get better at ducking, if nothing else).
Life when you’ve complicated things to an utterly unnecessary degree and everyone seems to be shouting at you is sometimes barely worth living.
At least until he smiles at you again.
088. He (101)
Chase’s back is pressed against the wall and Wilson’s mouth is pressed almost too hard to his, tasting like loss and desperation and something else entirely. One of Wilson’s hands is tangled in his hair and the other hand is pressed to his ribs, heat burning right through Chase’s shirt.
There’s no one else here, but Chase still feels like they’re being watched. He forces himself to remember that they’re alone. That this is the one aspect of his life that can’t be tampered with.
Because that’s the thing. Everything has to be about Wilson’s relationship with House.
(But this isn’t.)
091. Birthday (116)
This year, on his birthday, House gets a genuine smile from Foreman (which is more than he normally gets). Cameron gives him a book that he’s actually genuinely interested in reading (to his surprise), blushing as red as the ribbon she ties around it. Cuddy refrains from nagging and lets him off clinic duty (and House wonders if the low-cut blouse is also a gift to him, but doesn’t mention it). Chase gives him a pretty damn good blowjob and lets him tangle his fingers in his hair without complaint; just in time for Wilson to sweep in and take him off somewhere expensive for dinner. Maybe this getting older thing isn’t so bad after all.
092. Christmas (117) (Because drabbles at 1 a.m are so much fun)
It’s December; it’s cold, House thinks it might be snowing outside (it doesn’t matter), his hands are shaking because fuck- Wilson’s teeth are right there- and if he’d known Chase could bend like that he’d have done this months ago- there’s nothing like a good fuck to make up for being fucked over- and perhaps he’s laughing at his own joke; who really cares- well, maybe Wilson’s wife when he staggers in, three a.m, drenched in someone else’s sweat; it’s supposed to be Christmas after all, but Wilson’s Jewish- this whole thing is just a frenzy of teeth and oh, oh God, yes, yes, exactly there and this would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so fucking fantastic.
TORCHWOOD: Owen/Ianto for alphabetdrabble
By the time Jack returns, the gunshot on Owen’s shoulder has healed into a scar, Gwen and Rhys are engaged, Tosh has upgraded the security systems, and Ianto has decided that he doesn’t want to call him ‘sir’. The team are angry, but welcome him anyway, try to let the cracks heal over because they’re desperate enough to forgive him. For a while, they attempt to pretend that nothing’s changed and it almost works.
At least until Jack sees Ianto on his knees with Owen’s hands in his hair, and he realises that he couldn’t have expected nothing to change.
(Set after “Countrycide”)
Owen carefully puts stitches into Ianto’s chin, hands shaking just slightly but Ianto thinks that he’s the one who deserves to be shaking. He was the one kidnapped by cannibals, after all. He was the one on his knees with a meat cleaver shoved up against his neck.
He throws up all over Owen’s shoes and even though it’s been a long day and it’s got to be the last straw, having the receptionist wreck his trainers, Owen says nothing, wipes his mouth, gives him a smile. It’s a tiny thing but Ianto is surprised by how grateful he is.
Somewhere between slamming Owen against the coffee machine and not actually caring whether it gets damaged or not (which is Ianto’s third sign that something is seriously fucking wrong), and forcing Owen onto his knees while the other man fumbles with his belt and mutters something derogatory about suit trousers, Ianto manages to gasp through bruised lips:
“Owen, if you have been getting the pheromones out again, I will actually have to hurt you.”
Owen, who is trying to work out where to put a lovebite where everyone will be able to see it tomorrow, decides that it’s worth it.
(N.B There is a longer version of this here, with things like adverbs. Written for entangled_now, because she said the words “Owen”, “Ianto” and “tetanus shot”. If anyone wants to smutify this, go ahead.)
“I’m not sure,” Ianto mumbles, “That you should be enjoying this.”
Owen isn’t sure either, but it’s not his fault Ianto needs tetanus shots and is bent over the table with his trousers around his ankles. With an arse like that, Ianto can’t blame him for enjoying the view.
“Just be grateful I’m not Jack.”
Ianto flinches at the next needle, and Owen’s mouth goes dry. This isn’t fair.
“That hurt,” Ianto complains, completely unaware that Owen is going out of his mind.
“Sorry,” Owen mutters sarcastically. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Owen shrugs, and does it anyway.
HOUSE MD: Cameron/Cuddy for femslash100’s Around The Clock challenge.
00:00 Beginning (160)
She doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor, dark hair curling around her shoulders, wide blue eyes, sensible shoes. Cuddy watches House’s latest fellow walk in and wonders why the hell she didn’t interfere with the interview process. House can’t be trusted and Wilson is too wrapped around House’s little finger to stand up for anything or anyone. And now they’ve got Dr Allison Cameron, who Cuddy approved of on paper (immunologist, graduated near the top of her class, internship at the Mayo Clinic… actually with hindsight, she should have realised that House had another agenda), but in real life, well…
She’s pretty, all soft curves and a sort of wholesomeness that makes her seem far too vulnerable. Like her spine is made of wet newspaper, and one hard shove will make her crumble into pieces. Cuddy swallows hard and feels an uncontrollable and overwhelming rush of pity for this young woman.
House is going to eat her alive.
Drabbles for femslash100.
Danny’s been flirting with her all day, but it’s Stella who takes her home, gentle fingers running through the waves of Lindsay’s hair as thoroughly as she processes any crime scene. Like she does every time. Lindsay sometimes wonders if Stella knows her body better than she does, light fingertips cataloguing every inch of skin, every freckle, every place on Lindsay’s body that makes her giggle or gasp or moan. Thorough, careful, diligent. Lindsay almost loves her for it. For her smiles and her acceptance and her touch. For taking a chance on the lost little girl from Montana and showing her that maybe moving to New York City wasn’t so bad after all.
Claire chooses Ana because she seems to be slightly more stable than Charlie, because no one likes her (and are therefore unlikely to ask her awkward questions) but she’s not as smug as Sawyer, and because she’s got this sort of edge to her that reminds Claire of Shannon (who she never really plucked up the courage to talk to, and now she’s-). Quite why Ana agrees, Claire isn’t entirely sure, but she’d never ask and Ana would never tell her anyway. They don’t talk and they fuck in the sand with the fear of the whispers in the forest as slick on their skin as sweat.
Claire doesn’t think she’s as innocent as everyone else seems to want to believe she is- she’s no Virgin Mary, whatever kind of cramped box they want to shut her into. Ana is darkness personified, teeth marking her breasts, buried up to the wrist inside Claire and they grunt and scream like animals and Claire suspects that this is the fallout for the motherhood she never wanted and now needs like she needs to breathe. She’s absolutely terrified but she needs to lose to someone else, need to lose in order to be strong; that’s something to believe in even if she’s got nothing else.
And sometimes Ana smiles at her and sometimes it’s not so bad, not really, tangling Ana’s hair between her fingers and maybe relationships are overrated, or maybe it’s just that she likes that there’s one person who looks at her and sees something other than Single Mother Barbie, petite, innocent and desperate.
She got herself baptised, Aaron too, but they haven’t been rescued and she’s not sure that Eko’s even a real priest. But none of it really matters and she counts the beats of Ana’s heart under her fingers and they’re all still surviving, which is all that you really need, when it comes down to it.