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The insane mini-fics return!

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From [personal profile] medie, but mildly altered: I have a list of 25 characters. Pick two numbers and I will write something with those characters. Feel free to leave a short prompt, too, if you'd like.


Girl!Spock and Surreal SaDiablo (Black Jewels Trilogy), one wakes up the other with a kiss


Author's note: The image of these two together is so hot that my brain can barely process it.

With an economy of movement honed by many years of less enjoyable activities, Surreal leans up to press her lips to Spock’s—but, as always, her lover’s eyes open before Surreal gets there. Spock greets Surreal with her affectionate not-quite-smile, then tangles their fingers together and kisses her good morning.

It’s hard to be grumpy in this situation, but Surreal manages. “Kissing your lover awake is supposed to be romantic,” she grumbles.

“Yet you insist upon touching me prior to this kiss while knowing that it will communicate your intent and rouse me,” Spock replies mildly. “Besides, I do not believe I would derive more pleasure from a kiss at whose commencement I was asleep than from one at whose inception I was fully conscious.”

Surreal flops down onto the pillows and throws her arm across her eyes. Then she moves it to look at Spock again. Spock is still looking at her, unruffled, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I could pretend to be enslumbered, if you would prefer.”

Surreal rolls her eyes. “Alright, fine. Morning kiss, take two, once more with sleeping.”

Spock arranges herself with one arm thrown casually above her head, the other on her chest. She’s clearly acting, because she sleeps only in a perfectly straight line, arms by her sides, only the slight tilt of her head to break the symmetry; she must be imitating Surreal, who sleeps sprawled all over the bed and her partner. Spock even lets out a little snore, which makes Surreal bite her lip to suppress laughter.

Surreal yawns loudly and stretches with exaggerated motions, then ruminates aloud, “It is such a beautiful morning, and I have even cleaned my teeth in anticipation of kissing my beautiful girlfriend awake. If only I could do such a thing without awaking her.”

Spock makes another snoring noise, and this time Surreal’s giggle escapes. Who says Vulcans have no sense of humor?

When Surreal moves to kiss her, she’s pretty sure Spock turns toward her in encouragement, but Surreal’s willing to forgive some minor factual inaccuracies in the interest of poetic license, or the pleasure of spending a rainy morning in bed.




Reboot!Kirk and Eames (Inception), music

Kirk has never seen McCoy’s eye twitch quite like this, and that’s saying something. (It’s not his fault he likes to have fun and McCoy is a Type A eye-twitching bastard who hates fun.) But Bones throws aside the curtain to the cubicle where Jim is sitting, only a little bit in Eames’s lap, on the exam table, and the corner of his eye starts going like it’s on its own private ophthalmological dance floor. Or something. Possibly Jim is a little drunk, and also Eames is very distracting, and now Eames and Bones are in the same small space together and that’s just a whole new calibration of distraction. Jim drifts into a moment of fantasy about what they look like kissing—two matched full sets of lips, God, he loves to see that, and if he had two dicks, they could each go down on him, and Gaila was telling him that there’s some kind of temporary DNA thing you can do, and it’s a little expensive but if it meant Eames and Bones both sucking his cock (or sucking both his cocks!) at the same time—

Bones is glaring at him, and Eames is snickering. Also, now Jim is hard, which isn’t exactly the rarest thing in the universe, but is probably sort of inappropriate at the moment.

“I’ll repeat myself,” Bones says in the tone meant to declare to Jim that his patient nature (ha!) is being sorely fucking tested, “for those of us with the attention span of fruit flies as well as the similar inclination toward fermented beverages. What in the name of the weeping baby Jesus did you two do to yourselves?”

“Now that,” says Eames nostalgically, “was how a gig should go.”

With great deliberation, Bones turns, knocks his head twice on the wall, and then looks back at Jim and Eames. “In case it escaped y’all’s notice, since heaven knows the good Lord didn’t see fit to bestow either of you with more brains than a lima bean, you are now cadets at Starfleet Academy with academic careers and future command commissions to consider. You are not, as much as you might like to think you are, rock stars.”

“We know we’ve been terribly naughty, Dr. McCoy,” Eames says. “But please don’t punish us here. There are ever so many people about, and we’d be terribly embarrassed.”

Bones looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to kiss Eames (or Jim), or push Eames (or Jim) across the table and actually spank him right here, or just turn around and beat his head (or both of theirs) against the wall some more. Then again, people are perfectly capable of simultaneous and contrary emotions. Right now Jim’s not one of them, though. Pretty much he just wants a painkiller, and then he wants to take Bones and Eames home and stroke himself while he watches them kiss. So maybe he’s a little more banged up than he meant to be, but whatever. Give him twelve hours and he’ll be back where he’s supposed to be, which is on his knees sucking Eames while Bones fucks him. Or fucking Eames while he sucks Bones. Or something. Jim’s flexible.

Damn it, now he’s even harder, and he kind of has a headache. He gives Bones his best expression of hangdog repentance.

“You know that doesn’t work on me,” Bones informs him, except that it totally does, because Bones already has the regenerator out and is making up the hypos. Eames extends an arm, and Bones permits himself to be gathered into their orbit while he patches them up.

“So tense, love,” Eames murmurs, running his hand up and down Bones’s spine.

“You two are clearly the punishment for a dissolute past life,” Bones says, but it’s even more obvious than usual that he doesn’t mean it.

Eames clearly knows this, too, because he continues unabated, “We’ll wait for you, and give you a good rubdown when you get home.”

“God give me strength.”

“Oh,” Eames purrs, “you won’t need that. Just come home and come to bed, and Jim and I will take care of the rest.”




Reboot!Kirk and Castiel (Supernatural) in an elevator/turbolift/other period appropriate confined space that two people might occupy for a discrete period of time


Author's note: I actually wrote this one a while back here. But since that's locked...

Jim settles in until they're rescued, playing whatever games he has on his PADD and comming Bones to harass him. But finally Jim can't take Trenchcoat Guy's silence anymore, and starts trying to get him to talk. Surprisingly, Trenchcoat Guy does, and tells Jim that he reminds him of someone else he knows.




Josh Lyman and Bruce Wayne


Author's note: Bruce Wayne does not actually appear here.

A faint corner of Josh’s mind was aware that Donna’s cell phone rang and that she answered it, but he was in the middle of a conference call—translation: argument—with Lobell and Hobuck. He noticed when she left the room a moment or two later, but contact with Hobuck made Josh’s voice rise by fifteen decibels (that was scientific fact) and it probably wasn’t the most conducive venue for a conversation.

Twenty minutes later, though, Josh was off the phone and Donna hadn’t returned—slightly surprising, since she’d been in the middle of some sort of byzantine reorganization of his files, but she could have gotten waylaid by any number of people. Fifty minutes later, though, Josh needed the Israel report for his five o’clock with McKenna. He tried her cell phone—come on, Donna, it’s not like you don’t recognize the number—but hung up when it went to voice mail. The report wasn’t anywhere on his desk or, as far as he could find, on or in hers. Maybe she’d gone outside? Nobody in the bullpen had seen her, and a check with the security officers revealed that she hadn't signed out. It’s the White House, Josh thought, there’s no privacy; she can’t have just disappeared. He called her again and left a message this time—“I need the Israel report, did you get abducted by aliens or Republicans? Aliens would be better”—then braved her disaster of a file cabinet, found the Israel report, and went to his meeting.

Two hours later, Josh got back to his office to find the door closed and the light out, though he was certain he didn’t leave them that way. He opened the door to see Donna sitting motionless in the half-lit room, her face completely blank. He opened his mouth to ask, Who’s dead?—the only reasonable response to that expression—but Donna interrupted him with, “I need to go to Gotham.”

Stopped short, Josh fired back, “Oh, fuck no.” He wouldn’t send a Secret Service agent there without an armed complement of Green Berets, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting Donna go, not with half the sexual-predators unit from Arkham still running around free.

“It’s not a request. I have to attend a funeral.”

Who's dead? echoed in his head—at least he hadn’t actually said it. Then Josh put it together: Donna’s best friend was from Gotham, and he’d overheard pieces of enough phone conversations to glean that the friend’s mother had some health problems. He offered the accepted, inane, and expected, “I’m sorry,” and then, “Your friend’s mother?”

Donna stared at him, her face shifting from blank to incredulous; then she, too, seemed to put something together. “You had that meeting with McKenna; you might not have heard.” Then: “Oh shit, the report!”

“Donna, it’s fine, I found it. What didn’t I hear?”

The question, of all things, set her into motion, and she went over to his desk, got his remote, and turned on his television, set, as usual, to CNN. The image onscreen looked like a burning building. The headline box on the lower corner read, “Terror in Gotham,” which wasn’t exactly descriptive or, these days, unusual.

“—Dent is in critical condition at Gotham General. A positive identification has not yet been made on the body found at 250 Fifty-second Street, but a source within the Gotham City Police Department told CNN that the woman inside was Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes—”

Donna hit mute, and the room was suddenly, jarringly silent. The flicker from the screen provided just enough light for Josh to see tears on Donna’s face. “It’s her. Her mom called me. There wasn’t—” Donna stopped, covered her face and collected herself, then continued. “There wasn’t enough left for her mother to make the ID. They’re going to have to do it with dental records and maybe DNA—” Donna covered her face again, and this time she didn’t recover. For a moment Josh was frozen, and then he forgot whatever vestigial notions of propriety he’d clung to, and he crossed the floor in two steps and wrapped his arms around her. She made no sound, but she was shaking, and Josh stroked her hair and tried to hold her steady.

“I have to go,” she said after a few minutes, not looking up. A man like Leo or the President would have had a handkerchief for her; Josh, of course, did not.

He wasn’t sure whether Donna meant that she had to go now, or that she had to go to her apartment, or that she had to go to Gotham. Josh realized that his answer was the same for any of them. “I’ll go with you,” he said.




Lando Calrissian, Nyota Uhura, and government forms of some sort


Author's note: Lando Calrissian does not actually appear here.

Nyota’s doing the forms on her PADD when Gaila puts her tray on the table and sits down. “Homework?”

Nyota shakes her head. “No. I’m registering for the skills-based elective.”

“What’d you decide on? I’m doing warp engineering, but you could have guessed that.”

Nyota smiles. “I’d be surprised if you did anything else. I was actually thinking of doing something a little bit different, though—maybe the elementary flight course.”

“That would be different,” Gaila says approvingly. She’s unembarrassed about telling Nyota that she needs to come out of her shell, try some new things, and it’s often annoying, but sometimes Nyota has to admit she’s right. “I think Christine took that last semester, if you wanted to talk to somebody who’s had it.” Then Gaila’s expression changes the way most humans’ do when they think about delicious food. “Oh…you should definitely take that. I think Professor Calrissian’s teaching it.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Nyota says, trying not to laugh at Gaila’s two-track (sex and applied sciences) mind.

“You should definitely find out. And when I say find out, I mean find out what he looks like naked.”

“Gaila!”

“OK, fine, wait until you’ve gotten your grade for the class. Then put him in the captain’s chair and ride him like a Cardassian hound.”

“Gaila!”

“Nyota, if you take that class and don’t hit that flyboy like the fist of an angry god, I will have you committed.”

“Right, because I need another egotistical command-track male in my life.”

Gaila rolls her eyes. “You know I love Jim, but he’s still a boy in many ways. Professor Calrissian is most definitely not. In any way. So maybe he’s got an ego, but”—and Gaila looks disturbingly satisfied as she says it—“he has something to back it up with.”

“Oh no you didn’t,” Nyota says, except she knows, absolutely, that Gaila did.

“As if I would recommend a lover without determining whether he was satisfactory! Which,” Gaila adds, “he was.”

“You are twisted and wrong,” says Nyota.

“But you’re signing up for his class, right?”

“I hate you,” says Nyota, then checks the box for Basic Interstellar Flight and transmits her registration.




Rachel Dawes (The Dark Knight) and Mal (Inception), orgasm denial

Rachel has never seen the woman in real life, but the face in her dreams is so clear that Rachel is sure she would recognize her if she actually existed. It’s not a conventional face—the woman’s eyes are deep-set, almost sunken, and her wide nose turns up oddly—but it is unquestionably beautiful. Rachel will never know how her subconscious created this particular woman, but she has been a staple of Rachel’s dreams for years.

She’s a tease, this imaginary lover, keeping Rachel on edge for what seem like hours, touching her with the lightest of fingertips, coaxing her in an accent that rounds the hard edges of English into lush, sometimes guttural curls: “Don’t come, my darling, not yet—can you wait for me? Will you be good?” And Rachel cries out, yes, I’ll wait, yes, I’ll be good, just please, please—

Sometimes the woman kisses her, smiling as though Rachel is a student who has given a correct answer, and brings her to climax with clever fingers on her clit and in her cunt. Sometimes—only a few times, but Rachel has them all committed to memory—she uses her tongue, and the orgasms are so intense that Rachel wakes up exhausted and limp.

Rachel has just started her job at the DA’s office when the woman appears for the last time. The circles under her eyes, once striking, are now as thick as bruises, and she’s tense, even angry. “I only wanted to tell you,” she says, and now the consonants are sharp, “because you deserve to know. You’re not real. I’m not real. None of us are real.”

“Well, no,” Rachel answers, confused. “This is a dream. Of course it isn’t real.”

The woman smiles her approving smile, and disappears. Rachel never dreams of her again.

Rachel can’t forget that smile, but, for the life of her, she doesn’t understand what she said that the woman liked so much.




Leia Organa and Tony Stark, a shared secret

Tony is brilliant about certain equations, and dumb as a post about others. Right now, Leia would like to beat it into his skull that sharing certain characteristics—long hair and a vagina—with Pepper Potts does not equal special insight into the woman’s mind.

Tony’s standing in her office, tossing the ring back and forth from hand to hand, and finally it irritates Leia enough that she uses Force to pull the piece of jewelry out of the air and set it on her desk. “Stop that,” she says, not unkindly.

“How do you know she won’t hate it?” Tony asks.

“I don’t,” Leia says, “because believe it or not, I can’t read Pepper’s mind.”

“Luke could.”

“Luke wouldn’t, because he has a basic moral compass.”

“Ah, the unspoken predicate: unlike some people I could name.”

Leia smiles and leans back in her chair. “If that’s what you’d like to think.”

Tony glares.

“I do have a republic to run,” she reminds him. “And you might also have some ships to build.” Tony mutters something. It’s unintelligible, but context is enough. “Ah. Han threw you out of the yard, did he?”

Tony mutters something again.

Leia takes pity and floats the ring back over to him. “Tony,” she says, “here’s my advice, and it has nothing to do with whether Pepper will or won’t like the ring (which she probably will, because it’s designed to her taste and even if it weren’t, she’d like it because you gave it to her) or whether she will or won’t marry you (which she probably will, because she loves you). Go home, go down to your workshop, listen to the worst music you can find”—Tony looks offended, but she continues—“build something or blow something up, and then take a shower and propose to Pepper when she gets home from her meetings tonight.”

Tony cups the ring in the palm of his hand, nods, and then starts for the door.

“And, Tony?” Leia adds. “One friend to another: If I see you in this office again before that ring is on Pepper’s finger, I’m calling the Sarlacc to see whether he’s got an opening.”

Tony discovers the better part of valor, and flees.

Leia finally gets some work done.




Sam Winchester and Lando Calrissian, why don't we do it in the road?

“No one will be watching,” Lando points out.

“That’s your argument?” Sam says, incredulous. “Lando, it’s a public road! Anybody could happen down it at any time!”

“I could have the police set up a roadblock.”

“I’m going to fail the character part of the bar,” Sam mourns, “and it’ll all be your fault.”

“I’m an adult,” Lando says, like this is completely reasonable, “and you’re an adult. It’s northern California. What’s the problem?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that it’s public sex! You can’t just fuck me up against the window of your office like every other tycoon?”

Lando looks thoughtful. “Not quite the same, but that’s definitely something to put on the list.”

“Fine,” Sam says, “but it has to be in the car.”

“What the hell kind of car would both of us fit in? You especially.”

Sam shrugs and crosses his arms. “No idea. Buy an Airstream. But that’s my final offer: in a car…and with a roadblock.”

“Or against the window of my office,” Lando says, eyes glinting.

Sam sighs. “Or against the window of your office. Which is probably what you had in mind all along anyway.”

Lando just grins, which is answer enough.