The Secretary Will Disavow Any Knowledge

You know, I always start these things thinking, "Wow, I didn't write very much this month." And then most of the time, I finish going through everything and it's like "Well...that's not so bad." 14 stories for January of varying length and the continuation of And We Are Ashes from last month (though really, I didn't do much in the way of writing on that, alas). Considering how horribly writer's block is kicking my ass, I suppose that's not bad at all. *grudging* I also apparently wrote a lot of meta in the course of the month, since it seems that I <i>could</i> write about my snotty opinions just fine.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/295648.html#cutid1">We All Get Dirty</a> Lightverse; Sam/Dean.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/296156.html#cutid1>Just Breathe</a> Heartverse; Sam/Dean.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/296325.html#cutid1">Suriname and Sam</a> The Killing Moon; Sam/Dean; mpreg.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/296922.html#cutid1">It's Supposed to Be Like This</a> Dying of the Lightverse. Sam/Dean.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/300728.html#cutid1">Phantom Limb Pain</a> Man, I'd forgotten I'd written this. Gen.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/303287.html#cutid1">I Kiss You Goodnight</a> Winsister. Dean/Sister, Sam.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/307052.html#cutid1">Leave Everything and Go</a> Winsister. Dean/Sister, Sam.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/307747.html#cutid1">The Importance of Body Language</a> Heartverse. Sam/Dean.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/308519.html#cutid1">My Bitter Hands</a> Lightverse. Sam/Dean.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/298948.html#cutid1">All I Want For Christmas</a> Live Free or Die Hard. John McClane/Matt Farrell.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/305309.html#cutid1">Open Source</a> Live Free or Die Hard. McClane/Farrell.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/301824.html#cutid1">Need</a> RPS. Jeff/Jensen. D/s.

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/305495.html#cutid1">Eat to Live</a> Ravenous. Boyd/Ives (sort of)

<a href="http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/307563.html#cutid1">As A Tree Grows</a> SGA. Katie Brown. Gen.
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And, as a reward for making it this far, I think I'll do a version of the WIP Meme again. There's still a distressing amount of stuff still on the plate from last time I did this and I'm not going to rehash that. Instead, I'll do snips of stuff that I'm pretty actively working on.

This is a snip of <lj user=maygra>'s <i>hideously late</i> Sweet Charity story, which seems bound to break me. It's SPN, Sam/Dean, of no particular 'verse:
<lj-cut text="You know, I don't even have a real title for this yet.">This is how it goes:

Sam dreams.

When the dreams become too much, he goes to—finds—the bar.

There is always a bar.

Most of the towns they go to it doesn't pay to advertise, but after a while, he develops a kind of radar. It's not always right—he's gone home with a few bloody noses that he's blamed on fights with other kids—but most of the time his instinct is dead on. He doesn't know what it is, exactly. A way of holding yourself, a quiet look in the eyes…who knows.

But it always ends pretty much the same way, with Sam on his knees or pushed over a car or pressed against a wall until the weight of someone else's cock—in his hand, his mouth, his ass—drives the demons out, an exorcism of the flesh.

He likes it best when they put him on his knees or belly. It lets him get lost somewhere inside his head, because let's face it: this is not love, it's commerce.

He has a type, solid and broad-shouldered. The whiff of a leather jacket, a gaudy flash of freckles, the winter gleam of a plain silver band…Sam gets so hard so fast it makes him dizzy. He's not stupid. He knows why. There's no denial at work here, other than the bone-deep resolution that <i>Dean must never know.</i></lj-cut>
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This is a snip of Girl In the World, my Dean as a transgender woman story. I really love this story with hearts and bows, but the scope of it makes me want to clunk my head against the table, for serious.

<lj-cut text="Girl In the World">Dean sighs. "Which part of 'I never want to talk about this again' wasn't clear?" He tosses the motel key onto the dinette and falls into a disorganized heap on the bed. The motion jolts through his breasts, not pleasantly. "Ow." It does, however, jolt his memory. Dean sits up and looks around around vaguely. "Where's that Ace bandage?"

"You can't be serious about that." Sam closes the door behind him but remains standing near it.

"I can't?" Dean's dead tired but he crawls off the bed anyway. There's no way he's going to be able to sleep with these things flopping all over the place.

"I mean…it's can't be good for…for…them."

Dean stops his search long enough to glare at Sam. "Okay, first of all, stop it with the stammering problem. It's getting real old real fast. Second, I'm not real concerned about what's <i>good</i> for my boobs, since I'm hoping they'll be gone by this time tomorrow." He goes back to digging through the pile of their luggage, trying to remember in which bag they put the medical kit. "They <i>are</i> going to be gone by this time tomorrow, right, Sam?" There's an edge in his voice that Sam probably doesn't deserve, but it's been a long fucking day and Dean's missing his cock something fierce and he doesn't really care if he's being entirely fair to poor put-upon Sam. Fucker still has his penis, he can suck it up.

"Um." Sam finally crosses the room and digs the backpack with the laptop out of the rest of the bags. "Well, I'm certainly going to try, but since we don't know what even did this to you…"

"Bzzzt! Wrong answer." Dean locates the plastic case that holds most of their medical supplies, but the bandage isn't in it. "The correct answer is, 'Why yes, Dean, I'm going to have this all straightened out in just a few short hours and then we will never speak of this again'."

Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh, the one he should own the patent on, the one that means, <i>oh, Dean, you're being stupid.</i> "I'm not going to promise you something I can't deliver…"

<i>"Then deliver it!"</i> Dean snarls, throwing the kit across the room in a shower of band-aids, needles and pill bottles. "Where the <i>fuck</i> are the goddamn bandages?"</lj-cut>
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Another fic that doesn't have a name. It's Sex Pollen; Sam and Dean have a case that takes them to a fetish club and Dean gets <i>very</i> interested in flogging.

<lj-cut text="No title here, either">Sam presses Dean into the pillar, already ripping at Dean's belt, the button of his jeans. Sam nips Dean, fox-sharp, then follows it with the crushing pressure of his lips, bruising, pushy, demanding. Dean bit down on his reflexive fear and the hot, raw spark that jerked his cock against Sam's palm, shoved down into his shorts, tugging him free in harsh impatient friction. "Do you want me to do that to you?" Sam's tone is even deeper than usual, almost angry; the flattened consonants and slurry vowels when Sam is either really hot or really <i>hot</i>.

Dean makes himself be still but inside he's nearly coming out of his skin, drunk with the sound of the boy getting whipped behind him and the bar back shooter of Sam's voice rumbling against his skin and asking, "You want me to string you up, whip you raw?" Dean feels like he can feel the leather against his own skin, cold-hot tingles of feeling, radiating deliriously out from each point of contact, blooming into pain, knocking away his awareness of anything other than the pain. Dean likes sex—boy, does he—but he can't think of a single sex act he ever <i>wanted</i> this much, craving after it with shameless desperation. He moans something he hopes Sam understands is an enthusiastic affirmative.

"I can feel how much you want it," Sam gloats in the same darkly promising tone, stripping Dean's dick faster now, rubbing the edge of his hand coarsely across the ridge, the slickly wet head. Dean feels his orgasm building, tightening in his thighs, his balls. He fights against the tide, aware that Sam hasn't released him yet. As close as they are together, Sam's wrist and forearm must ache a bitch, but he keeps jerking Dean in the same brutal strokes, dragging Dean toward it. "C'mon, Dean. Give it to me." Sam licks Dean's lips then thrusts in; when Dean opens his mouth obediently, Sam's tongue dances away; Sam sinks his teeth into Dean's jaw instead, swapping pleasure for pain. "Do you want me to hurt you?"</lj-cut>
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Have I mentioned that I'm shite at titles? This one's a random TKM story that I started for <lj user=adelheide> and then got bogged down with because Kink is a fickle bitch.

<lj-cut text="Dean built things.">Since he was the pregnant one, Sam thought he was the one that was supposed to be nesting, but instead he found himself mostly content to sit around—he was teaching himself to knit—and watch Dean.

Dean built things.

Dean's experience on the internet before had largely been confined to two arenas: hunting and porn. But with them anchored down at the cabin—at least until Sam has the baby—and Dean turning down work at the garage to stick close by (and Sam has no illusions he's got any say about that, whatever a pain in the ass Dean might be), there's not enough to keep Dean's idle hands and mind busy. And as much as he likes fucking Dean—and he's not delving into the deeper ramifications of that—Sam's not up to that much sex.

Sam's not even sure how it started. He just remembers waking up one morning to the ratchety sound of the ancient and refurbished printer and, underneath that, the low, groin-warming sound of Dean chuckling to himself. By the time Sam got up and wandered blearily into the home office, scratching idly at his belly, Dean was shoving a wad of paper in the back pocket of his jeans and grinning like he just got laid.

"Dean, what…?"

Dean grabs Sam by the hand and does a completely unexpected and slightly horrifying two-step that twirls Sam around in a bemused haze before Dean plants one on Sam's lips, silencing whatever it was that Sam was going to say.

"Be back in a couple hours. Got the phone if you need me."

Dean's first project had been the bed.</lj-cut>
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This one is a piece of a Live Free or Die Hard story I really want to write...just not now. Which goes to explain why I have about 1200 words of it. *sighs*

<lj-cut text="Save As">"Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?" Lucy offers John significant eyebrows and grabs his arm to tow him further back into the apartment near the bathroom.

"Lucy?" John's stuck somewhere around amused though he's not sure if it's more from Matt's panicky discomfort or Lucy's wild-eyed confusion.

Lucy's lips flare and then tuck flat. "I just. What's he even doing here? Really?"

John shrugs, not for one second considering telling the truth. "There's no big conspiracy here, kiddo, sorry to disappoint."

Lucy huffs and shifts on her toes, glancing anxiously back toward the living room. She lowers her voice again. "Okay, but it's weird, right? Don't you think it's weird? You hardly know each other."

John considers how well he knows Matt. He knows Matt will compulsively pick all the vegetables from his Chinese, laying them in a neat semicircle around the rim of his plate, eyebrows furrowed in the same frown of concentration he gets when he writes code or whatever you call it. He knows Matt still has nightmares, far more often than he admits to, whimpering in his sleep and waking with cramping phantom pain in his leg. He knows the scar embarrasses Matt, watches him try to casually hide it when he's naked. He knows Matt's cock, soft and hard; knows how Matt likes it to be touched, held, sucked. John knows to press his fingers into Matt's bruises when they fuck and the stifled, breaking sounds he makes when he comes.

"Plus, you're old."

John smiles. "Gee, thanks, Lucy."</lj-cut>
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This is one that I sort of/kind of promise <lj user=mikhale>. RPS. Jared/Jensen futurefic.

<lj-cut text="11pm on a Wednesday">It's cold, even with the heat cranked up and pouring warmly from the vents and the wind is rattling the windows and whistling across the roof. Jared has let the dogs out for a long and joyous run around the yard, topped off their water bowl and virtuously loaded and started the dishwasher. He's mulling whether he wants to catch the game highlights on ESPN or whether he wants to head on upstairs and curl around his sleeping wife when there's a chatter of frantic knocking on the front door.

He opens the door and stares. Because of all the people he expected to find on his porch at eleven p.m. on a Wednesday, a swaying and clearly <i>very</i> fucked up Jensen Ackles wasn't one of them. "Jen?" he asks, the name rolling dusty and disused across his tongue. "Jensen?"

It's not that he never talks to Jensen. But it's been a couple years since Supernatural ended and between the marriages and Jensen chasing his career and Jared chasing his, their every day thing has become their every-once-in-a-while thing.

And it's eleven p.m.

On a Wednesday.</lj-cut>
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And THIS is a follow up to Here We Make Our Stand (because those damn boys can't ever leave nothing alone), where Jared fucks it up, Chris tries to make up for lost time, Jensen hates everyone and Jeff is waiting in the wings. *headdesks*

<lj-cut text="Circle Jerk">"You're not sorry, are you? Not regretting it?"

"No," Jensen answers quickly, though he's not sure it's the truth. Otherwise, why would he be lying still awake and staring at the wall after having been so well fucked twice? He sorts through his words, trying to put together the words for what he does mean, knowing Jared well enough to know he won't be satisfied with that. "Just…me and Chris have been friends a long time. Whatever happens, I don't want to lose that. It means something."

"Well, yeah." Jared rolls a little away from him and the mattress trembles as he stretches, an inarticulate noise working its way up from inside. "I mean…nobody's arguing that. But do you think that's even possible at this point?"

Jensen's mouth works around a taste sourer than the milky remnant of come. "I don't know. What about you and Sandy?"

Jared doesn't answer, and the ugly taste in Jensen's mouth slinks down his throat to his stomach at the same time he twitches with a chill that runs the length of his spine. <i>Oh, hell no.</i> Jensen rolls onto his back so he can see Jared's face. Jensen may not be great with words, but he can read expression like a champ and right now, Jared's hovers somewhere between embarrassed and mulish.

"Jared?" Jensen doesn't want to jump to conclusions. He absolutely does not want to jump to conclusions. "Jay? W-what about Sandy?" He doesn't mean to stutter—utterly hates that he stuttered—but he can't help it, forcing the words through the choking blockage in his throat that's equal parts anger, disbelief and the icy hurt that only Jared can bring on him.

Jared won't look at him, large, blunt fingers drawing imaginary constellations on the freckles on Jensen's shoulder. "I don't know," Jared answers finally, his voice sounding ridiculously small coming out of such a large frame. "I just…I really love her, man."</lj-cut>