Textfic Post Numero 2 - Various
Fandoms range from RPF to Marvel to Teen Wolf. Pairings and ratings vary. :)
~*~
Jared raised an eyebrow "What are you doing?"
Jensen unfolded himself and laid flat on the carpet, glancing up at Jared. "Yoga," he said. "It's supposed to help me relax."
Jared leaned on the back of the couch. "It is helping?" Jensen sighed.
"Not really," he admitted. Jared grinned.
"Well, how about you join me in the bedroom for something I know for a fact will relax you?"
Jensen grinned back. "Sounds great."
~*~
Jared peered across the river at the humans. "What do you think they're doing?" he asked Jensen.
Jensen shrugged. "Catching fish, probably, he said, focused on the water. "Like you're supposed to be helping me do."
Jared cast one more curious look at the humans, then joined Jensen in trying to spot fish under the water's surface. Five minutes later, he was staring across the river again. "They look pretty harmless," he noted. Jensen sighed.
"Jared, don't even think--"
Too late; Jared had already slipped into the water.
"My fur is going prematurely silver," Jensen grumbled as he followed.
~*~
In the eight seconds it took for the summons to drag Jensen from the Other Place to Earth, he thought about what form he would take.
It was important to choose the right form for a first summons. Pick the wrong form and you not only instilled a good deal less fear in the magician than was proper, but you became an object of jest should any other djinn find out. So, in those eight seconds, Jensen flipped through his repertoire of forms, trying to find that perfect mix of power and mystery.
In the end, he settled on a thick vapor with a pair of glowing red eyes floating in it. Not the most flashy of forms, but one was tried and true, not to mention versatile.
~*~
Jensen groans, half pain, half pleasure, when Misha pins him against the brick wall and yanks him down into a deep, possessive kiss. He fits one hand to the sharp curve of Misha's hip, slides the other into dark, unruly hair. Jensen has seen this coming all day, ever since he saw the lines in his script.
Misha's hands slide under Jensen's jeans, squeezing and pulling Jensen closer against Misha, close enough to rub against Misha's thigh and feel an answering hardness against his own.
"Mine," Misha growls, separating his mouth from Jensen's long enough to move it down his neck. He sucks a bruise there, just above where Jensen's shirt would cover. Jensen's head falls back against the brick, eyes closed.
"Yeah," he says. "Yours."
~*~
Clint sees them, faint ghosts of afterimages, seconds and minutes before they become reality. He traces the unrealized paths of bullets and targets, shrapnel and people, and his arrows always find their marks.
Never voices or other sounds, just movement and action, but it's enough. Couple with his skills with a bow and gun, it makes him worthy of his place.
He's been called psychic and sometimes he thinks that's true. Other times, he slides on his sunglasses and the future-ghosts disappear and he pretends that hey won't come back as soon as he takes the shades off.
~*~
Clint eyed the barely visible bulge in Agent Coulson's pants. That bump, hardly noticeable against eh matte black of the SHIELD agent's suit, covered what Clint wanted most right now.
Carefully, he drifted across the room, casually acting as if he were focused on anything except that bulge. Coulson eyed him suspiciously a couple of times, but each time went back to whatever report he was reading. Probably something to do with Tony Stark/Iron Man; God knew the man got into trouble often enough. Finally, though, he was in position.
Leaning over Coulson's shoulder, he reached for a stack of post-its with one hand while the other slid towards Coulson's pocket. Just a litt--
"Barton, why is your hand in my pocket?"
Clint froze, fingertips just shy of his goal. "Um."
Coulson turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"
"There are---you've got--I want--"
"Spit it out, Barton."
"Smarties?" Clint managed.
Coulson sighed, his hand brushing against Clint's as he pulled out the pack of candies. "Not more than five," the agent cautioned. "And don't tell anyone else."
"Our little secret," Clint agreed as he counted out five of the little, powdery discs. Coulson tucked the package away, that little bulge reappearing, and turned back to his report. Clint just leaned against the agent' chair and sucked on the candy, grinning to himself.
~*~
The first time Steve Rogers dies, he's eight minuted old. The doctors barely have time to even notice before he gasps for breath and resumes screaming.
He doesn't die again until he's six, fallen off a dock int murky water. There are several incidents throughout his childhood and adolescence, but the next notable time he dies, it's fire racing through his veins as Doctor Ersine's serum is administered. Mr. Stark gives him an odd look, but then there's an explosion and Dr. Erskine is shot and Howard never says anything.
After that, though, he manages to avoid ding, despite being in a war zone, until he has to put the Red Skull's aircraft into the water somewhere between Greenland and Canada. He promises to meet Peggy for that dance and the funny thing is, he fully expects to be there; dying's never been much of an obstacle before, after all.
Except, every time he comes back to life, the pressure and subzero temperatures kill him again. And again and again and again. It's an eternity of alternating awareness and oblivion.
And then he wakes up in 2012 and the war's over and he's missed his date.
~*~
The witch is barely a blip on the radar and a short one at that. She's young and a bit too taken with the flowers that grow on every available surface in her house, but she's easy enough to deal with. Less than forty-eight hours after discovering her presences, she's been bound into a contract of peace that Stiles and Lydia had drawn up. As the witch presses her bloody fingerprints to the parchment, she smiles at Stiles, whose fingers are tapping out a quick rhythm against his leg.
"Flighty one, aren't you?" she says and it's odd, but then this whole thing is odd and Derek doesn't think much of one more piece of weirdness.
Almost a month later, he's shoving Stiles against a wall in an attempt to communicate the urgency of figuring out what to do about gremlins and his growl abruptly turns into a yelp when he gets a face full of feathers. Gremlins forgotten, he steps back and eyes the wings now attached to Stiles' back. "What the hell?" he snarls.
Stiles runs a hand down one wing and shivers, snatching it back as if burned. "I have no idea," he says.
~*~
"Nope!" Stiles declares, turning around and making a beeline for the car. "This isn't happening, I won't do it, you can't make me--oh! I forgot to do something very important that is very important, so I'll catch you guys later and we can laugh about this and--"
"Stiles," Scott says. "Stiles, come on. You're th only one who can do this!" He jogs after Stiles, catching at his best friend's arm. "It's not that bad."
Stiles lets himself be dragged back, but shoots a dirty look in Scott's direction. "You want me to walk up to a wolfed-out Derek Hale and get him to calm down and you're saying 'it's not that bad'? Did you miss the announcement that I'm not a freaking werewolf?"
Scott rolls his eyes. "Trust me on this, okay? He's not going to hurt you."
"Easy for you to say," Stiles grumbles, but he reaches for the doorknob anyway. Fine. But you better say nice things at me funeral."
"I promise," Scott agrees. "Now, go get 'em, tiger."
"I hate you, so very, very much," Stiles says.
~*~
Stiles absently licks at his claws, bloody from when he'd disemboweled that last vampire, and grimaces, finishing the job by wiping his hands on his (equally bloody) pants. It's about then that he realizes things have gotten quiet. Turning, he blinks at his friends.
Allison's got her bow drawn and aimed at him, Scott's looking pale, and Derek' scowling, which, really, is about par. "What's wrong?" Stiles asks. "Do I have vampire guts in my hair?"
Scott makes an inarticulate sound, hands flapping, and Allison adjusts her grip. "Something you'd like to tell us?" she asks and wow, it's been a while since Stiles has been on the receiving end of that tone. It's usually reserved for informing the monsters of their immediate demise.
He winces and looks down, catching sight of his hands as he does. The claws are still bloody and he frowns. Seconds later, they're human-looking, if still too red, and Stiles hopes no one noticed.
...Shit.
Stiles looks up again and tries for a smile, belatedly remembering the fangs. "Um, I can explain?"
Derek crosses his arms. "That would be good, yes."
Stiles is in so much trouble.
~*~
Sometimes, Stiles wished he could go back to when everything that went bump in the night was firmly on the dark side. Things were easier back then. No best friend getting furry every month, no nearly getting killed while taking out an insane werewolf, no coming into his room to find Derek Hale lurking in the shadows.
Stiles glared at the open window and shut the door behind him. "Getting in your weekly creepster lurking quota or do you have a reason for being in my bedroom? Again?" He dropped his backpack by his desk and sat on his bed. Derek didn't eve move and Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm waiting, Sourwolf. Thrill me."