Expect Roland/Eddie within three days, my dear.

You can have that kidney anytime you ask for it ;) ;) <33

Boone doesn't say anything (because he doesn't want to sound like an utter and total dork) but he knows exactly who Charlie Pace is. He's recognised him since the airport, when he saw him browsing the bookstore and it was only Shannon's elbow in his ribs that stopped him from going over to ask for a signing.

Charlie freaking Pace.

Boone has an old, dog-eared copy of The North Stone trilogy in his backpack, read and reread a thousand times. He knows the story and history and the genealogy of the characters far better than he knows his own, and he may have once or twice indulged in an internet argument over who would win in fight, North Stone's Mithinred or Lord of the Ring's Aragorn.

Mithinred. C'mon, it's obvious.

But the point is that he's something of a fanboy about this, and now he's trapped on an island with the author.

And if, as a casual dinner party conversation, Boone had been asked pre-crash who one of his ideal partners on a desert island would be, Charlie Pace would have featured heavily in the list.

Sitting on the sand, staring at him, Boone hasn't even approached the guy yet. Charlie is sitting with his head bent over a notepad, pen in hand. For all Boone knows, there is actual genius being written down. He could go over and ask all of his questions about the series, and get answers from the Word of God himself, and find out what actually happened to all the characters after the ending, and get Charlie to explain what Chapter Twenty-One of the third book actually means because there's been a ton of debate about that.

He could go and do all that.

But he doesn't.

Because, god, he doesn't want to be one of 'those fans'. Charlie is stranded. He has enough on his plate without having to handle Boone's nerdy tendencies, and he doesn't want to trouble him if he can avoid it. It would be rude.

"Will you stop stalking him?" Shannon snaps, looking up from her sunbathing. "It's freaky."

"I'm not stalking. I'm just –"

"Staring as if you're considering how to kidnap him?" Shannon suggests. Boone glares. It's not like she'd know literature if it hit her on the head. "Go and talk to him. He'll probably cream himself to have someone care about his stupid books."

Which is vulgar.

And not true.

But…

Boone's cheeks are pink when he heads over to Charlie's spot on the sand. "Hey," he says. He feels as if his throat is closing up, and now Charlie is looking at him with his literary genius eyes, and Boone suddenly feels completely and utterly unworthy. "I… I brought my book."

He waves it in evidence, and instead of looking annoyed Charlie has this smile, this bright and wry smile, as if there's nothing wrong with the universe regardless of where they are or how they got there. "You've read my book," he exclaims.

He sounds surprised. How is that even possible?

"Yeah," Boone says. "A lot, actually. I know we're on an island and everything, but could you…"

No. It sounds too stupid to ask now. He should just go back to Shannon and sulk some more.

"Do you want me to sign it?" Charlie offers, reaching out already.

Boone passes it over. It's tempting, when he does so, to 'accidentally' let his hand brush against Charlie's, but as it turns out the bulk of the book makes that surprisingly hard to do.

"You can take a seat if you want," Charlie offers, gesturing to the ground beside him. "I could use some company to be honest."

Boone dashes to the ground so quickly that he probably bruises his ass, but he doesn't really care.

Charlie Pace is with him and he has a thousand questions to ask.

They need to get started as soon as humanly possible.

(Five hours later, he kisses Charlie right on the mouth when Charlie tells him that Mithinred marries Inaog after the end of the book. When Charlie doesn't object, Boone does it again. This time he isn't thinking about his fictional glee; he's thinking about the giving lips against his own, and the way that Charlie moans when he presses his tongue just right, his writer's fingers curling lightly against the stubbly edge of Boone's jaw.)

OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU THIS IS PERFEEECT. BOONE LIKING CHARLIE'S FANTASY UNDERGROUND SERIES IS LIKE I DIDN'T KNOW I NEEDED IT IN MY LIFE UNTIL I HAD IT BUT NOW I WANT TO CLUTCH AT IT FOREVEERRRR <333 oh dear they're so precious. And Charlie being so happy at Boone being his fanboy. And SHANNON WITH THE STALKING OH DEAR LOL FOREVER I approve. And the ending was totally sweet and I want to marry this thing and just, YES TO ALL OF THIS AND I LOVE YOU AND YOUR BRAIN. ♥

Just fyi? Dean/Castiel/Balthazar with crossdressing and lots of kissing? You can be on the lookout for that, hopefully later tonight or tomorrow. :D

DUDE YOU ALREADY HAVE MY UNDYING DEVOTION.

(also expect the one I owe you this week - now that I have the bigbang and the monster I just finished out of the way I'm all over finishing that XD)

When the chimes end it’s just the two of them. Roland has suspected for a while now that Black Seven knows something he doesn’t, something about Eddie and maybe himself that they have yet to realize. It sets him on edge a little bit more each time the darkness clears and only he and Eddie are standing on the sidewalk in New York City.

Either Eddie hasn’t noticed the pattern or, more likely, Eddie has a different interpretation of its implications. When Roland turns towards him the man is grinning and rocking on the balls of his feet, looking more like Jake than his usual self. Roland waits for him to speak.

“C’mon,” Eddie says, turning to his right. “This way.” Roland raises an eyebrow but follows, trusting Eddie’s judgment even more implicitly here in this strange landscape than in Roland’s own world.

They walk until the signs say 5 and 42, and here they approach a white stone building, much shorter than the giants towering throughout the city but with a quiet sense of dignity that appeals to Roland’s gunslinger soul.

By now Eddie is thrumming with contained excitement. His face, usually containing only a shadow of Cuthbert, looks almost exactly like Roland’s long-lost friend.

Roland gestures Eddie forward and follows him up the stairs. They push themselves through the line of people waiting to enter the building, past what Roland assumes is an entrance hall, into a room full of—

Oh.

The great hall is full of books. Enough paper to seem endless, filling every row of every column of shelves. Enough paper for Roland’s breath to catch in his throat, for his eyes to widen and his jaw to go slack with wonder.

Enough books for Roland to feel young again, young like before the world had moved on, even before he had first seen his mother with the betrayer Marten and taken up his father’s guns.

Roland tears himself away from the miles of paper to give his thanks to Eddie for this unthinkable gift. Roland cannot find the words and from the way Eddie is looking at him, sharp eyes and a half-smile, he knows he does not need them.

Instead Roland presses his gratitude against Eddie’s lips with enough force to leave both their mouths tingling before he turns back to the banquet before him.

There are billions of pages here, and Roland is going to try to devour every single one of them before the chimes drag him back into the dark.


A/N: The building is real and can be seen here but I did take liberty with the design and architecture. This will eventually be posted in the same series as these two short pieces.

.... CAN I LOVE YOU SOME MORE? I DON'T EVEN KNOW, HAVE MY KIDNEY, IT'S YOURS.

THIS. EDDIE BRINGING ROLAND TO SEE BOOKS. THAT - please hear the dolphin noises I'm making right now. This is just so lovely and so IC and damn I could read an entire novel about those two going todash and Roland going all reading machine in New York ;___; and Eddie in this - BE STILL MY HEART YOU'RE TOTALLY AMAZINGNESS. Okay, I love you and I love this and I'll be clutching this to my bosom for eternity ;__; ♥

Out of strictly academic curiosity, would the 90's movie version of the Musketeers be acceptable?

Book is preferred but I can totally work with that other one as well. There's too little of that fandom around for me to be picky. ;)

So, I couldn't resist this prompt, because yeah, reading is totally hot.

Sam/Dean, books/reading

(deleted the first post because I screwed up the link)

I'll never not find reading hot as hell. ;) and thanks again for writing it! :D

This got so out of hand. It’s post-finale and while I was going for Damon/Alaric/Stefan it ended up more Damon/Alaric and Stefan/Alaric. I hope you like it anyway. <3
***
They follow the trail of bodies from the foothills of Kentucky north to New York City and then across the ocean to sleepy English hamlets and the actual, fucking moors of Ireland. Stefan rampages. Damon obsesses. Alaric just does his best to keep up.

They’re sitting in a rented car thick with the scent of sweat and dirty clothes. Alaric dimly remembers a time when he was still young and vampires were just a surefire way to get into his girlfriend’s pants (somewhere, a box full of Anne Rice books sits collecting dust in the back of his closet) that he dreamed about seeing the world. He never imagined it would be like this, his arms sticking to worn vinyl seats as he sweats on a long Spanish night, an actual vampire sprawled in the front seat, berating him for being human and requiring so much sleep.

“He’s not here anymore,” Alaric snaps just to shut Damon up. “You know that as well as I do. He catches scent of us and gets the hell out of dodge.”

“You want to go home, Ric? Then fucking go home.”

Alaric sighs, twists in his seat to get a better look at Damon in the back. His body is visibly tense, muscles taught and he’s got that look, the one that seems to force Alaric to follow him to the ends of the earth as if he has no will of his own. It’s a mix of guilt and determination and stubbornness and something else, something uniquely Damon that Alaric can’t describe, but he knows it when he sees it.

“I’m not going home,” Alaric says, his voice soft.

Damon widens his eyes in mock delight. Alaric wonders if sincerity would actually kill him.

“Hallelujah, can we go look for my brother before he finds another human happy meal to snack on now?”

“Sure, Damon, whatever you want.”

*

Stefan’s body is humming. Or maybe he is. Yes, he thinks he is.

Dizzy suddenly, he laughs at nothing at all, lets his tongue dart out to lap at the stray drops of blood lingering on his lips. A girl lies at his feet. He doesn’t know her name, but she tasted like vodka.

He can feel Damon like a phantom string, pulling him closer, pulling him back, blood of my blood, Stefan thinks. It’s thicker than water, someone said that once. A lot of someones. But Stefan remembers the words coming from his father’s mouth, an admonishment for some childish transgression between his sons.

If he stands still long enough, Damon will catch him.

Stefan laughs again, drops to the ground beside the dead girl and waits.

*

Alaric slows him down. Damon knows he should put him on the first plane back to Mystic Falls. It’s not his fight and when things go south, he’ll be the first one to die. But Damon wants someone with him. It’s a weakness, but one he’s willing to indulge now more than ever. More than that he wants the person at his side to be Ric. But he has no intentions of telling Ric that.

They’re climbing a winding set of cobblestone steps, Alaric one flight behind. The sun is setting and Damon knows that Stefan will be on the hunt soon. He always did prefer the night, such a cliché, Damon would tease as his little brother slipped away to stalk rabbits and deer in the woods. It’s practical, Damon, Stefan would shoot back.
Damon misses that balance, that give and take, craves it in fact. His world is off kilter now that it’s his job to plat the hero, a role he knows he’ll never be fit to play. Not like his hopeless, self-sacrificing jackass of a brother. He wishes that he hated Stefan. But he doesn’t and he can’t.

Stefan’s close. Closer than he has been before. Damon pauses, closes his eyes and listens.

“He’s here,” Damon says.

Alaric is beside him again, his hands resting on his knees, breathing heavily. He looks up at Damon with more trust than he deserves. Damon makes one more wish, a better one this time, he wishes for Alaric to make it out of this little vacation of theirs alive.

“You sure?” Alaric asks.

Damon nods.

“I can hear him. He’s calling my name.”

*

The vampires circle each other, their eyes locked, and Alaric feels like an intruder. Tension hangs in the air with a litany of things left unsaid. Alaric gets the distinct feeling they’ve been here before.

“Darkside never looked good on you, little brother,” Damon says with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Stefan shrugs, somehow infusing a usually innocuous gesture with menace. Alaric can’t see a trace of the old Stefan left in this man, but still Damon edges closer, hand outstretched.

“Elena’s blaming herself for this, you know that? You remember Elena, right? Love of your life? That should ring a few bells.”

Stefan raises a finger to his bloodstained lips and Alaric shivers, wonders if Damon will hate him if he has to kill his brother, wonders if he would even have a chance to do the job before Stefan ripped his throat out.

As if he can hear his thoughts, Stefan turns to Alaric.

“I see you brought your pet,” Stefan chuckles.

“Leave him out of this,” Damon hisses and Stefan seems to take the words as a challenge because he’s on Alaric before he can blink. Alaric staggers back, hands groping for something to hold onto, he presses the release on the stake at his wrist and plunges it blindly into Stefan’s shoulder at the exact moment Damon stabs the needle into Stefan’s neck. Stefan’s body goes limp, but it’s too late, Stefan’s teeth hit their mark.

“You okay?” Damon asks, as he lowers his brother to the ground.

Alaric touches his neck; his hand comes away drenched in blood. Damon pales and Alaric takes that as a bad sign.

“Well, at least we found him,” Alaric says shakily.

Damon shakes his head as he kneels down beside Alaric. He moves closer until Alaric can feel Damon’s breath on his wound and then Damon is pressing a gentle kiss against the puncture marks, his tongue lapping at the errant flood of blood, hissing slightly at the taste of vervain. Damon pulls back.

“I told you to go home.”

“Since when do I take orders from you?” Alaric muttters, still pressing at
his neck.

“Always.”

Damon uses his teeth to open a vein in his wrist and forces Alaric to drink. He gags at first, but he can feel the blood working through his system, healing him. He was never one for drugs, even back in college, but he imagines this is very close to the high his roommate was always chasing.

“Try not to die in the next twenty-four hours, okay, Buddy?” Damon says before placing a lingering bloody kiss to Alaric’s forehead.

He turns away before Alaric can respond, his attention returning to his mercifully unconscious brother.

Typical Sherlock, thought Lestrade, to invite him round for the evening, and then ignore him while he finished an experiment. No John around – handy in some ways – but at least he'd remembered to bring a book this time.

***

Halfway through chapter 11, Sherlock started attacking the nape of Lestrade's neck with kisses, which suggested the experiment had worked. Quite hard to ignore him, but he was going to try for a while longer.

"I didn't know you read French," Sherlock said, managing to sound as if Lestrade reading at all was a major accomplishment. "You let me do all the talking on the stolen Eurostar case."

"The Parisians would have sniggered at my accent," Lestrade replied, "but I'm pretty fluent. Spent every summer with Grand-maman, after Mum walked out."

Sherlock was peering over his shoulders now, even as his hands were reaching down the chair's back to untuck Lestrade's shirttail.

"The book's clearly 1930s design," he announced, "so it's one of your grandmother's originals. Nostalgia, then. I thought a roman policier was a slightly odd choice otherwise. Who's the author?"

"Georges Simenon."

"Ah, of course," said Sherlock, his fingers tracing Lestrade's spine. "Careless of me simply to assume that you were half-French."

Lestrade smiled, as he put a marker in the book. "Don't you know all the best detectives are Belgian?"

... *flail*

Uhm, hi, other than a thing for books, I also have a thing for France/French language of a pretty huge size, so this TOTALLY made my day :DDD omg I so loved it. The dialogue was spot-on and I love that Lestrade is so adjusted to Sherlock inviting him and then ignoring him that he's bringing books along. And Sherlock deducing stuff while they're actually about to do it - UHM YES. *licks lips* and Simenon! ♥ and the last line was so made of win. Thanks so much for writing it, I loved it! :DDD

Purely hypothetical question that has nothing to do with a fill I've started writing *cough*, but how far are you in Supernatural?

\o/ *cough*

That said, I download the eps so I'm all caught up. I've also seen the first promo for the finale so I'm open to speculation. ;)

It's late in the morning, relatively speaking, when the door to the Roadhouse opens and a blonde woman strides in, clutching something to her chest.

"Hey there, pretty lady," Ash says, as she sits herself down on one of the barstools, setting the something down next to her. She's not a hunter, because they're all out scouting and Ash knows them all, and she's not an angel, or she would have triggered the trap. She's something in between, and there's something about her that's a mite familiar, but Ash can't put his finger on it. So he ignores it, for now, and asks, "What can I get for you?"

She looks at him and purses her lips, the expression Ash knows well to be the one of people who have no idea what to get for a drink, so he suggests, "Bud okay for you?"

"Sure," she says, and her voice sounds a bit stuffy. Ash looks a bit closer, and sees that her eyes are red around the rims, and he frowns as he gets her a beer. "So, what's up?" he asks, as she opens the can and starts downing the drink.

There's a metallic clink as she sets the empty can on the bar. She sniffs again. "Nothing," she says, empatically.

Ash sets another beer down in front of her. "It doesn't seem like nothing."

"It doesn't matter," she insists instead, and she opens the can more roughly this time, but hey, it's Ashland, the beer never fizzes. "No one will listen to me anyway."

While she downs the second beer, Ash takes a moment to inch himself taller and peer over the bar. Now that she's talking, familiarity is ringing even louder, although it's a different one. Ash has a few ideas who she could be, and when he sees the book, it's whittled down to one.

"Do you have another?" the blonde asks, setting the second can on the bar, less angrily than the first.

"Sure thing," Ash says, grabbing another beer from under the counter and sliding it to her. "Atropos, right?"

She catches the beer, but doesn't open it, just stares at him suspiciously.

"The book," Ash explains, nodding down towards it. "And I heard you on angel radio."

Atropos snorts at that. "What did you hear? Me asking every angel I could find what was going on, asking to talk to one of the higher-ups, asking what to do?" She snaps the beer open angrily, obviously hurt as she continues, "And what, have none of them even talk to me?"

"Pretty much," Ash admits, reaching down and snagging his own beer. "The angels are kind of dicks."

"I'll drink to that," she says, bitterly.

Ash lifts his beer in cheers, and after a moment she copies him.

They drink in silence, and as fast as Atropos can drink, Ash sets down his empty can before she does.

"Have you tried talking to the Rebel Alliance?" he asks, once she's done and idly readjusting her glasses.

Atropos raises an eyebrow. "You mean Castiel and the handful of angels stupid enough to follow him?"

"Yeah, I heard a few of them saying they should probably tell Cas that you were looking for someone to talk to. Which is better than the silence that followed after you tried to see Raphael," he adds, hoping it's something resembling comforting.

"No," she says, frowning. "It's really not."

Ash shrugs. "Still think you should try hitting them up again. Then you get the benefit of knowing the full scope of things, and If they get a Fate on their side, they may not go through with--" Ash cuts himself off, and busies himself with opening and chugging another Bud.

"With...?" Atropos prompts, eyes narrowing. "What do they have planned?"

Ash hesitates. He hasn't told anyone about some of the more ill-considered schemes the Rebel Alliance are planning, mostly because he knows Ellen and Jo would find out, and he's pretty sure they'd be crushed. Cas is on his way to become an honorary Winchester, what with all the desperate and reckless choices he's making.

There's a thud on the bar counter, and Ash focuses his attention back on Atropos.

And her book that's now on the counter, just within reach.

"Is that...?" Ash asks, voice near reverence, as he looks it over. It's a deep, dark purple, with gleaming gold detailing, and if Ash could just look over it for a few seconds...

"It is," Atropos replies, carefully leafing through the book. "There's no way I could show it to you, absolutely no way, but if I were careless enough to leave it out while I wandered around your heaven for a bit, you migth have time to glance through it, find out how much long Ellen and Josephine Singer have--"

"Wait, Jo and Ellen are alive?" Ash asks.

Atropos frowns, and flips a few pages back. "They are," she says slowly. "And they shouldn't be."

Ash starts wondering whether or not to congratulate John and Mary later on the newest addition to the Winchester family.

Atropos' eyes are blazing. Her voice is careful and measured as she asks, "What are the angels doing?"

There are a dozen stalling tactics Ash wants to try out (he could check angel radio for any updates, or freshen up the angel banishing sigils, or drink another beer), but he has the feeling this needs to be stopped sooner, rather than later. So he tells her.

Edited at 2011-05-15 09:36 am (UTC)

Danny’s not fully convinced that Steve couldn’t find a way to free himself if he wanted to. The rope that ties his wrists to the headboard is pristine white and smooth, the knots ones that Danny learned in the Boy Scouts, of all things. He’s pretty sure that Steve could slip a Boy Scout knot in his sleep.

Thing is, Steve won’t. Because he wants to be right where he is, spread out under Danny, hard and panting, writhing against the sheets.

And Danny wants him there. Fuck, there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be, anything else he’d rather do, than have his hands on Steve’s body when he’s like this, shivering at touch and making low, desperate noises at the back of his throat as Danny’s fingers slip over sweat-slick skin to trace the line of Steve’s hips toward his groin.

“Danno,” Steve whines; damned if it isn’t a whine, though Danny knows Steve would never admit it in clearer-headed moments. “C’mon, Danny.” Steve tugs at the bindings, giving Danny a fierce, frustrated look, but Danny just smiles and shakes his head.

“So impatient, Steven.”

Steve’s head falls back to the pillow. “You’re killing me here,” he mumbles.

“You’ll be okay, babe” Danny says. "I've got you."

Steve groans as Danny’s thumbs trace the crease of his thighs, gently push his legs out wider. Gently, because that’s all it takes. Steve goes easy, gives Danny whatever he wants, never holds back, never balks. Maybe that’s because Danny seems to know instinctively what it is Steve wants – what it is he needs - but sometimes it seems like more than that. Sometimes it seems to Danny that Steve trusts him enough to just give everything up to him, put himself in Danny’s hands and let him decide what to do with that trust. It’s equal parts scary and exhilarating and Danny just prays that he doesn’t ever fuck it up.

He bends Steve’s leg, kisses his knee, hair tickling his lips, then works his way slowly upward, licking and kissing and biting as Steve’s breath goes ragged and his hips roll, cock laying stiff against his belly and little trickle of precome inching toward his side. Danny reaches between his legs, touches the base of the plug, the vibration making his fingertips tingle. He gives it a little push and Steve gasps his name, voice cracking, back bowing up off the bed, all his muscles tensing. It’s a sight to see and Danny still has a hard time accepting that he can reduce Steve to this, can hardly believe he gets to have this, that Steve wants it – wants him this much.

But it’s hard to doubt when Steve’s saying his name over and over, a litany of DannyDannyDannoDannyplease whispered and moaned and rasped. Danny twists the plug, working it roughly in and out and Steve’s voice rises, losing coherency until Danny’s name is unrecognizable.

He leans down, takes Steve’s cock in his mouth, moans at the heat and hardness, the salty taste, the way Steve keens when he flicks his tongue over the head. Steve shudders, whole body galvanized, rising up, straining toward him, begging for release. Danny gives him one long suck, one sharp twist of the plug and Steve yells, full-throated and fucking loud. He arches and Danny goes with him, rides the wave of Steve’s orgasm as Steve’s come fills his mouth and his moans fill Danny’s ears.

He pulls off before it ends, throws himself on Steve in a wild kiss, giving it back to him, feeding him his own come. Steve freezes for the briefest second, then curls up to Danny with a deep groan, taking it greedily, tongue pushing into Danny’s mouth searching for more and swallowing it down like he's starving. It’s dirty and messy and so hot that Danny’s shaking with it, and he shoves down onto Steve’s body, cock grinding against his pubic bone and he’s so primed, so ready. It takes only a few seconds until he feels his orgasm pulling up through his body, gathering into a coiled knot and the base of his spine and then he’s spilling sharp and sweet over Steve’s belly and gasping into the crook of his neck and holding on tight as he’s blown apart.

Danny fumbles over the base of the plug, fingers clumsily searching for the tiny button. The noise Steve makes when he switches it off makes his cock jerk where it’s confined in a mess of wet between their bellies. He kisses Steve’s shoulder, the taste of salt on his lips, then lays his head back down, too wrung out to try to move. Steve must be too, because he doesn’t complain about the plug still lodged in his ass or the rope still binding his wrists or Danny sprawled heavily on top of him. He just lays there beneath Danny, pliant and still, while Danny listens to his breathing quiet and his heartbeat slow.

He touches Steve’s face, following the arch of his brow, the bridge of his nose, shapes that he still knows more by sight than by touch. There’s a barely there sigh when he reaches Steve’s lips and Danny can feel them slowly curve beneath his fingerstips, and the smile he sees against the back of his eyelids is beautiful.

Edited at 2011-05-15 09:14 pm (UTC)

Hi. I just finished the Dean/Cas consensual D/s fic I started for you when this round was running: Where You Lead. I hope you like it, and your tastes haven't totally changed in the last couple of months :-)