the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist

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Read this rant, I have prepared drabbles as payment

As much as I love Sarah Connor Chronicles, I really hope that T4 throws it out the fucking window, or like, retcons the shit out of it. Because honestly, this entire jumping forward from 1997 to 2007 craziness--CLEARLY ONLY SO YOU COULD HAVE MODERN CONVENIENCES.

On to the first set of drabbles. *cough* First set. Sigh. I don't suppose anybody wants me to drabble about Summer Glau!Cameron sexing it up with Christian Bale!John Connor?

Burned Down To The Exhaust, Jared/Jensen, for fleshflutter

Jensen’s slams on the breaks at the finish line, scraping by just seconds after Padalecki. He growls into his headset and circles slowly until he reaches the pit.

The pit crew begins fiddling with the car before he’s even turned the engine off, and he nearly brains one of them as he shoves the door open. His coach stands with his clipboard and their bright team logo pasted across his chest.

“Next time, Jensen,” He says.

Jensen shucks his helmet off and throws it to the side. Beaten by that damn rookie again, just like he had in that first match, starting from the pole position.

“Do you have a cigarette?” he asks one of the mechanics idling by the coffee machine.

“You shouldn’t,” Coach calls, but Jensen flips him the finger and takes the foul menthol Kool on offer. He breaks away for the locker room before Coach can steal it from him. The only secluded space he can think of is the press box, high in the stands.

There’s some tall guy already up there when he arrives. He leans out over the railing, watching the stadium empty. His leathers are peeled down to his waist.

“Needed a breather?” Jensen asks around the cigarette he’s attempting to light.

The guy turns. “Guess so.”

Jensen’s mood plummets back down to his feet. “Padalecki,” he offers, in what could hardly be called a greeting.

“Ackles,” Padalecki says genially. He smiles.

Jensen’s face tightens. “What are you doing?”

Padalecki looks at him. “Just wanted a moment to myself.”

Jensen inhales smoke slowly. “Right, I’ll just get out of your hair then.”

He turns away, but Jared grabs his wrist. “Wait, it’s fine, I could use the company.”

Jensen looks down at the hand on his wrist with disdain. “Don’t worry about it, first come serve,” he replies, knowing that his tone completely belies his words. This close he can smell Jared: leather, engine grease, and something sticky sweet like burning sugar.

Jensen wants to get out of here. Jared’s fingers are firm on his forearm.

“No, please…stay.”

He looks up into Jared’s earnest face, the one Sports Illustrated is creaming itself over. The next big formula 1 racer. Jared looks better than his photos.

They stare at each other and then Jared’s hand slides up his arm. Jensen finds himself tilting forward into Jared’s space, and then….and then their lips brush. Jensen breathes out, and then leans in again, for Jared’s parted lips. They kiss slowly as the sounds of the crowd fade and the cigarette burns down between Jensen’s fingers. He wishes he’d listened to coach.

Jared tastes like cotton candy and the smoke from Jensen’s menthol. His tongue flickers against Jensen’s in the best way possible. Jensen steadies himself by grabbing a fistful of the material bunched at Jared’s hip.

When Jared pulls back, his eyes are glassy and his lips are swollen. They’re still close enough to breathe each other’s air. “That was unexpected.”

Jensen huffs a laugh. At least he doesn’t feel so bad about the loss anymore.

Sound, Jake/Samantha, for azephirin
The woods are warm, dappled light shining through the trees. Sam has the slight tinge of a burn developing over her nose and high on her cheeks.

It’s the first day of summer after school let out. Jake’s got plans for University of Chicago in the fall, and Sam’s starting some crazy drama program in two weeks. They’d managed to escape all of his post-graduation breakfasts and luncheons and teas with relatives by heading out for a hike before 9 AM.

He loses Sam in the trees.

“Where are you?”

“Up ahead,” she calls back.

He sprints towards her voice and the trees end abruptly. An old rickety house stands in front of him, looking like a stiff wind could blow it over.

Sam stands in the doorway. “C’mon, let’s explore.”

“Jesus, Sam,” he says as he steps on the front porch, wondering if it’s going to break under his weight. “It looks like it’ll fall in on us.”

“Fraidy Cat.” She disappears into the darkened doorway. When he trails after her, he finds her shirt laid across the banister of the stairs, her panties resting up on the landing. He shakes his head and chases after, picking up a pink lacy bra, her cut-off jeans, and sneakers as he goes. The house creaks with every step.

Sun blinds him when he first walks into the room at the top of the stairs. Sam is laid out on the bare floor, naked. She shields her face from the sun with one freckled arm. Jake lays her clothes aside and shuffles out of his own. She spreads her thighs when he walks close, arms welcoming. There’s the picnic blanket stolen from his parent’s linen closet spread out beneath her.

He fits himself to her and slides in, sinking in slowly. She moans low in her throat, pert breasts brushing his bare chest as she arches underneath him. He’s afraid the house will break under their weight and he thrusts in shallowly, holding himself carefully above her. It’s frustrating—more of a tease than anything else, but the floor might fall in with anymore exertion.

“It’s okay, I trust its soundness,” she whispers and wraps her thighs tight around his hips. There is another meaning behind her words as she skims her hands down his back, grip tightening over his butt cheeks to draw him in close. He bends his head to kiss her, deep probing with his tongue as the light of the sun warms his shoulders, and his orgasm slowly builds in his belly.

The house won’t collapse. Neither will they.

Oxygen, Sam/Dean, for memphis86

Practical Magic is the only thing playing at the motel, unless they want to shell out for Pay-Per-View.

“It’s Nicole Kidman, dude,” Dean justifies.

“Okay,” Sam shrugs and pulls out the Friday Crossword.

He’s nearly got it completed, just filling in Three Tramps for 8 across: JFK conspiracy theory, when Dean speaks up. “Your powers are lame.”

Sam looks up. “Uh…” The TV shows Sandra Bullock lighting a candle by blowing on it.
Dean gestures at the screen. “That would be pretty sick.”

Sam sets the paper aside. “I can do that.”

Dean looks at him like he’s stupid. “No, you can’t.”

Sam reaches across the bed and plucks Dean’s lighter right out of his front pocket and places it upright in his palm. He makes eye contact with Dean. “Yes, I can.” He bends his head and blows on the metal, the covering flicks back, flame igniting with a click. “That’s better than a candle.” He extinguish it with the flick of his wrist.

Dean gapes at him. “So your powers might only be sorta lame,” he says after a long moment.

Sam laughs. The lips he presses to the apple of Dean’s cheek burn like heated iron.


Uh, yeah, I have no idea where number 1 came from. Let me just disclaim, I have very little knowledge of anything about Formula One racing. Most of the stuff I was saying here actually is derived from what I know about SBK and MotoGP. So it's prolly all wonky. Whatever, it's like five-hundred words long.

Um, number two, I may have just compared Jake and Samantha's relationship to sex to a dilapidated house. What? John Hughes would be proud. And try to kill me.

Three, I HAVE NO IDEA. None. She said candles and I thought of Sandra Bullock blowing them alight. I think Dean should maybe worry that Sammy will by accident use this power while blowing him.
Tags: drabbles, fic, j2, scc, sixteen candles, supernatural
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