Holiday Card Drabbles

[annundriel]

Here are 19 of the 20 requested card drabbles. Included are Inception, NCIS, RPF, Sherlock, Southland, and Supernatural. There are also some pairings here I've never written before, which was quite fun.

I hope everyone enjoys them!

*

For jack_infinitude:

Tim follows Tony into the kitchen, doesn’t stay on the couch like Tony instructed.

Tony grins, doesn’t turn around. “Need something, McGee?”

“I might.” Tim’s hand closes around Tony’s wrist, tugging until Tony turns, faces him.

Tim’s got that look, the one he gets when he’s focused, intent, on the verge of something really good.

The kiss isn’t a surprise, doesn’t come out of nowhere; Tony’s been waiting for Tim to choose the time and place for ages.

Tim crowds him against the counter, and Tony knocks over the empty wine glasses waiting there.

Glass crunches underfoot.

Tony doesn’t care.

*

For mithrel:

Dean deals a third jack from the deck of cards.

“Look at that, Cas! You are so close to getting a royal fizzbin. Of course, the odds of that are—Hey, Sam, what are the odds of Cas getting a royal fizzbin?”

Sam’s arms are wrapped around his middle; Castiel suspects he’s trying not to laugh. “They’re, uh, they’re astronomical, Dean.”

“Right.” Dean nods. “Right. Astronomical.”

Castiel stares at his cards. “You said a third jack would result in disqualification.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Dean says. “It’s Friday; you’re golden.”

Despite the distinct feeling they are…pulling his leg, Castiel plays along.

*

For olivelavonne:

When Ben showed up at John’s door, kissed him, and said he knew what he was doing, John should have said no, turned him away.

He didn’t.

Two of Ben’s fingers are up John’s ass and Ben’s mouth is on John’s cock and Ben definitely, definitely knows what he’s doing.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises,” John gasps, fingers catching in the sheets, sliding through Ben’s hair.

Ben twists his wrist, crooks his fingers, pulls off with a smirk as he shifts, a third fingering joining the first two. John groans.

“You have no idea.”

John plans to find out.

*

For bientot:

When Misha asks him what he wants for Christmas, Neal rolls over, grins. “You don’t have to get me anything.”

Misha’s hands are warm and wide on his back. “Oh?”

Neal shrugs, leaning down to kiss a nipple as he pretends to think about it. “Well, there was a watch at—”

“Oh no, you can con yourself whatever overpriced piece of jewelry you’ve got your eye on.”

“You’re telling me,” Neal says, “that you couldn’t walk in there and bat those eyelashes, flash that smile, use your minions, get whatever you wanted?”

Misha smiles. “I’ve got what I want.”

*

For aldehyde:

“Do you have to make that noise?”

Misha blinks at him, spoon caught in his mouth. He slides it out slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jensen.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

Misha’s lips quirk. “I can’t help it if their chocolate mousse is delicious.” He twirls the spoon in his fingers, licks it. “Or that you decided not to partake.”

Jensen’s not jealous of the spoon. “You’re torturing me.”

“Harsh.” Misha gets a spoonful, offers it. “Try it.”

Jensen leans forward and…

Misha’s right; it does taste delicious.

He leans farther; it tastes even better on Misha’s tongue.

*

For mclachlan:

Castiel sits beside Sam and watches Dean across the booth. Time isn’t of the essence anymore; they can afford to eat breakfast. Castiel doesn’t partake, so he watches.

Watches Dean spear a sausage with his fork, watches him pick up a knife, butter his toast. He watches Dean laugh, roll his eyes at Sam, call for their waitress.

Everything is mundane. Safe. Human.

Castiel cannot look away, not from the movement of Dean’s fingers, the sweep of his eyelashes.

Sunlight spills through the window. Dean smiles at him over the rim of his coffee cup and, oh, Castiel thinks.

Oh.

*

For krystalicekitsu:

Gabriel appears in front of Sam suddenly, stopping him in his tracks.

“Gabriel, what the—”

“Thought you might get cold.” Gabriel loops a long scarf, thick and warm and frighteningly pink, around Sam’s neck. “Wouldn’t want you getting the sniffles.”

“Nooo…” Sam frowns suspiciously down at the scarf, at Gabriel. “What’s the catch?”

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel pulls Sam down to his level by the ends of the scarf. “Don’t be so suspicious,” he says. “Sometimes a scarf is just a scarf.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And sometimes there’s bondage later.” Gabriel kisses him, disappearing with a wink.

*

For wolfrider89:

“Cas, what’s—”

Dean opens the package Cas hands him, pulls out a framed photograph of…of…

It’s the backyard of the house in Lawrence, it must be. He’s laughing in his mother’s arms, his father grinning as he holds Sam. Dean can almost feel the sun on his face, hear how happy they were.

Cas shrugs, takes a step forward. “From your parents’ house. I went back. I thought you would—”

Cas is stiff in Dean’s arms at first, but he’s warm and smells good, and after a moment, he relaxes, arms coming up around Dean.

“Thank you, Cas.”

*

For ember_firedrake:

Sherlock’s nose is cold against John’s cheek, his glove-covered palms cool against John’ face, but his mouth—that mouth—is warm and more welcoming than John ever hoped it would be.

God, it’ a relief.

Sherlock kisses like he does everything, intent and focused and world-narrowing, world-expanding with every shared detail Sherlock can see when everyone else remains blind.

John wraps his fingers in Sherlock’s scarf, Sherlock’s coat, his hair, in any part of Sherlock he can reach. He wraps himself in Sherlock, throws himself with him over that precipice, hangs on. Does his best to follow where Sherlock leads.

*

For grammarwoman:

Eames’ spelling is atrocious.

Arthur hates that he finds it endearing. He hates that he finds many of Eames’ otherwise loathsome qualities endearing, but…there it is.

Eames’ emails are better than his letters—thank god for spell check—but it’s Eames’ letters Arthur looks forward to, the feel of paper beneath his fingertips, the lingering smell of ink and cologne, whatever new place Eames happens to be.

Arthur likes to touch; Eames likes to indulge him.

Eames’ familiar scrawl—the one that’s his and no one else’s—covers the front of the envelope.

Arthur opens it.

Breathes deep.

Hello, Darling—

*

For arialyre:

Sam presses Lucifer against the bed, hands tight around his wrists, presses and holds and pins him there with hands and mouth, chest and thighs, their feet tangling in the sheets.

Lucifer groans, pulls against him, presses back. Struggles, but doesn’t try to escape.

They both know he could if he wanted.

They both know he doesn’t want to.

Skin sliding, teeth biting, there’s no place else either of them wants to be, no one else either of them wants to be with. They’re well matched, here especially, both of them finding something they thought they’d never have.

Equals, finally.

*

For love_jackianto:

When Ben puts on his dress blues, he doesn’t look like a kid and he doesn’t look like a cop; he looks like an ideal.

John feels a swell of pride that is, maybe, unjustified. Ben would be a good cop no matter who his training officer was. He’s a good man (no matter who his father is).

Ben catches him staring from across the room. He doesn’t smile or smirk, but his face relaxes in that way he has when they’re alone together on John’s couch, in John’s home.

Yeah, John thinks, this is good.

Hang on to this.

*

For sephirothflame:

It’s cold outside, cold and quiet, snow falling around them in flakes like feathers. Dean turns to Cas, ready with a joke about molting angels.

“Hey, Cas—”

Cas’ face is turned upwards, his eyes closed. There’s snow caught in his hair and on his lashes. His cheeks are pink, and Dean suddenly finds himself wanting to reach out, take Cas’ face in his hands, run his thumbs over those cheeks, watch Cas’ eyes blink open and meet his without hesitation, without doubt. With everything Dean’s been trying not to feel.

Dean takes his hands out of his pockets.

*

For pandionpandeus:

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s mistletoe, Dean-o.” Gabriel rocks back on his feet. “I thought this place could use a little festive cheer.”

“And you thought plastering it with mistletoe would do the trick?”

“I could’ve gone with some nice boughs of holly, but I thought this would be a little more interactive and a lot more fun.” He winks.

Dean folds his arms. “I’m not kissing you under it.”

Gabriel pouts. “It’s tradition.”

“It’s overkill.”

“I’m trying to be festive.”

“You’re trying to get in my pants.”

“True.” Gabriel grins. “Can you blame me?”

Dean guesses he can’t.

They are good pants.

*

For sycophantastic:

Jensen’s not a bad skater, he’s just…out of practice. He wobbles on the ice, prays that no one notices.

Squeezes his eyes shut when Misha glides up with ease.

“Hey, Bambi.”

“Bambi?” Jensen asks. “I’m not a stripper.”

“You could be.” Misha winks. “You look like Bambi on ice.”

Jensen frowns and straightens, feels his feet slip—

“Whoa!”

Misha’s hands are on his waist and Misha’s thigh is against his and Jensen’s clutching at Misha’s shoulders and—

Misha’s grinning. “Could’ve just said something, Jen. Didn’t have to throw yourself at me.”

Jensen blinks, but doesn’t argue when Misha kisses him.

*

For shetiger:

John comes back from the kitchen, beers in hand. Ben’s made himself comfortable on the living room floor, tangled clump of lights in his lap.

“This is pretty bad,” Ben says, taking the bottle John holds out.

John sits on the couch, lowers himself to the floor. “I’m sure they were fine last year.”

“So you called the rookie to save you?”

Shrugging, John takes a sip of his drink. “What can I say? I miss your scintillating conversation.”

Ben raises his bottle, but not before John catches the smile slipping across his lips, the corners of Ben’s eyes crinkling.

*

For perfumaniac:

The moment Eames sees Arthur, he wants him. He wants to take and unwrap and touch every part of him, mess him up from head to toe.

Despite Arthur’s apparent disdain, he knows Arthur’s interested, too. Eames has seen Arthur looking.

It takes years, but Eames doesn’t care because in the end…

In the end, Arthur comes out of his suit so beautifully, fits beneath Eames’ palms so perfectly, arches and shudders, teases and begs so sweetly that it’s all worth the wait. All better because of the wait.

Arthur’s never been easy, and Eames has never wanted anything else.

*

For cloudyjenn:

“I feel like I should be on the top of a tree somewhere.”

“A tree, Dean?”

“Isn’t that what we do at Christmas? Or should we be donning white robes and—where is my white robe, anyway? Shouldn’t I have a white robe and a harp?”

Cas sighs. “You’re not that kind of angel, Dean.”

“Oh?” Dean crowds him, their chests brushing. “Then what kind of angel am I?”

“The kind no one should listen to. Ever.” Cas rolls his eyes. Dean would be offended, but somehow Cas makes it affectionate.

Dean grins. “You love it.”

“Help me, I do.”

*

For darksilvercat:

Dean leans in, brushes his mouth against Cas’ once, twice, kisses him slow, thorough.

Cas tastes cool and bright and sweet, fresh and sharp, like—

“Is that peppermint?”

Cas blinks at him, eyes dark, and licks his lips. “Yes.”

“Did you—” Dean has to taste again. He leans in, kisses Cas. “Did someone give you a candy cane?”

Cas opens his mouth to answer, and Dean takes the opportunity to dive back in. Cas chuckles against him, warm and inviting. Dean wants to sink into it.

“Next time,” Dean says, “wait ‘til I’m around before you suck on it.”