Images in Words

amjacob @ 2009-06-17T03:44:00

2009-06-17T07:46:52Z

I'm moving/posting all future stories and updates to my community sparksoftempest.

Sub Cubare 4/?

2009-05-26T09:40:46Z

I'm pleasantly surprised how easy this chapter flowed. We're quicky approaching the really porny bits, probably in the next chapter. I'm really excited to get those into a publishable form, and I hope I've set an acceptable overall pace. Hopefully my foreshadowing isn't to anvil-y!

Title: Sub Cubare 4/?
Author: amjacob
Rating: R
Word Count: 2000
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Dean/Buffy, Dean/Sam/Buffy
Spoilers: general season 4
Summary: Giles and Buffy help Sam identify the creature that bit Dean. Meanwhile Dean’s condition worsens. Supernatural/BtVS crossover.
Legal disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, I do not own Sam or Dean. If I did, I would be far too busy to ever write anything ever. I also do not own Buffy or the Scoobies.

Dean had been remarkably silent while Giles had paged though the Codex. He’d banged against the door and whimpered desperate needy noises once or twice, but for Dean he was showing considerable restraint. While the elder man researched potential causes of his brother’s condition, Sam listened while Buffy explained what a Slayer was. One girl in each generation Called to fight against the forces of darkness. He found he had a lot in common with her, really, though he did envy her idyllic childhood and close friends, her ability to share her secret with other people and not have them run screaming or call for the nuthouse.

“I’m mostly retired now though,” she explained, “ever since Wills did the magic thing and awakened all the potential Slayers. They’re all over the world now, so I can usually just be normal Buffy.”

Sam nodded. “It must be nice to be able to have that. I—my brother and I, well. We’ve been hunting since before I could talk it seems. Our mom was killed by a demon when I was six months old.”

“Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Honestly, I don’t really remember her. But her death, well, Dad couldn’t think about anything but finding the thing that did it. He raised us like warriors, so we never really had a chance at normal. I remember…just before the end of my senior year, he found my acceptance letter to Stanford.” Sam paused, features twisted with regret and loss. “He told me if I left, if I walked out the door, that I shouldn’t come back. And I didn’t. Not for four years, and by then my girlfriend was dead. Murdered by the same thing that killed my mother. The year after that, my father sacrificed his life to save my brother.

“I tried normal and safe, and it just came back to bite me on the ass. So I’m done with it. Dean’s the only family I’ve got now, and we’re going to find a way to fix this.”

“Ah! Of course!” Giles suddenly exclaimed excitedly. He turned the huge book around so that Sam and Buffy could read it. “Here,” said Giles, pointing to a paragraph underneath the heading of Succubus. “’The more the victim indulges in his or her urges, the faster the poison spreads though the body’. There is an anecdotal account here of a woman who claimed to have been bitten by a demon. She had, er, relations, with half the town in a single day, and the next she’d vanished. Some of those men reported feeling sick or tired afterward. The part about the venomous bite caught my attention. I do believe we’ve found the type of creature that attacked your brother.”

"You just can't say the sex word, can you Giles?" teased Buffy. The demonologist's glasses seemed to get smudged a lot, Sam noted.

"Yes, well. Quite."

“What it says about the spread of the poison though…maybe something about the act of sex while the venom is in your blood makes you turn into a succubus yourself?” pondered Sam.

Down the hall really wasn’t so very far away. The guest room was near enough to them that Dean overheard the conversation. “Oh Hell no, Sammy. You have to fix this,” he implored, his voice harsh and desperate. “I can’t just never have sex ever again!”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s superhuman libido, but he knew the situation was dire. Now that he had a more concrete idea of what to look for, Sam brought out his laptop and started browsing though websites devoted to succubus lore. Giles and Buffy focused on finding something in the collection of books that could help Dean. Between the tomes Giles had brought with him and Buffy’s personal library, they had a decent stack of material t peruse.

The sun had long since set when Sam’s eyes finally began to tear up from strain. He rubbed at his eyes viciously, angry that they dared fail him in his time of need. He hadn’t tried to pull an all-nighter since junior year at Stanford, and he’d been several years younger and a good deal more accustomed to going without sleep at the time. Much of what he’d found on the supernatural websites reflected the common succubus myth of a female creature arousing and subsequently draining the life from men while they slept. That information really wasn’t applicable in Dean’s case, and Sam grew increasingly frustrated.

Buffy laid a gentle hand on his arm, distracting him from the screen. Sometime in the intervening hours she’d changed into yellow fleece pajama pants with white duckies on them and a white camisole. “Sam, you need some rest.” He growled something incoherent at her, too tired to verbalize properly. “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep before I knock you unconscious myself.”

“Fine,” he replied sullenly.

“I’ll get you a blanket and pull out the hide-a-bed for you.” Buffy’s smile was sympathetic but not pitying, and for that reason alone, Sam went along with her.

---

Dean had tried to work off his restless energy—pacing, push-ups, sit-ups, anything else he could think of to distract himself. All of the activities have been unsuccessful. He was worn out and amped up at the same time, covered in a sheen of sweat, but he figured he’d at least try to see if he could get some sleep.

He slipped out of his olive drab button up and pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing them on the floor beside the bed before attempting the more delicate procedure of removing his pants. Carefully, so as not to accidentally brush against his erection, Dean unbuttoned his jeans and tugged the zipper down. His cock tented his boxers out like the goddamn entire circus was coming to town. It had been hours since they’d left the hotel, since his marathon jerk-off session in the bathroom, and if it was possible he was even more sensitive than before. A whisper or a thought could set him off, and then he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself.

With his jeans safely kicked into a pile with his shirts, Dean climbed onto the queen size four-poster bed. He spent a good ten minutes turning from his left side to his right and back. He felt like friggin’ Goldilocks. The mattress was too soft. The floor, his second option, was too hard. Face up or face down hadn’t mattered other than that face down had put his dick in contact with a firm surface and it had been almost impossible not to generate some friction by grinding against it.

After what the geek squad had found in that ginormous book though, Dean had done his damnedest to fall back on the strict self-control he’d been brought up with. Ten deep breaths didn’t help much, so he kept going all the way to a hundred. He’d be damned if he was going to let himself become something he’d hunted his whole life. Well, more damned than he already was. Maybe if he waited out the venom, he could escape unscathed. He just had to prevent himself from masturbating.

Dean rested his back against the bedroom door, the painted wood cool against his heated skin. He imagined that he could hear Sam’s light snores from the family room down the hall. Sam always looked so peaceful when he slept, the cares of the day set aside and he could finally relax. The worry lines in his brother’s face smoothed out and if Dean didn’t have firsthand experience with angels, he would compare Sam to one of them. Sam was better than that though.

His thoughts tilted left, and suddenly Dean was thinking about what kind of noises Sam would make as his little brother slotted into him, filling him up, taking hold of his cock with enormous hands and pumping him until Dean came all over Sam’s fingers. His dick jerked as the fantasy rocked him, heat and pleasure radiating outward. His head lolled back against the door and the room seemed brighter than it had a moment ago. His balls tightened and Dean barely had time to pull off his boxers before he began to spurt. Fuck. He hadn’t even touched himself, goddamn it!

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He had to get out of there. Think calming thoughts. Dean’s tried and true method for easing his body in times like these (well not exactly like these, because what the fuck) was to take a long, cold shower. Too bad he was trapped in the room. He had heard the blonde chick move something in front of the doorway, blocking him in.

Suddenly feeling trapped and claustrophobic, Dean opened the door to find a huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase where the damn hallway should be. He had to get out. Dean braced himself against the doorframe and grabbed the bookcase on either side. It was heavy, but it moved, inch by slow inch, until Dean had enough room to squeeze through. He was shaking with exertion when he was done, taking deep breaths to slow his heart rate.

Dean padded softly down the hall, not wanting to wake Sam, who was sleeping on the fold out bed, looking just as serene as Dean had imagined. The familiar heat filled Dean’s body and he told himself to look away, to walk upstairs and take his goddamn shower. But then the bed creaked beneath Sam’s weight as he turned over and gave Dean a front seat view to his little brother’s really impressive hardon. Dean paused on the stairway as he watched Sam grind rhythmically into the hide-a-bed, clearly having an erotic dream.

“Sammy, you dog,” he quietly murmured to himself, grinning. His brother was totally never going to hear the end of this. Dean filed the sight away, but he couldn’t help but be turned on by Sam’s arousal. Forcing himself to go upstairs and find the guest shower, he ripped his gaze from Sam with an almost physical sense of loss. This shit had to end, because he was becoming even more of a pervert than usual.

---

Sam awoke when he heard a floorboard creak, and found his brother descending the staircase wearing only the amulet Sam had given him and a small pink towel around his hips. Sam’s jaw fell open as he stared at his more than half naked brother, for once noticing the little physical details he’d always glossed over as just being part of Dean – the exact curve of his cheekbone, the mouth that was so plump and begging to be kissed, the freckles scattered haphazard across his nose, the brilliant hazel of his eyes. Sam wondered what those lips would feel like wrapped around his dick. He gave himself a mental shake. What the hell kind of thought was that? Looking at Dean’s face was obviously a bad idea.

His eyes traveled to his older brother’s torso instead, roaming across Dean’s skin with an intensity that was almost physical. Dean wasn’t as bulky as Sam, but his six pack was just as defined. His eyes picked out the shiny handprint scar that had slowly faded from angry pink to an almost translucent pearly white over the last few months. But his groin tightened when he focused on the pentagram tattoo on Dean’s pectoral, the one that matched his own exactly, that tied them securely to their own bodies and to each other.

Sam couldn’t help but follow the dark blonde trail of hair down to where the towel was wrapped around Dean’s tapered waist. Sure enough, his brother was still hard underneath the slight (very, very slight) nod to modesty.

“Dude,” Sam choked out, “put some clothes on.”

“Quit being so jealous over how amazingly good looking I am, Sammy,” he responded with a cocky smile.

Dean dodged as Sam’s answering riposte nearly hit him square in the face. He couldn’t fault the kid’s aim at least, though a shoe was hardly the desired weapon of choice. “Aren’t you supposed to be locked up in the guest room?” asked Sam grumpily. Dean just chuckled and padded back to his room. And if neither of them mentioned the fact that they were both hard, well, that was to be expected. Winchesters were damn good at repression.

Previous ~~Next~~

Sub Cubare 3/?

2009-05-24T02:04:25Z

It's been a bit longer between this part, and I'm not sure how long the next will take. I've actually been inspired lately. In rough form, I have over 15,000 words written, which is by far the longest story I've written in years. I'd say roughly 3/4 of the story is plotted out, leaving the ending and possibly some more meat in the middle to add.

Title: Sub Cubare (3/?)
Author: amjacob
Rating: R
Word Count: 2400 (this part)
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Dean/Buffy, Dean/Sam/Buffy
Spoilers: general season 4
Summary: Dean should know better than to let his guard down among strangers. Supernatural/BtVS crossover.

Sam hadn’t let his brother out of his sight since Michigan. He also couldn’t help but notice (though he tried really, really hard) that Dean’s erection hadn’t subsided, or that it was causing his brother to become distracted. If Lilith and her demons were to find them now, Dean would be a sitting duck. So Sam watched over him as he slouched in the passenger’s seat, clearly unhappy about the arrangement. Sam’s argument was that if Dean started touching himself while he was driving, they’d end up crashing the Impala. That had shut his brother right up, and he’d climbed in the passenger’s side with an unhappy glower. They rode in silence, though Sam did offer to let Dean choose the music. His brother had just glared at him.

Sam would be lying if he said he was one hundred percent focused on the road. His eyes often pulled to the right to catch a glimpse of his brother out of his peripheral vision. Dean had shut himself off, and that meant he was really worried. Well, Sam couldn’t blame him. Dean’s face looked carved from stone, the set of his jaw telegraphing his tension even if Sam didn’t know his brother. Even if he hadn’t idolized him since he was four years old. Sam reached behind him to the box of Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock and pulled out Zeppelin IV. Even he had to admit, the opening strands of Black Dog were pretty awesome. Glancing over at Dean again, he noted the subtle relaxation of his brother’s body, and allowed himself a small smile.

Bobby’s librarian friend, Rupert Giles, was just about 200 miles down I-90. It was pure serendipity that they were less than three hours from his location; to the Winchesters, used to driving across the country overnight, that was practically next door. Apparently Mr. Giles was only in the States for a short time, as he spent the majority of his time in England, heading up some organization that observed supernatural occurrences. Unfortunately the man didn’t have a cell phone or an email address, so there was no way to get in touch with him before they showed up on his doorstep.

“You hungry, man?”

Dean grunted in response, noncommittal.

“We just passed a diner advertising two-for-one burgers and cheese fries,” said Sam, tone slipping from matter-of-fact to enticing in 0.1 seconds. Hunger was the barometer for Dean’s emotional state; if greasy diner food couldn’t get his attention it meant the situation was dire.

“Yeah, alright fine, I could eat.” Dean’s voice was harsh and clipped from the strain of not touching himself. Sitting in the car was torture. He knew torture, knew how to take his mind elsewhere. Of course, it always kept coming back to Sam. In the Pit it had been visions of his brother finding a way to rescue him, but now even his own brain was conspiring against him. Now? It was like escaping from one nightmare just to land in another. His brother filled his thoughts, images from the past: Sam stepping out of the bathroom wearing only an obscenely small towel around his hips, Sam laying in the bed across from his, thinking Dean didn’t hear the whimpers he made as he got himself off. Dammit! Thinking about his brother that way was sick and he was pretty sure that between Hell and this sex poison, he was royally screwed.

Sam executed a U-turn without slowing down, and that was enough to earn him an angry glare. “Dude, you break my car and I will kill you.”

Sam smirked. Regardless of whatever Dean was going through, he was still his pain in the ass big brother.

The diner was pretty empty when Sam and Dean entered; mid-afternoon, before the dinner rush could fill the place with tired businessmen and hungry families. There was an old man nursing a coffee in the far booth and a trio of college-age guys laughing over a late breakfast, maybe trying to kill their hangovers from the previous night. Neither group looked like they might house demons, but it was better to be safe than sorry. They took a seat in a booth near the door, Dean facing the other patrons, Sam with a view of the entrance.

Dean’s jaw was tight, but his stomach was growling. He grabbed the menus tucked between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers, tossed one in Sam’s direction and buried his face in the other. His hands holding the laminated paper were white-knuckled. The smell of food helped take his mind off…things, and he was doing his best to force himself not to think about fucking Sam against the diner wall. Fuck. He had to get out of there.

“Hi!” said a perky voice, catching Dean’s attention and making him gaze up from the menu. The girl seemed a bit out of breath, inhaling deeply before speaking again. “I’m Chasity, and I’ll be taking care of you guys today. What can I do to start you off?”

The waitress was young and brunette and Dean suddenly became very conscious of the anatomy he was trying to deny.

“How about some of your pie,” responded Dean, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. Dangerous because of the way the girl’s breath caught in her throat. Dangerous because she couldn’t hide her attraction and Dean was not safe to be around right now.

Sam didn’t even think the waitress wasn’t even that hot, but Dean didn’t seem to care. He gave her his thousand kilowatt smile, bright and white and blinding, and she blushed right down to her pink-painted toes. Normally that would be when Dean charmed free food out of the poor woman, but Dean was not behaving normally just then, not when he looked ready to push himself against her body and slip his hand into her sopping panties, circle his fingers around her clit, and bring her off in front of Sam and the diner and everyone. He was looking at her like she was something to devour, and his behavior truly drove it home to Sam that his brother needed help like, yesterday.

“Ignore him. We’ll have the specials, thanks,” interrupted Sam, shooting a warning look at his brother. As she walked away reluctantly, Sam turned to his brother. “Are you crazy?”

“What, a guy can’t flirt a little?”

“Dean, you were ready to have sex with her right here in public!” he hissed.

“Calm down, Sammy, I’m fine.” Dean’s smile was tight and forced. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, caught up in the waitress and Sam and sex and how desperately he needed to come right now. Dean shifted in the seat, trying to make some room for his swollen cock. He should have changed his pants before leaving the hotel room.

Sam knew better than to push his brother at moments like these; it wouldn’t get him anything but an upset, sullen, pain-in-the-ass Dean that he’d have to deal with in an enclosed space for two more hours. They fell into a comfortable silence while waiting for their food.

When Chasity the waitress came out of the kitchen bearing four burgers, two orders of cheese fries and a slice of cherry pie, Sam grabbed a handful of his brother’s jeans underneath the table, holding him in place. “Oh, come on!” protested Dean.

“You know what Bobby said, what I said. You stay put,” Sam warned.

“Killjoy.”

The brunette set down the plates in front of the brothers. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, blushing at Dean. The elder Winchester leered opening his mouth as if to speak when Sam’s foot came down on his, hard.

“Ow! What the hell, dude?”

“Just the check, please,” Sam told the girl. She set the slip of paper down in front of Dean, upside down with her name and phone number scrawled across the back.

“Enjoy your meal,” she smiled and walked away to refill the old man’s coffee.

“Dean, you need to calm down. Stop flirting with anything that moves; we have no idea what could happen to you because of the bite. Until we know what’s wrong, you’re just going to sit there and eat your damn burgers and cheese fries.”

“You think I don’t get it? Well, I do. I’m dealing with this as best I can, dude,” bit out Dean around a mouthful of burger. “Man, this is delicious!”

Sam just rolls his eyes. But they both realized things were getting worse. When the brothers were done eating they paid for the meal with cash, leaving it on the table for Chasity, and get back on the road.
_____

It was early evening when they pulled up to a two story colonial, the sun slung low in the purpling sky. Sam parked the Impala in the street and both men approached the house, Dean trailing behind Sam by a few paces. There were ward symbols cleverly carved into the doorframe, and a heavy solid iron knocker on the door.

A bespectacled middle aged man greeted them. “May I help you?”

“Rupert Giles?” inquired Sam. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean. We’re friends of Bobby Singer’s. May we come in?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Mr. Singer informed me you would be arriving this evening.” He led the brothers into the family room and motioned for them to take a seat on the plush sage green couch. He followed, sitting opposite them across a rectangular wooden coffee table.

“So how do you know Bobby, Rupes?” asked Dean.

The man grimaced. “You may call me Mr. Giles, Giles, or Rupert if you expect me to answer you, Mr. Winchester. Mr. Singer and I collaborated on a publication several years back on demon lore and alternate universes. He is very much an expert in his specialty of Judeo-Christian demonology. I fear I am more of a generalist. What is it that I can assist you with?”

“We need to know everything you do about demons or any other creature that might feed on sex.” Sam paused, watching as the elder man removed his glasses and began cleaning them thoroughly. “More specifically, any that might be involved with biting. It would look like a snake bite, possibly on or near the genitalia.”

“How fascinating—I will consult my books,” he offered, looking eager. Then his face fell, as if remembering something horrifying. “Much of my library remains at my home in England. However, I did leave several tomes here with Buffy.” Giles stood and went to the landing. “Buffy!” he called up the stairs.

“What’s up G-Man?” yelled a perky female voice.

“Buffy, I do wish you would cease calling me that ghastly nickname. I swear Xander is a terrible influence on you,” he sighed. “Do you still have my copy of the Codex Daemonica that I left with you last fall?”

“Sure, be down in a jiff.”

Giles resumed his seat across from the Winchester boys. “Why do you ask about, er, these types of demons?”

Dean glared a warning at Sam, which went unheeded. “Well, my brother was attacked last night, and we’re trying to figure out what did it. We’re hunters, we kind of take care of these things for a living, but this is outside of our experience.”

“Attacked? Oh dear Lord. Are you all right?” Before either brother could reply, they were interrupted by the Buffy Giles had been talking to.

“One doorstop coming right up, Giles,” said the woman coming down the stairs. The book she carried in both hands was old, the leather fraying near the binding. And she was right; it was thick enough to weigh several pounds. Sam wondered idly if the author had been paid by the word.

Dean’s back straightened in a single line of tension the moment he saw her. The woman’s blonde hair was put up in a messy pony tail, and she wore a bright pink camisole top with blue jeans that looked painted on. As she descended the staircase, his body coiled tighter. His cock throbbed against his jeans, begging to be released. She paused briefly and it almost looked like she was sniffing the air. Shaking it off, she smiled at Giles and the guests. At her smile, Dean left the couch and took a few involuntary steps toward her.

“Wow, is it warm down here or what?” she said, setting the Codex down on the coffee table. The man who’d moved toward her made a sound that might have been a growl. Buffy was pretty familiar with men who did that, the whole possessive-I-want-your-body growl, though they generally happened to be dead. This one? Definitely not dead. And way too hot for his own good.

“Dean!”

Dean stopped moving, panic sending a fine tremor through him. He shook with the effort it took to remain still. “Sam,” he implored, voice rough like it had been dragged a few miles down a gravel road. “You gotta get me away from her. Now, Sam!”

“Stay here,” he told Giles and Buffy, and wasted no time grabbing Dean around the shoulders and leading him toward an empty guest room at the other end of the hallway. “Lock the door, Dean. We’ll secure it from this side.” He turned toward the young woman Giles had called Buffy. “Do you have something heavy we can move in front of the door?”

“Yeah, there’s a bookcase I can move.” Buffy grabbed one of the ceiling-high bookcases from the library and positioned it in front of the door, blocking Dean’s escape.

“You sure that’ll hold?” asked Sam, seeing the ease with which she moved it.

“Slayer strength,” she explained. “It’ll hold. So, what’s the what with spaz-boy?” she asked, gesturing behind her as they walked back to the family room.

“Well, that’s kind of what we’re here to find out. I’m Sam,” he said by way of introduction.

“Well you’ve come to the right place. Hi, I’m Buffy, the ex-vampire slayer!”

“The what?”

“I fear this will be a long evening,” deadpanned Giles.

Previous Next

amjacob @ 2009-04-23T01:50:00

2009-04-23T06:02:12Z

Title: Sub Cubare (2/?)
Author: amjacob
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700 (this part)
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Dean/Buffy, Dean/Sam/Buffy
Spoilers: general season 4
Summary: Dean should know better than to let his guard down among strangers. Supernatural/BtVS crossover.

It was probably more of an issue getting Dean into the car than it had been for Sam to track him down. There weren’t too many bars in Sturgis; mostly corn and cattle and good old fashioned eateries that had some of the best pie in the country. On the other hand six odd foot of dead weight wasn’t easy to maneuver under the best of circumstances, and Sam had been freaking out over finding Dean out of it in a back alley. He’d gotten an unresponsive Dean into the back seat mostly without incident and driven them both back to the motel, where his brother had slept for the rest of the night and most of the next morning.

Dean stirred, and the sound of broken mattress springs creaking woke Sam from his light doze. “Dean,” Sam’s voice sounded jagged and wrecked. “Are you all right man?”

“Aside from some demonic psycho chick taking a bite out of me, yeah I’m swell.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

“Nothing Sammy, just listen okay? If I start acting, I don’t’ know, whatever. If I’m not...me anymore. I need you to stop me, kill me if you have to.” His voice cracked and Dean swallowed around the knot of fear in his throat. He hated asking, hated being put in a position where he had to ask it. He refused to become something he hunted. He could see the obstinance building in the tension of his brother’s shoulders, the working of his jaw. “Please, Sam!”

“No.”

“So you wanted me to promise to off you if you go darkside, but you can’t afford me the same goddamn courtesy? Fuck you, Sammy.” Dean looked around the hotel room he, or more accurately, Mr. Bonham, had rented earlier that night. The fuchsia and pink tiger-striped wallpaper in this place was truly singular, even when taken in context with all the rest of the pay-by-the-hour places they frequented. Dean wondered if the beds had Magic Fingers. His cock pulsed, and he realized he was still hard. He knew he’d promised himself he wouldn’t give his brother the opportunity for I told you so, but this was not normal. What they knew about sex demons Dean could fit in a siren shaped container, but he was pretty sure this was outside of standard operating procedures; they usually just wanted to feed. He should be exhausted, but instead he was wired.

“Dean….” And Dean knew that voice. That exasperated voice that meant Sam was tired of Dean. Toughen up, soldier; take it like a man. He knew, knew, that his little brother thought he was damaged goods, that going to hell had irrevocably changed him. It didn’t help matters that in some respects Sam wasn’t wrong, but still. Dad’s drill sergeant had a world of pain coming his way if Dean ever met the bastard. But instead of turning away from him like usual, Sam sniffed the air and took a step forward, and his face relaxed just a little. But it’s like suddenly, he’s Sam again. For those ephemeral seconds, he had his brother back. His dick strained against his pants. “Look, we’ll find something,” Sam’s voice is the courteous, slightly detached tone he uses on bereaved widows and terrified kids. “I mean, we don’t even know that there’s anything really even wrong yet.”

“Dude, a succubus or something bit my dick,” Dean snapped, incredulous. “I’m willing to go out on a limb and say there’s something pretty friggin’ wrong with that.”

In other circumstances Dean was sure Sammy’d be laughing his ass off about his situation. Hell, when this panned out okay, they’d probably have a chuckle about it over some beers. Instead Sam’s chiseled jaw worked as he regarded him appraisingly. “We don’t know it’s a succubus, but I’ll call Bobby.”

“Yeah, good. Good.” Dean’s throat had gone dry without his permission. “I’ll uh…I gotta use the bathroom.” The heaviness in his balls had become an ache that he desperately needed to relieve. He was sure Sam couldn’t help but notice his erection as he bolted to the bathroom, but they were Winchesters and he said nothing. Thank friggin’ god.

Dean just about slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and sagged against it. Sam had pulled Dean’s pants back up sometime after retrieving him from the alley, but he hadn’t fastened them. In other circumstances he might have been mortified, but it was like he couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. Dean reached down the front of his fly, stroking himself though the rough denim. It was like the whole world was revolving around his cock and nothing else mattered. He was burning up with need. Dean pulled his boxers down his thighs with one hand while the other slowly jacked his dick in short, firm pulls. With every stroke, more and more blood seemed to rush to his cock, and Dean felt light headed.

He thought about Sam finding him flagrantly exposed in the back of some seedy bar, and really, he should have been embarrassed or something. But he was just turned the fuck on. Deans fingers brushed the sensitive tip of his glans before resuming his hard strokes, and his body shuddered. With his free hand, he reached to fondle his balls. He’d never been a moaner, but god damn. His cock was sensitized like never before and he was just about biting though his cheek to keep from making slutty, needy noises. His dick was leaking precome and Dean took advantage of the lubricant, using it to coat his palm as it slid along his length, faster as he neared his climax.

When his orgasm came it was nearly anticlimactic. Hot jets of come splashed over his hand, some of it landing on his chest and a drop even reaching his lips. Unthinkingly his tongue snaked out to clean it away. Dean was still maddeningly hard and his cock was so oversensitized that it hurt to touch it. He’d come harder than he had in years, and it gave him no relief. Whatever that freaky bitch had done to him, he had to find a way to end it. He loved sex as much as the next guy, but he’d go nuts if his dick stayed this way forever. Literally insane, kill your brother, rape your dog bonkers.

Dean hadn’t even realized his hand had started moving again.
__

Dean felt feverish and horny as fuck, and it was going on twelve hours now since he’d awoken in their hotel room with the hard-on that ate Manhattan. Jacking off had only made it worse. He’d come three times in the bathroom and was working his way to four, his hand and his dick raw when Sam’s knock on the door snapped him out of his urgent pumping.

“Dean, you need to stop,” said the brunet matter-of-factly, the wood muffling his voice.

The elder Winchester’s voice was broken and raw when he replied. “Why’s that, Sammy?”

“I think it’s like poison ivy, man. The more you scratch it, the more it spreads.”

“So you’re telling me I’ve got a demonic rash? It’s a lot worse than that, Sam!” A loud bang against the door and a sharp curse followed and Sam was pretty positive that was his brother’s head hitting the solid surface hard enough to raise a nice sized lump.

Sam wasn’t so sure a rash was an accurate analogy either – poison ivy had a known cause and treatment. Thankfully, Sam had been able to stop his brother before the blonde could try going for four orgasms in an hour. Dean wasn’t superhuman, and that kind of strain might just kill him, despite his claims of sexual superiority. He wasn’t ready quite yet to face Dean after the marathon session of autoeroticism, so he talked though the door, trying to ignore the smell of come wafting though the space between them. Winchesters were going at avoiding discussion of uncomfortable topics. “Look, I know. I…I talked to Bobby. After he cussed you out for, and I quote, ‘being all sorts of foolish, you damn idjit,’ he said he’d get back to us. He also said to let him know if there were any other uh…symptoms.”

Dean sighed. “Was there anything in Dad’s journal?”

“Lots,” answered the younger. “Nothing concrete. There are some newspaper clippings from years back about a few people in New England dropping dead from heart attacks during intercourse, but Dad never got a hold of whatever it was. It may not have even been our type of case.”

“And pigs might fly, Sam.” There was a rustling from the bathroom as Dean cleaned himself off and pulled up his pants. The material scraped against his erection and he clenched his teeth against the pleasure-pain. “So what else did Bobby say?” Dean ran some water to wash off his hands as best he could. He really needed a shower, but he didn’t trust himself in his current condition.

“What do you mean?”

“Dude,” Dean said, opening the door dividing the space between them. He had his t-shirt slung over his shoulder and was wearing only his jeans, his cock was jutting against the fabric, defined by a sharp outline along the front of his pants. “I may have just been yanked back from Hell, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know exactly what you sound like when you’re keeping something from me. I don’t care anymore if you want to keep your nocturnal activities to yourself, but dude, you are damn well going to tell me everything when it comes to this. I’m a little attached to the subject matter here!”

Sam’s cell rang, some crappy radio rock ballad, Dean acknowledged. “Bobby?” he said, answering midway though the first ring. “Yeah, he’s okay.” Sam’s eyes kept glancing to him, then away. It was making Dean dizzy. The one-sided conversation continued, Bobby apparently filling his brother in on one of his contacts. “Yeah. Cleveland? What’s the address? Okay, got it Bobby, thanks.” Sam was to the door before he his the end button on his cell, freakishly long legs devouring the distance like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

“Grab your shit Dean, we’re going to Ohio,” Sam called.

“What’s in Cleveland?”

“Acquaintance of Bobby’s. He’s apparently in the States visiting friends in Cleveland. Bobby said he’s a demonologist, the real deal. His name is Rupert Giles.”

Previous Next

Sub Cubare - Lying Beneath (1/?)

2009-04-14T05:18:07Z

Title: Sub Cubare (1/?)
Author: amjacob
Rating: R
Word Count: 1200 (this part)
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Dean/Buffy, Dean/Sam/Buffy
Spoilers: general season 4
Summary: Dean should know better than to let his guard down among strangers. Supernatural/BtVS crossover.

Dean pulled the Impala around the side of the building, letting the engine idle while the last strains of Led Zeppelin’s Bring It On Home faded into tape hiss. The neon lights outside one car window proclaimed XXX and Live Nude Girls, and to the other side sat an ugly, squat building with a painted sign and a single bulb illuminating it. Dean had found this bar about five years ago, passing though Michigan after a salt and burn in upstate New York and before a pooka in Wisconsin. It was a real bar, in the tradition of the saloons of the old west. The sign outside was poorly lit, and the paint was chipping here and there, but still legible if he squinted. Owl’s Roost. There were no fancy flat panels here flashing the latest scores in blinding LED glory; the clientele here made their own entertainment. Full contact poker, for example. Dean had thought that one was a hoot. Of course he hadn’t been the dude on the floor nursing a scalp wound and a wrist that was well on its way to a sick shade of greenish purple. He’d been back a few times since then, hustled some pool, bet on darts – he’d always come away better off then he’d gone in, and best of all he’d enjoyed himself and the competitive atmosphere that was just his kind of rough.

He and Sam were between jobs, and Dean needed some time by himself to unwind. Sam had made his bitchface at him and said he’d wait in the room and surf the web for any new cases. His little brother was all about the job these days. That was just peachy with Dean. A few months out of the hellfire, he had a lot of catching up on living yet to do. As soon as he stepped inside, the warmth of the atmosphere thawed some of the chill around his heart, and when he saw the brunette waiting tables over in the corner, it became almost unbearably hot. A bombshell of a waitress giving him a casual blowjob in the back alley seemed just what he needed to take the edge off. It was a pleasant fantasy, like letters to Penthouse, or Busty Asian Beauties. He never, not ever, in a million years thought she’d take him up on it. When she looked up directly into his eyes and smiled a secret, knowing smile, he almost started to believe that a higher power (Castiel, or God, or hell, maybe Anna, whatever she’d become) was watching out for him. His body was on fire and his cock was heavy and aching, jammed in his pants where there very suddenly wasn’t enough room.

Taking a seat at an empty table for two from force of habit, Dean smiled back, his slow molasses smile that had always seemed to work in the past. He stretched his arms out behind him, cracking his back in an attempt to relieve the tension that knotted between his shoulder blades. Doing so caused his dark grey (it had been black once, he thought, before Sam’s mishap with the bleach…friggin’ last time he let Poindexter near his laundry) t-shirt to ride up, and he was pretty sure the waitress caught a good look at his happy trail before his arms settled on the table. She was taking her time getting the orders of everyone else in the bar, which admittedly wasn’t that many on a Wednesday night. At least he thought it was Wednesday. Hell, it could as easily have been Thursday for all he knew after spending the last ten hours on the road. He never truly relaxed, not with an ex-marine dad and a little brother, and, oh yeah, not to mention that sojurn in Hell, but he made a good effort of it. He was even taken a bit off guard when the waitress came up behind him and ran bright red fingernails down his chest.

“I’m Mara, what’s your poison, Sugar?” she asked, voice low and full of double and triple meanings.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he grinned, mouth quirking up and a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. “What’s on the menu, Sweetheart?”

“Technically, not me…buuuut….” She drew out that word, filled it with devilish disregard for propriety, with the promise of a quick lay that would ease some tension in both of them. “I’m a poster child for breaking the rules, Tiger. I’m going to put these drink orders in. Meet me out back in five,” she purred. Dean watched her impossibly short skirt as she walked away, and if he anything could have ever made him pray, it was that a strong breeze would blow though the bar at that moment and give him a view of the panties he was ninty-nine percent sure she wasn’t wearing. He groaned as he shifted to stand up, his jeans brushing roughly against his erection. Fuck. It had been a long time since he’d been to this point, where he was so hard it hurt. Even Anna’s one-last-hurrah sex hadn’t got him this desperate.

Dean moved gingerly though the bar to the rear entrance, taking care to avoid any additional contact. The pleasure-pain was turning him on even more, and that was a secret he was keeping to himself, thank you very much. The night air was cool, but the fire was inside Dean and he hardly felt the chill. The door slammed shut behind him as he nearly collapsed against the brick wall, eyes rolled up in his head, and holy shit on a stick he was inches away from taking himself in his hand and jerking off. Right. Fucking. There.

The chick, Mara, surprised the hell out of him. When he felt a tugging on his pants, his eyes returned to their normal resting place, and she was kneeling in front of him. Later, all he could say was he wasn’t nearly as careful as he should have been. He’d been on the road too long without physical companionship, and he was so horny he hadn’t realized the waitress was also a succubus. It wasn’t until she had his pants and boxers around his knees and felt needle sharp teeth on his cock that he noticed the chick wasn’t human. His shout was more shock than pain, though there was certainly that. And outrage. And an edge of hysteria.

He shoved the creature away from him with all the force panic could generate and bent down to retrieve his boot knife, but by the time he had it in his hands, the succubitch was gone and Dean’s knees were weak, barely able to support his own weight. Fuck, her venom worked fast. Fearfully, he checked on Dean Junior. The puncture wounds were small, but already red and swollen with a thin trail of blood weeping from each. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! Succubus poison, he thought as he lost muscle control and slumped against the brick unable to move, seriously sucked. Dean Winchester, taken out by a succubus. He’d have snorted if he could, but as it was he was having serious trouble just drawing his next breath. It was like his body was paralyzed, like that locked-in syndrome from the show House he’d caught in the last motel they’d stayed. His brain was thinking a mile a minute. Sam had always told him his hormones would get the better of him someday. If he survived this, he was seriously never going to give that kid the satisfaction of saying "I told you so".

Next

So hey, Supernatural owns my face

2009-04-13T07:11:04Z

This is gonna be updated pretty infrequently, but I'm working on three stories based on Supernatural. Two are gen, one is a crossover/wincest/threesome/smut piece. So here's a preview of what's to come:

Fae/Sidhe - Inspired by various books of Irish, Welsh, and Scottish mythology I've read over the years. The Winchesters hunt what they believe to be a gargoyle, but it in reality something far more difficult to dispatch. Can really be set any time, but will likely be S4.

Banshee - Again with the Celtic myth, are we sensing a theme yet? This one is very much casefic as it could happen in canon. Set sometime in Season 2.

Crossover - BtVS crossover where Dean is infected with succubus venom; the toxin makes for some fun times to be had. Various pairings of Sam/Dean, Dean/Buffy, Sam/Dean/Buffy. I wish I could remember the story I read ages ago that gave me the idea for this.

All of these are multi-chapter, seeing as how I can't seem to write any one-shots no matter how hard I try.

So wow....

2006-08-10T02:41:06Z

Just dusted this damn thing off after what, over a year? Maybe I just need an outlet I can't get anywhere else at the moment. I've been meaning to reapply to WPI as a full time student, but I just keep putting it off. Fear of rejection? Or maybe I know that deep down I don't have what it takes, post-grad. If I don't go back then all the nice money my parents provide me gets cut off, so that's a huge incentive for me to get my butt in gear. The other option of course, is to get a real job, and honestly, that's still the more appealing of my choices.

So, anyway, I play World of Warcraft a lot (probably too much, but it's good times), and this weekend, my boyfriend and I are driving down to Philly to meet up with a bunch of the guys we've been playing with online for the past year and change. Supposedly there's going to be about 25-30 folks in attendance, and Dave's providing funnel cake, therefore all will be right in the world. No idea what else is going on during our stay, hopefully some hanging out, maybe getting some drinks and shooting pool or something.

As soon as I get back, I have to leave again, this time to visit my parents. I'm turning 24, and damn if I don't feel like I'm getting too old to be in school, too old not to have my own place, my own life. Visiting my parents isn't a bad thing in itself, and it'll be great to see my brother, but they just don't get me. So yeah, sometimes it's hard to deal with mom wanting me to be all girly or dad favoring my brother, but it's better than what a lot of others have, I'm sure.

I've been listening to Kane a lot lately, and I ordered both thier CDs a few days ago (hopefully they'll come before we have to leave for our roadtrip). They're a country/southern/rock group fronted by Christian Kane, who played my favorite character on Angel. I don't normally like country, but I do love the man's voice. It basically kick-started my re-obsession with Angel fanfic (yes, I'm kinda pathetic that way), so now I'm hunting down whatever I can find on the subject. Pictures too, becuase eye candy = good.

Sitting in lab...soo bored

2004-10-19T20:13:14Z

Almost done though, thank god. Now I'll just have to wait two hours for my next class. Joy.

I hit level 30 on City of Heroes last night (out of 50). I was excited. Now I just have to do the mission to get my shiny aura. Basically, when you hit 30, you can do a mission, then choose from a wide variety of auras. There are flames, energy effects, glowing eyes, etc. I have no idea what I'm going to get, but I can't wait to get it.

In far less cool news, I have no fucking idea how to do my finite element homework. Programming is the suck. Ask me to do this shit on paper, fine. Ask me to code it.... You'd be better off asking a rhino to talk. Ugh. So, if anyone has experience with programming in Matlab and wants to help me out, lemme know. I have to make a matrix from a bunch of other matrices. I totally hate this class. The other two are all right. Not great, but not bad. Next semester should be better. I hope.

Yay, Friday!

2004-10-15T15:53:02Z

Well, I had a major test today, that was fun...not! Okay, pardon the early 90's-ism of that last statement, and concentrate on the fact that my biomechanics class is the suck. I don't think I actally did a single problem correctly. I know there are parts of it I did correctly, but I have no idea how much partial credit that adds up to. Though I hear that the professor makes his tests that way on purpose, to make the curve easier for him, or some nonsense.

In other news, I only have to sit though one more class until I'm free for 2.5 days. Hooray! And lab was cancelled today, so I don't have to stay on campus until 5pm. Though I gotta admit, last week's lab was awesome. We got to cut up frogs and shock thier leg muscles. Hehe, I love biology stuff. So my weekend will be filled with much homework-grading, and much more City of Heroes.

Greg came home drunk the other night. Which is not unusual, but this is one of the first times I've been worried about him. He was so drunk, he was walking down the steps that lead to our condo (the entrance is on the second story), and fell to the driveway about 4 feet down. He got to bed alright, but when he woke up in the morning, he couldn't remember why he was sore. Oi. Evidently he didn't remember anything past 10pm or so (and he came home around 2am, on a school night, oi). I really hope he gets his act together.

John count is down to only a couple months or so. Which is still too much, in my opinion, but what can you do really? I will be visiting Boston for almost all of Christmas break though, so that'll be cool.

More later, I have to get to class.

Oi.

Stolen from Caitlin

2004-09-08T00:16:21Z

INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Copy this whole list into your journal.
2. Bold/underline the things that are true about you.
3. Whatever you don't bold/underline is false.

01. I miss somebody right now.
02. I don't watch much TV these days.
03. I love olives.
04. I love sleeping.
05. I own lots of books.
06. I wear glasses or contact lenses.
07. I love to play video games.
08. I've tried marijuana.
09. I've watched porn movies.
10. I have been in a threesome.
11. I have been the psycho-ex in a past relationship.
12. I believe honesty is usually the best policy.
13. I have acne free skin.
14. I like and respect Al Sharpton.
15. I curse frequently.
16. I have changed a lot mentally over the last year.
17. I have a hobby.
18. I've been told I have a nice butt.
19. I carry my knife/razor everywhere with me.
20. I'm really, really smart.
21. I've never broken someone's bones.
22. I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
23. I hate the rain.
24. I'm paranoid at times.
25. I would get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free of cost, and scar free.
26. I need money right now.
27. I love Sushi.
28. I talk really, really fast.
29. I have fresh breath in the morning.
30. I have semi-long hair.
31. I have lost money in Las Vegas.
32. I have at least one brother and/or one sister.
33. I was born in a country outside of the U.S.
34. I shave my legs.
35. I have a twin.
36. I have worn fake hair/nails/eyelashes in the past.
37. I couldn't survive without Caller I.D.
38. I like the way that I look.
39. I have lied to a good friend in the last 6 months.
40. I know how to do cornrows.
41. I am usually pessimistic.
42. I have mood swings.
43. I think prostitution should be legalized.
44. I think Britney Spears is hot.
45. I have cheated on a significant other in the past.
46. I have a hidden talent.
47. I'm always hyper no matter how much sugar I have.
48. I think that I'm popular.
49. I am currently single.
50. I have kissed someone of the same sex.
51. I enjoy talking on the phone.
52. I practically live in sweatpants or PJ pants.
53. I love to shop.
54. I would rather shop than eat.
55. I would classify myself as ghetto.
56. I'm bourgie and have worn a sweater tied around my shoulders.
57. I'm obsessed with my LJ.
58. I don't hate anyone.
59. I'm a pretty good dancer.
60. I don't think Mike Tyson raped Desiree Washington.
61. I'm completely embarrassed to be seen with my mother.
62. I have a cell phone.
64. I watch MTV on a daily basis.
65. I have passed out drunk in the past 6 months.
66. I love drama.
67. I have never been in a real relationship before.
68. I've rejected someone before.
69. I currently have a crush on someone.
70. I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life.
71. I want to have children in the future.
72. I have changed a diaper before.
73. I've had the cops called on me before.
74. I bite my nails.
75. I am a member of the Tom Green fan club.
76. I'm not allergic to anything.
77. I have a lot to learn.
78. I have dated someone at least 10 years older or younger.
79. I plan on seeing Ice Cube's newest "Friday" movie.
80. I am very shy around the opposite sex sometimes.
81. I'm online 24/7, even as an away message.
82. I have at least 5 away messages saved.
83. I have tried alcohol or drugs before.
84. I have made a move on a friend's significant other in the past.
85. I own the "South Park" movie.
86. I have avoided assignments at work to be on Xanga or Livejournal.
87. When I was a kid I played "the birds and the bees" with a neighbor or chum.
88. I enjoy some country music.
89. I love my best friends.
90. I think that Pizza Hut has the best pizza.
91. I watch soap operas whenever I can.
92. I'm obsessive, anal retentive, and often a perfectionist.
93. I have used my sexuality to advance my career.
94. I love Michael Jackson, scandals and all.
95. I know all the words to Slick Rick's "Children's Story".
96. Halloween is awesome because you get free candy.
97. I watch Spongebob Squarepants and I like it.
98. I have dated a close friend's ex.
99. I'm happy as of this moment.

I love Diablo II

2004-07-06T19:46:51Z

It's great when you're trying to put off everything else. I played a lot this morning. Took my druid from level 55 to 64 or something like that, in Act II of Hell difficulty. Eastern Sun is a really cool mod. Nice new uniques and class specific items, new magic modifiers, new cube recipies and runewords, and a few new skills. I really like Tornado for the Druid; finally a skill a Druid can solo with.

Anyway, I'm sad. I'm not loosing too much weight on my diet :( I guess I need to get up off my lazy ass and go run or something. Meh.

Wow...I'm lazy

2004-07-06T01:15:11Z

I havn't really written anything new. Well I have, but I can't get to it right now, since it's on a computer that isn't hooked up to the interweb. Thus I can't post anything new, for the 0.2 people who have read anything here. So, this entry will just be a "what's new with me" thing.

I'm just hanging out. July 23rd my brother and I are going down to New Orleans to get my new condo set up. Mom and I bought a bunch of kitchen stuff already, but I still need pots and pans. Grandma gave me some dish towels and stuff that she wasn't using, which was nice. I also got some cool towels for the bathroom from her. They're orange and yellow, which are a couple of my favorite colors. They're spiffy in a retro way.

I'm on a diet now, trying to lose 15 pounds. I'm down about 2.5 so far. Joy. I should probably do more cardio, but it's hard during the summer when all I want to do is read and play Diablo II.

I want to keep writing the Underworld fanfic, and when I have more written down, I'll post it. That should please my rabid fans. *rolls eyes*

Current mood: lazy
Now playing: nothing

Never Over, chapter 4

2003-12-04T04:29:52Z

Michael dreamed. It was the first time since he had become what he was. He tossed and turned fitfully as images of Sonja and Lucien flashed before him. He’d seen the worst of it before, when he’d been sick and hallucinating after he’d been bitten. What he saw now were images of a love that had lasted for years…before the Elder had destroyed it. They were scenes of contentment, of two lovers walking through a field at dusk, hunting together, and making love to each other. He missed that sensation desperately. His wife…but she was gone. He’d watched her die. What he felt for Selene…it was a pale flame compared to the inferno of that ancient love. Perhaps it would grow, given time.

Michael moaned as his dreams turned violent. The moon called to him, urging him—-no, the beast—-to hunt. To feel bones snap and muscle tear, to taste hot blood as the life drained from helpless prey. He might be a hybrid, but he was lycan first, and that would always be the stronger side of his nature. It could be that was why he felt so responsible for the decimated lycans. Lucien’s memories urged him to take command, but Michael wasn’t ready for that. The responsibility of ensuring the welfare of an entire species….

The moon called again, and his skin prickled. He dreamed he was in a dark chamber with a throne at one end and three metal seals imbedded in the marble floor. Each was intricately wrought, and emblazoned with a different letter. A, V…M. Marcus. Michael could feel his pulse quicken as he realized what this room was. The Crypt. Where the ancients slumbered when they did not rule, and ruled when they did not slumber. Yet now only one remained….

Blood pooled on the intricate seals, and drained into the area beneath them. Drained into the mouth of the last Elder, who opened his eyes. And Michael dreamed that they bore an uncanny similarity to his own. They were the eyes of a hybrid.

Michael awoke with a start, soaked in sweat. His flesh felt unnaturally cool and clammy to the touch. He had to know if he had dreamed truly, or if it was just the result of stress. He glanced over at Selene, who, despite her desire to stand guard, had fallen asleep in the chair opposite the door. Even in sleep she looked coolly in control. Michael smiled sadly as he gently lifted her onto the bed. Intellectually, he knew that she couldn’t feel the cold like he did, but he covered her with the blanket nonetheless.

There was only one window in the room, and it faced the darkened street two floors below, ideal for viewing passers-by and keeping watch for any who might wish them harm. Michael turned the chair to face the narrow window and sat down, watching the rain drizzle down.

He was deeply disturbed by his dreams. The visions of Lucien and Sonja he knew to be true, actual flashes of their past together…but the dreams of Marcus, the slumbering Elder? It seemed impossible. Although he didn’t know much about vampires, he had never seen any evidence to suggest that they were telepathic. And yet he had dreamed in such perfect detail, it had not felt at all like a dream. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood-soaked seal in his mind. It hadn’t felt like a dream, but it hadn’t felt like a memory either. However, if it had happened, and there was another hybrid in the world, Michael would soon have a powerful ally…or an unbeatable enemy.

Michael knew they couldn’t hide in this place forever, constantly watching their backs, and he was slowly coming to the realization of what that meant for him. Sometimes he could almost hear Lucien in his mind, pressuring him to lead. Fine, he thought forcefully at the mental apparition. You want me to take control? I’ll start with this damn dream.

It was nearly daylight, a time when most of Ordoghaz slept, avoiding the deadly sun. Perhaps he could find a way inside.

He looked regretfully at the sleeping vampires. She’s be pissed when she found out he’d gone off alone. Fuck it. It was time he started running his life again, instead of running for it. Throwing on his days old, still damp clothing, Michael silently slipped from the safe house, taking care not to awaken Selene. Good thing I learned to drive a stick, he thought as he hopped into the new Jag and sped off toward the Devil’s House.

Never Over, chaper 3

2003-12-04T04:25:28Z

A lycan a full foot taller than him lunged forward, claws extended. Derek sidestepped smoothly, allowing his opponent to rush past him. But five hundred pounds of pure animal instinct wouldn’t be deterred so easily, as his challenger changed course, using his forward momentum to make a dive for Derek’s legs. His vision reddened as claws found and tore flesh. “First blood to Remy Garroux,” called out Shred, the mediator for the match. Derek recovered quickly from Remy’s assault, and viciously counterattacked. Derek’s open handed blow caught the other lycan across the stomach, cutting deeply enough to give Derek a glimpse of slimy innards.

Blood flowed freely from their wounds, which would soon cause them to tire. Derek knew he had to finish his rival quickly, lest he lose his ever so slight advantage. In battle, a person’s luck could change in less than a second. Even in a traditional battle to establish dominance it wasn’t unheard of for there to be fatalities. Death was a very rare occurrence though, as lycans were notoriously quick healers.

Derek growled low in his throat as he gazed up at his opponent from a safe distance. Remy was lager and more muscular than him, but Derek was much faster. In a fight to third blood, sometimes agility and wit won more battles than brute strength. Derek’s sides heaved, but he forced himself to concentrate. There! His challenger was favoring his left leg. He must have wrenched it when he dove, thought Derek.

He let his lupine instincts take over as he circled his target. Remy had known too many battles and was too experienced a fighter to let Derek get behind him…which was exactly what Derek had counted on. When the rival lycan shifted his weight to his injured leg, Derek lunged. It was over in less than an eye blink. Derek’s jaws sank into the meat of his opponent’s shoulder and his claws grazed Remy’s back.

“Third blood to Derek Constantine,” called Shred. “We have a new leader, proven in combat…unless there are more challengers?”

No one spoke. Derek almost sighed in relief. He had been in nine other matches today before this last one against Remy, and he was ready for it to end. He was ready to sleep for a week, too, but the pack was regarding him expectantly, waiting for him to give them orders, to fill them with purpose. For six hundred years they had fought to bring retribution to the Bloods, seeking revenge on Lucien’s behalf. They owed it to him for freeing them, for taking care of them, for leading them. For teaching them to survive on their own, and allowing them to realize that they weren’t inferior to anyone.

The deaths of Lucien and the vampire Elder didn’t really change anything. The war wasn’t over…and the lycans had to be prepared for another attack.

With practiced ease, Derek slipped into his human form. It was like putting on a well-worn set of clothes. It was comfortable, but not as satisfying as being naked, as being the true, primal self. Derek’s olive eyes gazed out at the sea of faces around him. He was silent a moment, drawing all attention to him. He prayed for the strength to be a great leader, like Lucien.

“Nothing has changed,” he began, projecting his voice so that it echoed in the soul of every lycan present. “We are still hunted, and therefore we must still be ready to meet the vampires in battle. But we will not make it easy for them. They have found our den, so we cannot remain here much longer. But before we leave, we must honor those who have fallen here, who have given their lives to protect the rest of us. There are brothers and sisters we will never see again.

“I’ll need volunteers to gather the bodies of our fallen comrades, so that we can lay them to rest.”

A few men stepped forward, warriors, for the most part. Men who had watched friends and family die. Derek nodded to each one, then turned and headed in the direction of the tunnels, ignoring the fatigue from the night’s challenges. He could rest later. Much later. For now…he had a responsibility to fulfill.

Never Over, chapter 2.5

2003-10-15T04:37:41Z

Derek grunted under the combined weight of the corpses he dragged behind him. Damned Bloods, he thought, kicking a mutilated body out of his path. The tunnels were littered with the remnants of vampire and lycan warriors. An arm here, a torso there…and blood everywhere.

Let the Bloods rot here. They brought this on themselves. Derek didn’t look back; he’d seen the carnage many times during his numerous trips down the tunnel to retrieve his fallen comrades. So many of his pack gone. So many…he’d known them for centuries…and he’d never see them again.

A savage kick launched a severed vampire head against the tunnel wall. Derek heard a satisfying plunk as gravity worked its magic, splashing sewage on his thigh. He ignored it, continuing his slow, methodical pace toward the abandoned subway station where the remaining members of the pack awaited.

The physical labor had eased his mind slightly, but it had reopened his many small wounds. Bite marks and deep scratches seeped blood, leaving him with only pleasant, tingling warmth. He’d long ago learned how to force his body to perceive pain in that way, so as not to debilitate him when it mattered.

A lycan a full foot taller than him lunged forward, claws extended. Derek sidestepped slightly, allowing his opponent to rush past him. But five hundred pounds of pure animal instinct wouldn’t be deterred so easily, as his challenger changed course, using his momentum to make a dive for Derek’s legs. His vision reddened as claws found and tore flesh, but he recovered quickly, and brutally counterattacked. Derek’s blow caught the other lycan across the stomach, cutting deep.

Blood flowed freely from their wounds, and that would cause them to tire. Derek knew he had to finish his rival quickly, lest he lose his advantage. In battle, a person’s luck could change in less than a second.

Never Over, chapter 2

2003-10-08T04:47:53Z

The midnight black limousine pulled up beside the ancient mansion long known as Ordoghaz, the Devil’s House. Those who stood outside to greet it were filled with both anticipation and apprehension. For all that they were the eldest remaining vampires of the European coven, Viktor’s child and one time pupil was legendary for his strength in battle and his quicksilver temper. Hence the shadows; men and women draped in black leather and trained for centuries in the martial arts. The Death Dealers were on hand to handle things if either side happened toward violence.

It should have been an honor, thought Gerald, gazing through the tinted window of the limo. He was the eldest vampire awake now, the heir to Viktor’s throne. It was his duty to perform Marcus’ Awakening. Only he and a few others truly knew the way of it. Knew how to channel a lifetime of memories into a form the Elder could comprehend. It should have been an honor, and they should be welcoming him with relief and gratitude. Yet these sniveling weaklings trembled at the very thought of him. It mattered little. Once his task was performed, he would return to his seclusion. This century was so trying, so quick moving…. But the vampire was a master at adaptation. It had to be, in order to survive the millennia. Gerald would ease himself into it slowly, and savor the new cultures that had arisen from the ashes of civilizations long gone.

As the driver opened the door, Gerald could overhear the gasps of decadent aristocrats, and could almost sense the tension in the Death Dealers. They weren’t prepared for his appearance. Why should they be? He’d had no reason to show himself for ages, not since his falling out with Viktor. But he did not hide his face. The scars he bore were a brutal reminder to all present of just what he was. The steel armor was a reminder of what he lived for. He was a warrior. And there was no vampire now living who had ever bested him.

“L-lord Gerald,” blubbered one, a beautiful man who more than likely had the brain of a tit mouse. Vampire aristocrats were all the same, all appearance and flash, with nothing to back it up. “It’s an honor, truly,” he continued, offering his hand in the age old gesture of peace. I have no weapons, he said, without saying a word.

Gerald couldn’t help but sneer slightly at the man. If it is such an honor, why are you all running scared?, he mused. No, not an honor at all. A necessity. They would have left him to his isolation if there had been but one among them who was capable of performing the ceremony. Gerald ignored the proffered hand, brushed by the throng of sniveling aristocrats, and entered into the mansion proper.

Decadent, he thought. There was no other word for the overstated opulence of the great hall. Those who dwelled here had likely never known struggle, or seen war first-hand. They were unworthy of being called vampires. They were little better than lycans, in fact, their one-time guardians turned fierce rivals. Some days he thought they were more undeserving even, for at least the lycans showed their fangs. But those days were few and far between.

It had been more than a century since he’d been inside Ordoghaz, and underneath the trappings of debauchery and the addition of modern technology, it hadn’t changed at all. He certainly didn’t need the pitiful cretins who called themselves vampires to show him the way to the Crypt, or point out Marcus’ resting place. He had been a frequent visitor here, in the past. Until the day Viktor had taught him a lesson he’d never forget. After that day, Gerald had left the mansion, thinking that he’d never return. And now Viktor was dead. He didn’t know if it was odd that he felt no grief. The Elder had given him the gift of immortality, had taught him and guided him for more than a thousand years. And yet some things were unforgivable.

He was saddened by Amelia’s death, but moreover, he was angered. She had been like a mother to him, once upon a time, just as Viktor had been like his father. Though she hadn’t really been that much older than him, Gerald had always looked up to her. She’d possessed the immortal grace that the aristocrats in the mansion could never hope to possess in ten thousand years. And she had a quick mind. She’d been a princess once upon a time, schooled in history and art, mathematics and warfare.

Gerald’s fist clenched as he thought about her death. Ripped apart by rabid, slobbering, mangy man-beasts…and helped by Kraven, the vampire Viktor had trusted to run the European coven while he slumbered. Blood welled from cuts made by his sharpened fingernails as he thought about the fate that awaited the traitor. Vengeance would be sweet, and slow torture so much sweeter.

Somehow, lost in thought, his feet still remembered the way to the Crypt, and Gerald found himself at the glass doors that indicated the entrance. One glance at the man behind the monitor screens and the doors opened. He stood before the bronze locking mechanism that sheltered the Elder’s coffin, then knelt and twisted the stylized M. Gerald could smell traces of blood on the floor of the room, which he could only guess came from some prisoner Viktor had tortured. The Elder warrior was always big on that kind of thing. It had an odd tang to it though…lycan blood perhaps.

It matters not, for now. Gerald had to concentrate now, to focus the memories of what had passed since Marcus had last reigned. It was a simple enough procedure: focus the thoughts, organize them chronologically, and transmit them to the blood. Yet it took more concentration than most vampires could muster in their long lifetimes.

A final click and Marcus’ coffin was rising from its resting place. The Elder looked much better than he had any right to, after two hundred years. Gerald pressed the release mechanism and rotated the coffin so that it was parallel to the floor, exposing the tube that would carry his blood and memories to the Elder. Gerald cleared his mind of everything except the past events as Marcus should view them. He then drew a finely crafted silver dagger from its sheath and slit his wrist, allowing the blood to drip into the collector. He traced its path down the length of tubing and finally into Marcus’ mouth.

The ceremony was complete. Now, all that remained to do was wait until the blood took effect and the Elder awoke to reign once again.

Never Over, chapter 1.5

2003-10-07T17:39:59Z

A large vial, filled with some cloudy liquid. A few drops of bright red blood added to the vial and stirred. If only there were more…

A face, twisted with awesome fury and unquenchable rage. Viktor’s face. A taloned hand flying toward his face. Intense pain.

Blood mixing with liquid, turning black. The ill-fated, awful black of failure once again.

The face of a young man. An American. Longish light brown hair and hazel eyes. Still young, for a mortal. A descendent of Corvinus.

A leather-clad Death Dealer, armed with identical Beretta pistols filled with poisonous silver rounds. Bullets exploding through flesh, screams of agony.

Blood in the vial, mixing with the liquid…and turning purple. Success! Lucien will be pleased. We possess the key now…

Marcus’ eyes flew open, yet they perceived only darkness. He tasted thick, strange blood on his dry, weathered lips—like nothing he’d ever tasted before, not in millennia of life. Not human blood for certain, yet not the rich elixir of vampire blood either…but somehow similar. Lycan blood? But how was that possible? The Crypt was guarded day and night. Not to mention that their two races had been at war for centuries. What could a lycan stand to gain from awakening an Elder? A lycan…scientist, at that?

The memories the blood had bestowed upon him were fragmentary and incoherent, but Marcus was able to grasp enough to make a few things frighteningly clear. The lycans had been toying with creating abomination—a hybrid. The very thing which had incurred Viktor’s wrath and begun the war in the first place. The other thing that was evident was that the lycans were very, very close to success. The American...Michael. For some reason, he was the key. Corvinus…. Just like Marcus.

Did this lycan conspiracy extend to him as well? Perhaps. He just didn’t have enough information. Amelia would be here soon enough, though…for surely someone must have seen the man-beast sneak into the Crypt, or at least the evidence of it. Surely he didn’t have long to wait…. Surely?

Underworld fanfic, chapter 1

2003-10-06T14:15:23Z

“It’s not over.” Her voice was cold and matter-of-fact. It reminded Michael of glass, actually, that tone. Truth passed through it, but no emotion. He supposed that she had grown used to hard truths over the centuries. But that didn’t change the fact that life as they’d known it was over for them both.

“No,” he agreed breathlessly. He knew as well as she that it was just beginning—better, even. She had lost her home and father figure, while he had lost everything that was familiar to him—even his humanity. He was something new, and he was sure that even with the Elder vampire dead, there were those out there who wished him the same. That was a sobering thought. He’d been a doctor, devoted to saving lives…and now? What was he now? Just some sort of freak.

Michael glanced over, watching Selene grip the steering wheel of her new Jaguar (it seemed that even on the run, Selene had infinite resources) with such force that her already pale knuckles were bone white. She may have grown accustomed to hard truths, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. Centuries of life didn’t teach a person to deal with something that couldn’t be dealt with.

“We can’t go back to the mansion. Even with Viktor…especially with Viktor…. They won’t allow us to live.”

“I know,” replied Michael quietly. It was taking all his strength not to ask the question that burned in this thoughts from the moment he’d become…whatever he was. What are we going to do now? He wouldn’t ask it, wouldn’t put it to words, but he knew they were both thinking it.

They were little more than strangers still; strangers who shared and inexplicable connection. They had sacrificed so much for each other, and yet it wasn’t over. By killing Viktor, Selene had avenged her family’s murder, but it had made her forever outcast from the vampire nation, from the only people who had a chance at understanding her.

Michael, on the other hand, didn’t mind uprooting his life and moving somewhere no one knew him. He’d done it once before, after all. After her death. He’d left New York and moved here, to Budapest, a city where he could forget. Or try to let go and move on, whatever. Or lose himself so deeply in work that the feelings of loss were distant, as if they belonged to another person.

No, he didn’t mind restarting his life…but he couldn’t help feeling responsible for the lycans. Maybe it was some remnant of Lucien’s memories, or perhaps it was that he knew that it was the fallen commander’s last wish. Either way, something inside Michael didn’t want to abandon them to the Death Dealers, who he knew would come. They knew no other way.
And yet he wanted—needed—to be near Selene. She was his anchor, his solid ground in the middle of a vast dark ocean that begged to swallow him whole and keep him forever. And he got the feeling that he would become her anchor as well, in a way. At least, that’s what he dared to hope.

A thought occurred to him all of a sudden, and he chuckled. The pale Death Dealer glanced over at him like he was crazy. Perhaps he was. “Sorry,” he responded. “It’s just…you’re driving.” A blank look was his only answer. “I mean, you’re driving, and we have no idea where we’re going. I guess that just…I don’t know. It’s ironic, or something.”
Selene turned back to the road. “I’m taking you to a safehouse,” she replied, her accented voice betraying no emotion.

“Jesus Christ, another one? You going to chain me to a chair this time too?” he spat, slightly bitter. “Are we actually going to be safe this time?”

“There’s nobody following us. I’ve checked. No one knows where we’re headed, and I can’t see any reason for them to search for us there. We’ll be safe enough.”

Michael was relieved that they weren’t leaving the city; though he wasn’t sure he trusted Selene’s assurances of safety. He looked out the window of the Jag, up to the nearly-full moon. It was waning, but he still felt it calling to him. He knew all he had to do was reach out to it, and he’d become that…thing…again. The monster that now dwelled just under his skin. He didn’t want to become that thing ever again, but to save Selene…he’d Change in a second. The beast in him had marked her for its own. She was his to protect in a way that had nothing to do with reason, and everything to do with instinct.

She was always so calm, like nothing in the world could faze her. Michael often wondered what went on behind her chocolate orbs, and most of the time came to the conclusion that he didn’t want to know. What happened to a person when they lived in a society that wouldn’t accept weakness? When they had lived that way for centuries? Sometimes he imagined that Selene had forgotten how to feel anything. He understood that, at least. After losing his wife, he’d wanted to do the same.

But then he would catch a fleeting glimpse of something in her eyes, some hot emotion, and he knew again why he needed her so badly.

Testing, testing

2003-10-06T03:03:26Z

Just checking this thing out. I have my blog currently at blogger.com, and I'm debating whether or not to switch it over. Whatever, guess I'll keep both and decide later.

Visited my boyfriend's sister this weekend, saw an awesome improv show with them. Good times had by all. I had to sleep on the floor though, meh. It was alright, I slept better than I thought I would.

Lotsa work to do this week. Seeing as how it's nearly the end of the term. MQP is way too much work for a normal person, plus IQP on top of that. I have to futz around in Photoshop tomorrow to make buttons for the IQP website. It shouldn't take too long, really. I have an idea of how to do them already. One of these days I'm going to make myself a completely amazing webpage... Haha, see, I jest.