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04 September 2010 @ 01:21 am
5 Acts Meme Round 2  

toestastegood is running The Five Acts Meme (Round 2)

Basically, you post a list of your five favorite kinks/acts or themes you liked to read about in your journal, and people write you fic. A very detailed list of kinks can be found here, if you need inspiration. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.

Then you comment to the sign-up post with a link to your post.

You can also read other people's lists over at the master list and post comment-fic based off their themes.

This round is going from 28th August to the 6th September. Though fic can be written after the 6th, no new lists will be accepted.

Kinks: (Oh, and for me, I don't need smut. I also appreciate fluff!)

1. AUs (alternate characterizations and situations; sex between alternates of one character or between different characters; alternates as catalysts for realization of desire; role reversal; darker mirror universe characters; mistaken identity)

2. Courting and dating (courtship rituals; dating; blind dates; personal ads; traditional gestures such as flowers and chocolates; unusual gestures designed to win someone's attention; showing off or displaying prowess; rivals seeking a character's favor; see also Seduction)

3. Playing hard to get

4. Possessiveness or jealousy

5. Trapped or stranded together (on another world; on a desert island; in a cave-in; in a cabin during a snowstorm; in an elevator)


Smallville: Clark/Lois, Clark/Oliver, Clark/Lois/Oliver, Lois/Oliver, Lois/Kara, Lois/Lana, Lois/Tess, Chloe/Bart, Chloe/Davis, Chloe/Kara, Chloe/Lana, Chloe/Lex, Chloe/Oliver, Chloe/Tess, Lex/Lana, Tess/Lana
Smallville/Batman Begins: Lois/Bruce, Clark/Bruce
Star Trek XI: Kirk/Spock, McCoy/Uhura, Zachary Quinto/Chris Pine (RPS)
Sherlock Holmes (2009): Holmes/Watson
Numb3rs: Charlie/Amita, Colby/David
Inception: Arthur/Ariadne, Arthur/Eames, Cobb/Mal
Harry Potter: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, James/Lily, Remus/Sirius
Chronicles of Narnia: Peter/Caspian
NCIS: Abby/McGee, Gibbs/DiNozzo, Abby/Kate, Abby/Ziva, Ziva/Jenny
Gilmore Girls: Rory/Jess, Rory/Tristan, Rory/Logan, Luke/Lorelai, Lorelai/Christopher, Lorelai/Max, Lane/Dave
Pirates of the Caribbean: Jack/Will, Will/Elizabeth, Elizabeth/Anamaria
One Tree Hill: Nathan/Haley, Brooke/Lucas, Brooke/Peyton, Brooke/Rachel, Peyton/Jake
Law and Order: Goren/Eames (CI), Olivia/Elliot (SVU)
Rizzoli & Isles: Rizzoli/Isles

If you're on my flist and doing this, please link me to your list! :)
Current Mood: calmcalm
Shonatoestastegood on September 4th, 2010 09:22 pm (UTC)
Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack/Will, flowers, stranded
When Will wakes up, there are flowers on his pillow.

To call it a 'pillow' is, of course, to be rather optimistic. His head rests upon his own folded coat, the only thing protecting his head from the itchy sand of their beach. His blanket is another item of clothing, but it is used more to protect his skin from the morning sun than to hold in the heat. Uncomfortable, certainly. His body is a mass of aches and pains after several nights spent in this manner.

Likewise, to call them 'flowers' would also be inaccurate. There are three of them, yet they have none of the sophistication that might come with a rose, for example. Instead, they are are scorched and dry as the island they have been stranded on, with no hint of colour whatsoever. Rather, they are a dull brown-yellow just like all the surrounding foliage, treated unkindly by the tropical climate.

Will blinks several times in an attempt to chase sleep from his mind and to bring the flowers into clearer focus. It doesn't make them any more attractive.

When he sits up, he clutches instantly for his shirt-blanket, as it becomes clear that it is the only thing standing between himself and utter nudity. Like a sword-point, the memories of the night before ram home: rum is not his drink. That can be his only explanation for deciding that tumbling into bed, skin-to-skin with Captain Jack Sparrow, was in any way a good idea.

Slightly further along their abandoned beach, he catches sight of Jack, standing near the shore and staring out a featureless ocean. No sign of rescue. No sign that this torment will end any time soon.

Will struggles into his clothes while he is certain that Jack is occupied and cannot try to leer at him. Such an experience would be rather more unpleasant than he can possibly cope with this early in the morning, and there is an ache at the base of his spine that reminds him all too vividly of the sordid acts they committed the night before. It can be said, certainly, that Jack is nothing if not a connoisseur of sin.

By the time he has dressed, Jack has began to mosey - not walk, Jack never merely walks anywhere - his way back in Will's direction, zig-zagging along the sand. Will is very determined not to look at him; he doesn't have any great success.

"Flowers," Jack says instead of good morning. "I find it is excellent etiquette to leave flowers in the morning. It lowers the rate of unwarranted slapping quite considerably."

"If you didn't do anything worthy of getting slapped, that would probably work just as well," Will points out.

The point doesn't seem to please Jack greatly. "If one did nothing worthy of slapping, one would never have any fun," he says, with an indicative stab of his finger.

And a leer. Of course there is a leer, and Will really shouldn't be held responsible if it makes his stomach tingle pleasantly.

"You know," Jack says, taking an unnecessary step into Will's personal space. "I find that the appropriate reaction to waking up to a bunch of flowers in the bed is to bestow the giver of flowers with a flowery kiss."

For something like that, what Jack deserves to be bestowed is a flowery punch - but he's an expert at getting what he wants.

Will never stood a chance.
(Anonymous) on September 15th, 2010 05:37 pm (UTC)
Re: Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack/Will, flowers, stranded
I love this!
Magali - Lady Gawainladygawain on September 5th, 2010 07:52 pm (UTC)
The End of Dreams, Smallville, Chloe/Ollie, pandora AU, darker mirror universe characters (also posted on my journal)

Jimmy was never the love of her life. She knows that now.

But it’s easier to say the lie – to think that lie over and over and over again. Because without it – well, she doesn’t want to think about what she is without it.

She sits on the edge of her mattress, knees bent to her shoulders, the old portrait in her hands; heaviness in her throat that makes it hard to swallow. He’s smiling up at her from crinkled paper, a coffee-brown stain from when she got herself burned in the hip by a red-eyed Kandorian. Her fingers move over his old smile, his eyes folded up at the corners. There are knew calluses, and a blackened nail bed on her middle-left finger from learning how to string a bow eight hours a day for the past month.

She’d taken the picture nearly a year before, and if she tried really hard, she could summon the feeling of what it meant for him to look at her the way he did in that picture; he was happy then. She had been too.

The sun steeps low on the horizon, turns everything to dark crimson, the color of old blood. Hunger scratches at the pit of her stomach; she hasn’t eaten a real meal in weeks. They managed to horde long-expired nutrition bars and a few other things a week ago – but seven days subsisting on desiccated fruit and grains, shrunken almost beyond recognition, and oddly salty has probably killed what’s left of her taste buds.

She closes her eyes and imagines an afternoon or morning, years ago; the sweet, heady fragrance of fresh strawberries; juice exploding in her mouth; the wooden press into her midriff of a crate of produce from the Kent farm – a gift; laughter; and warm, yellow sunlight that made you sweat.

She shakes her head, brushes the fantasy away.

She looks at the room, a studio in what used to be an old tenement in a forgotten corner of the slums, and wonders for a moment if this isn’t the dream – the oily marks, old water stains, pooling across the walls; the gutted carpet; the skinny mattress she’s sitting on.

But no, this is reality and she’s got no choice but to live it.

They’ll need to trade for supplies soon. Or Oliver will have to take some of the group out to do what he does best and steal them a meal or two.


She’s lying in her bed. It’s close to midnight, she’d guess. She can’t sleep even though her eyelids are weighted, her eyes burning from fatigue, and she can think of nothing better than being dead to the world. It’s been that way for months.

The door creaks open.

She doesn’t shift or turn.

She’s come to expect him.

He slips onto the mattress beside her; it is wide enough for two, just barely. He lies there for a while and doesn’t say a word, simply breathes until it seems they’re inhaling and exhaling at the same time. She swallows.

He knows she’s awake. She knows that he knows.

He has a distinctive scent, another thing she’s getting used to. Simple, slightly smoky from the barrels of fire he lights each evening to keep everyone warm; a bite of crude oil that makes her nose wrinkle for a moment before it slips beneath her notice; and soap.

She feels the bed dip: he’s shifted onto his side to face her. She lies still, perpendicular to his horizontal, studying shadows cast along the ceiling by a single candle on the floor. But really, she’s waiting, and she’s not sure when she started to hold her breath.

He lays a hand on her ribcage. Her muscles recoil instinctively, she gulps. His hands are surprisingly warm through the thin layer of t-shirt.

She feels breath at her throat; he’s kissing her there, a feeble attempt at romance. His hands are more honest though. Her zipper’s already undone and spread open, her shirts bunched up just beneath her breasts. He hooks one lean thigh across both of hers, and his teeth graze the line of her collar bone.

It’s about this time, each night that she starts to reciprocate. Absolved, in her own stupid way of responsibility. She widens her legs and tugs at his hip, pulls him on top of her. His weight feels good and real, makes it hard for her to breathe. It feels present, how a photo and made-up memories can never be.

Magali - Lady Gawainladygawain on September 5th, 2010 07:53 pm (UTC)
She reaches for the placket of his pants, frees him – nothing elaborate. They’ve both got most of their clothes on, like the last few times. There’s something furtive and rushed in the darkness, both wordlessly eager for this – but eager to get it over and done with too.

She’s not ready yet, only a little damp. He strokes the front of her cotton panties. He lowers his mouth to her chest, sucks on her nipple through the threadbare cloth. His fingers work past the elastic underwear and flutter at her entrance, flick at her nub, slip inside – drawing moisture from her body. She grips his lower back and arches into his touch. He scrapes his teeth on her breasts and she shivers.

He’s got four fingers siphoning in and out of her, and the twinge of pain at the tight fit is like a pinch into wakefulness. And she loves it. Her breath gasps out against his shoulder and she hooks one foot at the back of his calf.

He knows when to move on from playing. The plastic crumple of a condom packet – he has a seemingly endless stash and she wonders absurdly at this point each night, when he found the time to steal them. He nudges at her *expletive*, and thrusts in. Not much finesse – in this there can be no lies.

She doesn’t wrap her legs around him as instinct dictates, which would be too much like collusion. She does hang onto the waistband of his jeans; slip her hands beneath the rough material to palm at the flexing skin, to scratch her nails along the backs of his thighs.

He makes strangled grunting noises by her ear, his mouth hovers by her cheek. And she feels his fingers riffle through her hair. Her eyes meet his in the dark. They don’t kiss; there are few tender caresses between them. But right then, for a second, with his mouth a scant breath from hers, his eyes glinting in the shadows, his body pressed tight, filling hers – there’s the illusion.

Of romance, or perhaps of something that is more than this life has to offer? It’s dangerous and vital.
He’s a friend and in the night this is all they have left to give each other.

He thrusts harder, three uneven jerks and starts to come. She watches him, the muscles in his face strained, the growl of pleasure, the pulse of his cock inside her. He collapses on top of her and the burden crushes uncomfortably.

When he recovers, a minute or two later, the harsh sound of his breath is loud.

He knows she didn’t come. And she knows that he knows.

Before she can push him away, his fingers find her clit, he rubs her slowly. He’s still inside her, and she squeezes her inner muscles around him, he groans. He takes the bundle of nerves between two fingers, and pinches – a spike of pleasure and some pain. She bites the inside of her cheek to stop from moaning.

He pushes his mouth at her shoulder, nips her skin, then licks the slight hurt. Her eyes roll into the back of her head and it doesn’t take long, her body curls in on itself, and an orgasm ripples through her, a puff of air escapes her lips.

When it’s over, they don’t speak. It occurs to her that they never speak during these encounters. Talk is cheap, she’s learned. Tongues lie and they don’t have it in them to lie to each other in the dark, pretend that everything around them will go away.

He rolls to the side; on his back beside her again, breathing. She lies there with her pants open, their combined perspiration cooling on her skin. The wet squish of him disposing of the condom packet in the plastic bin near his side of the bed and she pulls her pants up, pushes her shirt down, and folds her arms together.


The bed sheets rustle and he gets up, the scratch of his zipper, the shuffle of feet. He stands still at her bedside for a good three minutes, watching her; she can feel it.

And then the mattress dips slightly and the press of cool, dry lips to her forehead. She closes her eyes tight and waits for him to leave.

The door thuds shut and she breathes a sigh of relief.

He asked to stay once; she said no; he knows the rules.


Jimmy’s picture smiles at the ceiling on the makeshift table by her head.


She falls asleep.