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+Post a list of your five favorite acts/kinks to read about. Check out this list if you need some inspiration. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.
+ Read other people's lists here.
+ Post comment-fic based off of other people's interests.

1. Touching (stroking and caressing; cuddling or nuzzling; huddling for warmth; hugging; holding hands in public; touching as UST; brief brushes of contact either deliberate or accidental; PDAs; thighs brushing under a table; one character touching another character’s face/lips, can’t keep their hands off each other…)
2. Scars/Tattoos/Marks (swapping stories, tracing them with fingers and/or tongues, seeing them for the first time, etc.)
3. Clothes fetishization (hats, worn jeans, boxer shorts, ties, suits, sundresses, gloves, formalwear, borrowing each other’s clothes, pajamas, dressing/undressing a partner…)
4. Good boys/girls (law enforcement figures; gentlemen; nice/shy girls; characters who prompt a desire to corrupt or provoke them, or to get them dirty; priests; nice guys; virtue and nobility in general)
5. Domesticity (cuddling, watching TV or shopping together, cooking for one another, hanging out, spooning, anything that an established couple/friends who might as well be a couple might do.)

2 Broke Girls: Max/Caroline
Being Human (UK): Mitchell/George, Annie/George, Lucy/Mitchell, Carl/Mitchell, Carl/George, Annie/Hugh, Annie/Sykes, Lia/George, George/Mitchell/Annie
Community: Jeff/Annie, Jeff/Britta, Troy/Abed, Troy/Britta, Troy/Annie/Abed
Doctor Who/Torchwood: River Song/The Doctor, Amy/Rory, Amy/Vincent, Donna/Ten, Nine/Rose/Jack, Amy/Rory/Eleven, Ten II/Rose, Martha/Jack, Martha/Owen, Jack/Owen
Fringe: Alt!Charlie/Olivia, Alt!Liv/Alt!Lincoln, Lincoln/Olivia, Lincoln/Astrid, Alt!Charlie/Olivia/Alt!Lincoln
Game of Thrones: Jorah/Dany, Jon/Sam, Jon/Robb, Jon/Ygritte, Arya/Gendry (*please keep it to puppy love between these two, or future!fic*), Brienne/Jaime, Robb/Osha, Robb/Theon
Happy Endings: Penny/Max/Dave (any/all combinations)
Harry Potter: Remus/Sirius, Harry/Luna, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron/Hermione
Haven: Duke/Evi, Nathan/Audrey, Nathan/Duke, Nathan/Duke/Audrey, Nathan/Evi
Justified: Raylan/Carol, Raylan/Boyd, any/all combinations of Raylan/Rachel/Tim
Lost: Richard/Miles, Juliet/Sawyer, Jack/Claire/Sawyer, Kate/Tom Brennan, Kate/Kevin, Juliet/Richard, Juliet/Miles, Juliet/Jack, Richard/Eloise, Desmond/Penny, Daniel/Charlotte
Mad Men: Don/Rachel, Don/Peggy, Pete/Peggy, Don/Peggy/Pete
Miranda: Miranda/Gary
Misfits: Nathan/Kelly, Nathan/Simon/Kelly, Simon/Alisha, Curtis/Nikki
New Girl: Gretchen/Schmidt, Jess/Nick, Jess/Schmidt, Jess/Winston, Coach/Jess, Nick/Caroline, Winston/Schmidt
Parks & Rec: Leslie/Ben, Leslie/Mark, Leslie/Ron, April/Ben, Tom/Ben, Tom/Ann, April/Ben/Andy
Sherlock: John/Sherlock, John/Sherlock/Molly
Supernatural: Dean/Cassie, Dean/Castiel, Dean/Bela, Sam/Amy, Sam/Bela, Sam/Cassie, Sam/Sarah, Sam/Becky, Sam/Ava, John/Jo, John/Cassie, Chuck/Becky, Chuck/Becky/2012!Cas, Bela/Crowley, Bobby/Sheriff Mills, Bobby/Ellen
The Fades: Mark/Sarah, Paul/Mac
The Hour: Bel/Freddie, Bel/Freddie/Hector, Freddie/Hector, Freddie/Lix, Freddie/Adam Le Ray, Freddie/Ruth
The Killing: Holder/Linden
The Vampire Diaries: Alaric/Damon, Alaric/Jenna, Alaric/Isobel, Alaric/Klaus, Alaric/Damon/Elena, Damon/Stefan, Stefan/Caroline/Tyler (any combination), Jeremy/Bonnie, Jeremy/Katherine, Elena/Elijah, Stefan/Katherine/Damon (any combination), Matt/Tyler, Jenna/John, Stefan/Bonnie, Stefan/Klaus, Stefan/Rebecca, Damon/Liz
Ugly Betty: Daniel/Betty


Lost/SPN: Miles/Bela, Juliet/Any Winchester, Miles/Chuck/Becky, Bobby/Juliet, Bobby/Danielle, Sam/Claire, Jo/Sawyer, Castiel/Juliet, Castiel/Miles, Castiel/Richard, Jimmy/Boone, Jack/Cassie
Other: Juliet/Alaric (Lost/TVD), Richard/Annie/Miles (Lost/BH), Peggy/Freddie (Mad Men/The Hour), Max/Tom (Happy Endings/P&R), Ben/Jess (P&R/New Girl), Ben/Britta (P&R/Community)


The Immortals Try Blueberry Pie SPN/Lost, Dean/Cas, Richard/Miles for [livejournal.com profile] pann_cake
totally normal roommate activities New Girl, Jess/Schmidt for [livejournal.com profile] ceridweyn_lin
a world entirely our own ASOIAF, Jaime/Brienne for [livejournal.com profile] janie_tangerine
lost causes TVD, Elena/Alaric for [livejournal.com profile] redbrunja


Doctor Who, River/Eleven, touching by [livejournal.com profile] toestastegood
New Girl, Nick/Jess, touching by [livejournal.com profile] ceridweyn_lin
Lost/SPN pre-Juliet/Dean, Juliet/Sam; Scars, Clothes, Good girl, PG-13 by [livejournal.com profile] primarycolors92
asoiaf, jon/sam, touching + a bit of scars kink, hard pg13-ish or r-ish by [livejournal.com profile] janie_tangerine
Laundry Day; Lost, Richard/Miles; clothes, touching, domesticity; pg13 by [livejournal.com profile] pann_cake
Winter Wolfling Girl, GoT, Arya/Gendry by [livejournal.com profile] redbrunja
lost/spn, miles/future!castiel, touching + scars/tattoos, R by [livejournal.com profile] joyyjpg

Date: 10/14/11 06:49 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] joyyjpg.livejournal.com
Oh god, I cannot decide between Amy/Sam and Castiel/Miles. WHY ARE YOU SO DIFFICULT? 8D

Date: 10/14/11 06:53 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com

I don't know, but I feel very Norma Desmond right now. /random

(I can't believe it took this long for Castiel/Miles to occur to me. I was typing up my list and it hit me suddenly and I realized there is no scenario in which that isn't awesome.)

Doctor Who, River/Eleven, touching

Date: 10/14/11 08:29 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] toestastegood.livejournal.com
Oh, but he's amazing, that Doctor of hers.

He burns through the universe like one of the stars themselves; there are glorious trails of fire left in his wake, so beautiful, so deadly.

There are days, long days and weeks and months, where she doesn't see him. She travels across the breadth of time and space under her own steam, whether it's on exploratory missions with fellow archaeologists or whether she's running through the blackness of space, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

When night falls, she takes her blue book and flicks through it, devouring the memories. She remembers the Doctor's face and the strength of his wisdom and the burning of his anger: she remembers it all and she smiles.

Memories don't compare to the real thing.

Her fingers tingle and her smile grows right before he turns up - always does. That TARDIS of his knows how to make an entrance. It fades into existence, the sound of it churning up the air around them. Royal blue contrasts with the lush green of the jungle, and River places her hands on her hips as she waits for him to pop out of his box, wondering just what is going to await her this time: who is he going to be, where in their tangled time-lines is he coming from?

He swings out of the door, his hair a wonderful mess and his dreadful bow-tie terribly askew: the very sight of him brings a tight smirk to her lips. She feels alive again in a way she hasn't since the last time they ran at one another's side.

"You're late," she scolds.

His eyes widen and he steps out of the TARDIS, allowing the door to close in his wake. "I am?" he asks.

No companions with him this time, not even her mother or father. It's just her and the Doctor - and as much as she loves his friends, this is the way he likes it best.

"Very late," she confirms.

"For what?" he asks suspiciously. He spins on his heel as he takes in their surroundings, with the volcano puffing menacingly far in the background, belching purple smoke towards the sky.

River's smirk broadens into a grin. "I haven't the faintest idea," she says. She holds out her hand. "Let's go find out."

His hand grasps hold of hers, firm and warm as only he can be. The touch of his palm tingles through her, bringing back every instinctive memory of danger and lust and longing.

Yes, every cell in her body screams as they begin to explore side-by-side.

She doesn't let go of his hand, not once. At her side, the Doctor is a skittish presence, his free hand gesturing emphatically with every word, in between repeated scans with his sonic screwdriver.

"I've missed you," he says, while pointing it at a rapidly growing pink bush.

It takes her a moment to realise that he's talking to her, not to the bush. Just as well. She might've had to get jealous.

"It's been a while," he admits, "for me, anyway."

"I saw you last week," she says. "Feels like longer."

Always does. Locked away in that prison cell, sometimes she can feel every second dragging by like its claws are digging into her flesh. The Doctor squeezes her hand, just a momentary twitch. She squeezes back, twice as hard, and wonders if it would be so bad to stay with him forever - always at his side, always like this, always together.

The Doctor hums thoughtfully to himself as he examines the screwdriver, and mumbles something that sounds worryingly like "That's not good."

Twenty minutes later, River is running for her life while genetically cloned dinosaurs try to make her into a snack.

Heart racing, hair flying, legs aching, she has the Doctor laughing manically at her side. She wouldn't miss this for the world.

Re: Doctor Who, River/Eleven, touching

Date: 10/16/11 03:47 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
This is so, so lovely. You capture the sheer epicness of this ship perfectly. And your Doctor voice! LOVE. I'm madly in love with this line: When night falls, she takes her blue book and flicks through it, devouring the memories. She remembers the Doctor's face and the strength of his wisdom and the burning of his anger: she remembers it all and she smiles. So perfect.

Thank you so much for this! <333

New Girl, Nick/Jess, touching

Date: 10/14/11 11:34 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ceridweyn-lin.livejournal.com
I am supposed to be doing work right now, I think this show is doing things to me with all its twee. And this is more than one comment, so um yeah.


In November (which should be a good month, full of sweet potatoes and leaves and eating all of the food), Caroline breaks up with her boyfriend and, three hours later like some sort of timely evil womanly woman, calls Nick.

"Oh no," Schmidt says. "This is not good. This is not good at all. That girl is a ruiner, Jess, do you hear me, she will ruin things."

"Um," Jess says, and "okay, I remember what happened at that wedding, that was not good, but I thought he was over her?"

"Not like this," says Schmidt, shaking his head. "Not like this."

"This is how it's gonna go," Winston says--

"--don't do voices, man--"

"Caroline was like 'oh Nick! Nick! come back to me, with your flannel and your strong arms and your raspy voice, what's-his-name cannot compare to your overwhelming manliness' and Nick is all, 'okay Caroline, let's go have sex and made bad decisions' and then a week later she'll break up with him. And he'll cry. I was in Latvia when that went down the first time, and even I know the story. Well, because he sent me novel-length emails full of sad emoticons and far too many why, god, whyyyyy's."

Jess blinks. "I'm going to go be alone now, thanks," she says, and hastily departs.


It's not like Winston isn't right, that's the thing. They have three weeks of Nick going around moon-eyed (more moon-eyed than Jess, and she's pretty sure that's a damn impressive accomplishment) and like, humming to himself and making waffles in the morning before Caroline breaks his heart into tiny, shattered pieces and he starts hugging pillows and crying again.

So then Jess has to avoid him because November is her happy month, and soon it'll be December, and December has the holidays and snowflakes and good cheer. And she'd like to have her first Christmas (well, and Hanukkah too, because it turns out Schmidt is Jewish and likes getting presents for eight nights straight) with these guys be fun. She bakes cookies and puts up decorations and Nick just sort of...stares. Sadly.

She's reading though holiday cards from her students when he comes in, sniffling and nose red in a way that's not just from the cold, when Jess's heart breaks. Or grows three sizes, depending on your perspective.

"What's up now," she says, putting aside the note from Maxson Truwell, who, apart from not being able to spell his name, needs some help with punctuation.

"Coach is getting married," Nick says, and Jess is like eighty percent sure he's about to burst into tears. "To some girl in Chicago named Jane."

Jess purses her lips. "So let's... be happy for him?

"He's getting married, Jess."

"So Gretchen and Schmidt will have shame-sex? Dude, I am not exactly getting your point here."

"I'm not getting married," Nick-- yeah, okay, it's a wail, he's totally wailing and this is not a good situation, this is bad bad bad.

"Would you like a hug," Jess asks, and puts down Maxson's letter. "Cause you kinda look like you need one, you sound like the sad best friend in all the movies you guys make fun of me for watching."

Nick shrugs an okay and she walks over to where he's slumped on the couch and squeezes him, hard enough to elicit an 'oof'. She follows it up with a kiss on the cheek.

Re: New Girl, Nick/Jess, touching

Date: 10/14/11 11:34 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ceridweyn-lin.livejournal.com

"Is that better?" Jess asks, fully (for the record) intending to follow it up with a nice pat on the arm/head, depending on the angle he returns to slump at.

"Almost," Nick says, and his eyes go kinda weird, kind of dark and smoldery, wow. She did kind of press her boobs up against him, but it was a totally platonic roommatey hug, not a sexy hug. What's even a component of a sexy hug? Grinding? This mood change is actual factual giving her whiplash.

"You're-- you're holding onto my arm," Jess says, but that's not the entire truth cause he's stroking it, rubbing his thumb over the inside of her wrist, and she's starting to get all tingly and bubbly inside.

"Yeah," Nick says, "I am," and then he grabs her other arm and pulls and look at that, she is sitting in his lap.

Wait. She is sitting in his lap. This is not a casual roommate situation, Jess is pretty sure. This whole last few minutes have taken the roommate dynamic and twisted it all around.

"I, uh, I have to go back to reading," she says.

"Can it wait?" Nick asks, and she's heard him be raspy and sobbing, but now he's being raspy and sexy and Jess knows it's on purpose, and yeah. Okay.

"Maybe?" she says, and it kind of comes out as a squeak, because he really has strong arms, Winston was right, she can feel them around her and he's pushing her up against him so all their parts are touching, and Jess is like a bubbly, happy snowflake right now. A slightly confused snowflake.

"I'm gonna kiss you. And not on the cheek," Nick says, adding the last part for clarity, and yup, casual dynamic is screwed.

"Wait, mister, wait a second." Jess has some things of her own to clarify. "This is not a rebound, I am not your rubber-band girl, nope Nick, nope."

"Can we talk about my possible feelings later, Jess, you are sitting in my lap."

"That I am," she allows, and wriggles a bit to get comfortable, which also has the side effect of making Nick gulp. "Oops."

"You don't get to say oops about that," he says, and then he kisses her. His hands are still on her wrists, and the only thing dividing them is her sweater and his button-down, and maybe those should go away because she'd like to touch more of him than she currently is.

He lets go of her wrist to brush a thumb over her lip, and Jess shivers against him.

"Is it too early to say happy holidays to you?" Nick wonders, and Jess laughs, and leans forward the infinitesimally small inch between them to kiss him again.

She is not his rebound girl or just his roommate, she is something else entirely, and that is a-ok with her.

Re: New Girl, Nick/Jess, touching

Date: 10/16/11 03:52 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com


I am flailing so much right now, you have no idea. You nailed the tone of the show with this and all of the voices are so perfect. I don't know what I love more: Jess and her holiday love or Nick with his raspy voice or your freaking gorgeous Winston characterization.

Basically, I LOVE ALL THE THINGS. Thank you so, so much for this! *squees*
From: [identity profile] primarycolors92.livejournal.com
A/N: Juliet walks into a bar. A "what if?" with only two scenarios.

When Juliet finally decides it’s time to fuck someone other than her soon-to-be ex-husband, it’s not really her shiniest moment. The slow burn of humiliation eats away at her self-control until all she can think about is fucking not-Edmund, a man with real calluses from real work, a man who doesn’t wear a suit and doesn’t reek of watered-down cologne and doesn’t like at Juliet like she’s less than nothing.

She goes to a bar she’s never been, a place where women who dress like Juliet are supposed to clutch their purses and dart their eyes into every corner. Juliet goes straight from work, silk chiffon blouse and knee-length skirt and sensible pumps (lets her hair down as a concession to vanity, the hair Edmund first claimed to love and later pressured her to cut short).

It’s a calculated gambit, a move sure to draw attention in a place like this, but it’s also a rebellion (Juliet is reclaiming the pieces of her life, one by one, and this is just another piece). The guy sitting two stools down gives Juliet the once-over, and she already knows he’s the kind of guy she’s here to (tempt) seduce. He’s jeans and leather jacket, he’s calluses and motor oil and honest sweat, he’s younger than she is and charming and sleazy and perfect.

Juliet reduces him to just the elements she sees, and the additions she wants to imagine. Her self-loathing returns full force at the idea of taking a stranger in a bar and reducing them to whoever it is Juliet wants (needs) them to be, reducing them to a cardboard cutout (less than nothing).

Juliet ignores the stranger in the leather jacket and the invitation in his eyes. She leaves without finishing her drink, tipping double what she wants to and twisting her fingers around the straps of her purse and listening to the solid click of her heels against the dirty bar floor and thinking,

ground was lost, here.

It’s a calculated gambit, a move sure to draw attention in a place like this, but it’s also a rebellion (Juliet is reclaiming the pieces of her life, one by one, and this is just another piece). There’s a man sitting two stools down who’s really more of a boy, tall and in need of a haircut. He’s reading a newspaper, an incongruity, and when his eyes flicker in Juliet’s direction the deep brown hits her sweet spot, low in the stomach.

She lets him pretend to read the newspaper for eight whole minutes before she asks him if he wants to buy her a drink.

“I’m Sam,” he says, and Juliet she murmurs, and when they shake hands she’s so distracted by the line of his jaw that she almost misses the calluses.

When she tells him that she’s a doctor he’s impressed but not intimidated, and when she asks him if he wants to go somewhere else, he tells her there’s a motel three blocks west.

what are you doing, Sam asks, lips pressed against her hair. I’m looking for someone who isn’t my ex-husband she tells him, using his steady heartbeat as her own personal metronome.

did you find him?, Sam asks, and he sounds more curious than interested, if Juliet even knows enough about him to think so. His body is mapped with scars and his jeans are tangled on the motel room floor.

i think so, whispers Juliet, banishing the image of Edmund’s face drawn into cold, harsh lines. you have kind eyes.

Beneath Juliet’s breath and hands Sam’s body stiffens for a second, before he breathes out and sinks down into the mattress.

Juliet doesn’t pretend to know what he is thinking.

In a few minutes, she’ll put her skirt and blouse back on.
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
I...I HAVE NO WORDS. This is flawless. Juliet, Sam, Dean-- I think my heart exploded with joy. This bit is stunning and achy and so Juliet it hurts: She leaves without finishing her drink, tipping double what she wants to and twisting her fingers around the straps of her purse and listening to the solid click of her heels against the dirty bar floor and thinking,

ground was lost, here.

Then this happened and I completely lost it:

here’s a man sitting two stools down who’s really more of a boy, tall and in need of a haircut. He’s reading a newspaper, an incongruity, and when his eyes flicker in Juliet’s direction the deep brown hits her sweet spot, low in the stomach.

Perfect fic is perfect. Thank you so much for this. <333

From: [identity profile] janie-tangerine.livejournal.com
Sometimes Sam thinks that if his father saw him now, he’d deny that they ever were blood.

He probably would complain about Sam’s choice of company, for that matter, but Sam has learned a long time ago that surnames never mean anything.

And to be entirely honest, he wouldn’t trade the way Jon touches him for his father’s approval of his actions.

It’s not even something anyone would notice, when they’re in public. But whenever they sit next to each other during dinner, Jon always presses close to him, and it’s not rare that whenever his hand is under the table, it ends on Sam’s knee. When they are on sentry duty together and no one sees them or is around, it’s not long before their hands end up one upon the other. The first couple of times in which they actually interlaced fingers, Sam had thought that he might have a heart attack, but after that, he had never complained about having sentry duty with Jon, especially if no one else was around.

When they train and Jon ends up helping him to his feet half of the time, his fingers linger around Sam’s wrist a second longer than it should be proper. It’s nothing overtly obvious, but Sam never liked overtly obvious, the same way he never liked being the center of the attention; and there’s a thrill about the secrecy of it all that he finds pleasing for reasons he hasn’t still quite understood yet.

That’s what happens in public, though; what happens in Jon’s barrack is an entire other matter. It’s others that always made Sam feel inadequate, but Jon never has. Sam’s hands might be clumsy while holding a sword or a dagger or while striking a blow, but they aren’t when it comes to Jon. They shook the first time, when they were shedding clothes away, but Jon’s were, too; now they never do. Not when he uses them to hold Jon’s hips firm on the bed, or when Jon parts his lips for Sam’s fingers, or when he brings Jon off with clean, short strokes.

Sam kind of likes the after best, though. When it’s over, he almost never goes back to the main hall before morning; he stays in Jon’s bed, which is barely large enough for them, and they end up pressed against each other under a couple of heavy furs to avoid freezing. Jon’s back ends up pressed to his frame most times, and when it happens Sam loves to run his fingertips along Jon’s stomach, rubbing circles. When it’s the contrary, Sam’s hand almost always ends up in Jon’s hair, and the sighs Jon gives whenever he cards through them is enough to make Sam shiver in pleasure.

Jon’s skin is rough on his face and hands, but always seems so very soft on his back or his thighs, even if his skin is never even; but Sam’s isn’t either – training every day means gaining bruises before the ones that came before can disappear. Sometimes Sam likes to take his time and kiss all of them, and Jon has to bite into his pillow whenever it happens. After Jon burned his arm saving the Lord Commander, he had let it be for a while, but as soon as it was clear that it would heal, Sam couldn’t leave it alone. Running his nails over the burn, sometimes pressing his lips over it; it isn’t as if he enjoys it more than the rest, but Jon’s eyes become dark grey whenever he does it, and Sam likes that look. Jon always looks as if something haunts him, but he never does when his eyes turn that shade.

Sometimes he doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he can’t resist it anymore, just to look at the way Jon’s hand covers his, when Jon has his back to Sam and Sam wraps an arm around him. It’s usually in that kind of moments that he’s glad that he ended up here. There are things he isn’t sure that he’ll ever manage to tell Jon, but from the way Jon smiles at him whenever they wake up the morning after, he’s quite sure that he doesn’t need to say anything.
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com

Oh man, this is so lovely. I adore the way you write the boys. They're so sweet together and Sam's so earnest it makes my heart ache. I love this bit: Running his nails over the burn, sometimes pressing his lips over it; it isn’t as if he enjoys it more than the rest, but Jon’s eyes become dark grey whenever he does it, and Sam likes that look. Jon always looks as if something haunts him, but he never does when his eyes turn that shade. Gorgeous.

Thank you so much! <3
From: [identity profile] pann-cake.livejournal.com
(This is going to be a few comments, here. :P)

Miles had a favorite pair of jeans. Had being the key word, here.

It’s not Richard’s fault, really. He was only trying to help. It was his turn to do the laundry, and he was still getting used to the whole washer-and-dryer thing. Miles teases him endlessly on these days, suggesting that Richard go out to the ocean and smack his shirts against a rock and then hang them up on a clothesline. It’s not an absurd idea to Richard, who is always afraid of putting too much soap in and filling the laundry room with bubbles, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Miles was out with Jim for the afternoon, leaving Richard alone to wade through their piles of lights and darks. It honestly amazes Richard how much clothes two people can go through; but then again, they are screwing each other at every given opportunity, so he really shouldn’t be surprised that things get a bit soiled.

He was just trying to be efficient. The jeans were worn and frayed at the hems, gaping holes at the knees, and Richard figured they had seen better days and threw them out. He did this completely unaware that he was about to start a war within his household.

“Where are my jeans?” Miles asked one morning. Richard looked up at him a bit bleary eyed from the exuberant bout of morning sex they just partook in. Miles had pulled on his boxers and was throwing perfectly clean and folded clothes out of their drawers. Richard looked away from the curve of Miles’s back to watch pants and shirts and socks fly around the room like released doves.

“Which ones?” he finally asked.

Miles huffed in frustration. “My favorite ones, with the holes in the knees.”


Miles obviously did not like the sound of that and he paused in mid-toss, a pair of lesser jeans slithering from his grip. He didn’t say a word, just raised one eyebrow at Richard.

“I threw them out?”

Miles gaped at him for a few moments, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. “What the fuck, man?”

“I’m sorry, I thought they were too ripped and you wouldn’t want them.”

Miles threw his arms up in frustration. “That’s what made them so great!”

“It was a mistake, Miles,” Richard pleaded. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”

“Just forget it,” Miles huffed, then stormed from the room.

Richard stared after him, speechless. He could not believe Miles was making such a big deal over an article of clothing. Then he sighed to himself, got dressed, and started picking up the mess.
Edited Date: 10/16/11 10:48 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] pann-cake.livejournal.com
A few days later, Miles was flipping through the channels waiting for Richard to get ready. They were going out with Jim and the girls, and it always took Richard a long time to figure out what to wear.

“Miles, have you seen my blue shirt?”

Miles didn’t look up from the tv. “Which one? You have a lot of blue shirts.”

“The dark blue one, with pockets.”

“Hm.” Miles turned the tv off and looked up at him. “It was missing some buttons, so I threw it out.”

Richard just stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“What?” Miles asked in mock innocence. “I thought it was garbage.”

“It was perfectly fine, I could have just sown the buttons back on.”

“You can’t run the washer but you can sew buttons?”

Richard’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re being a child.”

You’re being an ass!”

“I said I was sorry about the jeans.”


They stared each other down, the tension sparking between them, until Richard sighed dramatically and turned away. He emerged a few minutes later wearing a red shirt that he knew Miles liked on him. Then he went about not talking to him for the rest of the evening.

It was a strained week, to say the least. It didn’t get bad enough for either of them to sleep on the couch, but Miles was in a world-record sulk and Richard walked around like he had a storm cloud over his head. Miles had to get out for a while, so he met Jim for coffee and managed not to slam the door behind him when he left.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jim asked with a knowing smirk.

Miles would normally try to dodge the question, but Jim knew him far too well. So he divulged the whole pathetic story of the jeans and the shirt, and Jim, for his part, did not actually crack up at him.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jim said. “He accidentally threw out your favorite jeans, so you threw out his shirt? What are you, twelve?”

“Shut up,” Miles quipped. “And I didn’t actually throw it out, I just hid it on him.”

That time Jim actually did crack up. “How is that better, Enos?”

Miles scowled at his coffee. He was quiet for a few minutes before looking wearily back up at Jim. “Is this normal relationship behavior, or are we just fucking nuts?”

Jim chuckled warmly at him. “Trust me, Enos. If there’s one thing all couples do, it’s fight over stupid shit.”

“So what do I do now? It’s getting ridiculous.”

Jim sighed as if Miles was the dumbest person he’d ever met; which, Miles had to admit, was kind of true in this case. “Suck it up, go home, and make it right,” Jim said sternly. “Or, keep whining about it and live a lonely, sexless life forever. Your choice.”

Miles punched Jim in the shoulder. By the time they finished their coffee, Miles had a plan.
From: [identity profile] pann-cake.livejournal.com
When Richard came home, he wasn’t surprised to not see Miles anywhere. The house was conspicuously silent, and Richard sighed. He had gone out to get groceries, even though they didn’t need much, but when he went into the kitchen to put them away he stopped in his tracks.

Hanging neatly on one of the cabinets in a dry cleaners’ bag was his blue shirt. He dropped the grocery bag on the counter and went over to it, ran his hands up inside the bag to find all the buttons back in place. Stuck to the plastic was a single post-it note saying simply sorry.


Richard spun around to find Miles leaning hesitantly in the doorway, and he grinned. He crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides, framed Miles’s face with both hands, and kissed him. Miles smiled against his mouth for a moment before responding, wrapping his arms around Richard’s back and pulling him closer. Richard’s fingers slid into Miles’s hair and Miles opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. He tugged at Richard’s shirt, untucking it and slipping his hands inside to run up Richard’s back. Richard made a pleased little noise, walking Miles backwards until they were bumping up against the counter.

The plastic wrapped shirt crinkled loudly under Miles’s back and he started laughing into Richard’s mouth. Richard pulled away and chuckled, too, the true ridiculousness of the fight dawning on both of them.

“I really am sorry about the jeans,” Richard said, his hands coming to rest on Miles’s hips. “I’ll get you a new pair, then slap them against some rocks for you, because that’s obviously how you got them to be so holey.”

Miles smirked at him. “Actually, I bought them that way.”

Richard shook his head with a grin before pulling Miles against him and kissing him again. Somehow they made it to the bedroom, all smiles and teasing hands until they crash land onto the bed.

And if a few of Richard’s buttons pop off and Miles tears a hole in his pants trying to get out of them in a hurry, then neither of them notice or care.
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
You know my kinks too well, the sheer domesticity of this nearly did me in. Richard being baffled by the washer and drier and accidentally throwing out Miles's favorite jeans! Miles hiding Richard's shirt in retaliation! This: Suck it up, go home, and make it right,” Jim said sternly. “Or, keep whining about it and live a lonely, sexless life forever. Your choice.” And then the make-up scene! OMG, the make-up scene with the button popping and the revelation that Miles bought his jeans holey. I LOVE EVERYTHING THIS FIC CHOOSES TO BE. <333

Thank you so much for this! I love it.
Edited Date: 10/18/11 03:55 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] pann-cake.livejournal.com
Hehehheheee, you are QUITE WELCOME, my dear!! I'm so glad you liked it! I felt bad that I had our boys fighting the whole time, so I'm happy the make-up scene worked for you. :D

Ha, Jim always has to get his two cents in, doesn't he? XDD Poor guy, I feel like he suffers a lot at the hands of Miles obliviousness at all things relationshippy. But good best friends must often suffer like that, haha. :P

I'm really really pleased that you like it, hun! <333

Winter Wolfling Girl

Date: 10/17/11 04:43 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] redbrunja.livejournal.com
Arya may be small, may be a magnet for trouble, and may be a girl, but Gendry realizes two weeks out from King's Landing that he'd done well to befriend her.

For one thing, she was fierce in a fight. One afternoon, one miserable, rainy afternoon, clouds dark as iron above them, they were attacked by bandits - starving men, really, wearing even more ragged clothes then all the poor bastards trudging to the Wall – but they were starving men with weapons– came out of the trees.

The boys besides Gendry shrieked loud as a whore faking it and bolted for the trees but Arya just darted forward when the bandits came at them. She killed two on her own, her sword slashing as quickly as a leaping fish, while Gendry swore and got a better grip on his helm and used it to bash in the head of a third.

Another reason it was smart to be in Arya's good graces was that she was warm. Gendry had never thought much about being warm - he always was, between the weather and the forge – but now every step he took was colder than the one before, until even at midday his breath plumed white in the air. When they started this trip they had slept near each other, then back to back, and two weeks out, Gendry sleeps with both arms wrapped tight around her, his face buried in the nape of her neck and shivers his way into unconsciousness.

Arya sleeps with her hands on her sword and in her sleep she whispers, "Winter," and then smiles.

Re: Winter Wolfling Girl

Date: 10/18/11 04:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
*happy sigh*

You wrote my ship! And it's so perfect. I love your Gendry voice. It's eerie how much I could hear him here. And this: When they started this trip they had slept near each other, then back to back, and two weeks out, Gendry sleeps with both arms wrapped tight around her, his face buried in the nape of her neck and shivers his way into unconsciousness. GUH. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS.

Thank you so, so much for this! <3

Re: Winter Wolfling Girl

Date: 10/31/11 04:28 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] redbrunja.livejournal.com
Thank you! I had a lot of fun decided how he would think about Arya and the metaphors that he would use.
From: [identity profile] joyyjpg.livejournal.com
It's ironic, really, in a ridiculous, twisted way – they just thought that island was Hell and they all fought so hard to get away. Miles doesn't know how many times he heard someone say that they were there for a reason, but that wasn't good enough, so they left and now he wishes his biggest problem was time travel or smoke monsters. Real fucking poetic.

Now, he has two options: he can go it alone, a one-man army against zombies and what he's not quite ready to believe are actual demons, and face certain death sooner rather than later; or he can stay here, where there's security that DHARMA alumni could be proud of, and prolong the inevitable as long as he possibly can, even if that means taking orders from a complete asshole who only tolerates him because he's good with a gun. Meanwhile, he's still carrying around a pocketful of diamonds that are worth shit.

At the very least, he's made a friend.

He's pretty sure the only thing they have in common is the desire to smoke until they don't care that the world's ending, but it's not like either of them are in a position to have higher standards than that. They get stoned, they drink, they shoot the shit, because there's nothing else to do when they're not fighting for their lives.

There's also the occasional orgy. (Free love – something else the DHARMA folks would be proud of.) Miles laughed the first time the word came out of Cas' mouth, but, well, never let it be said that he's the kind of guy who'd say no to an orgy. Seriously.

Somehow, apparently, the women and the drugs seem to act as a bridge, which Miles doesn't realize until they've already crossed it. It's something that never occurs to him until it happens, but maybe it's been building ever since he stumbled into this godforsaken place. The first time Cas touches him when they're alone, Miles is just high enough to not think about what it means. One minute they're just sitting there, the next Cas' hand is suddenly on the back of Miles' neck, and then his mouth is there, breath tickling, making Miles shiver.

“What does it mean?” Cas murmurs against his skin, pressing his tongue against the tattoo in question.

Miles snorts and takes another hit. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

He holds out what's left of the joint, but Cas shakes his head and moves in even closer, his chest to Miles' back, hands snaking around to his stomach. He presses his face to Miles' neck, nuzzling like a fucking kitten, stubble scraping across his skin, and Miles normally isn't one for this kind of intimacy, but it feels good so he goes with it, lets Cas do his thing. It's only when Cas' fingers dip into the waistband of his jeans that Miles actually moves.

After that, everything sort of jumbles together, all teeth and tongue, tangled limbs and lazy movements. Miles straddles Cas' hips, tugs that ridiculous hippie shirt over his head, and goes to town, exploring all that newly exposed flesh. He's seen Cas naked before, but he's never really looked, too distracted or stoned or both to pay attention. His skin is littered with marks and scars, but the one that catches Miles' eye is right in the center of his chest – a mess of weird symbols inside a near-perfect circle.

He stares – he doesn't actually realize that he's staring until Cas catches him and grinds their hips together, trying to snap him out of it. “How the hell did you get that?”

Cas laughs low and dark, that familiar grin spreading across his face, but he snatches Miles' hand away from the scars he can touch them. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

Later, when his head's a little clearer, he'll say, yeah, actually, I would like to know, because he's curious as hell, even though he probably won't get an answer and it's none of his business anyway. And he doesn't really want to think about what it'll mean if they start sharing secrets – on a good day, it's a 50/50 chance whether or not they'll see tomorrow, and Miles has never been a fan of letting people get close. What they have is good and he has no desire to fuck with that by deciding that he actually cares.

But all that will come later. Right now, Cas' hand is in his jeans and Miles remembers that he's not supposed to think.
From: [identity profile] pann-cake.livejournal.com

It's not even my fill and I'm grinning like a fool. XDDD It's so hot and oddly perfect. I never ever would have thought of these two, but you nailed it. :D
From: [identity profile] joyyjpg.livejournal.com

Thanks! I'm so glad you like it! I probably never would have thought of it either, but [livejournal.com profile] ozmissage enables awesome things. And since both these guys are my favorites, I might be a little married to it now. :D
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com

Not only does this feel completely natural, but it also happens to be hot and sad and snarky all at once. 2014!Cas is my very favorite Cas and he goes with Miles so freaking well. His curiosity about Miles's tattoo was such an wonderful moment: He presses his face to Miles' neck, nuzzling like a fucking kitten, stubble scraping across his skin,. UGH, I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

And then the scar thing happened and my brain nearly exploded from the joy. YOU = AMAZING.

Thank you so, so much for this and for tackling this ship! (OTP now, not even kidding.) <333
From: [identity profile] joyyjpg.livejournal.com

I don't think there was any doubt that I'd end up writing this ship -- although I did almost abandon it in favor of an Amy/Sam plotbunny...yeah. I'm thrilled that it worked for you. :D

I am convinced that the chest-sigil-banishing happened in the end!verse, because a moment that badass must happen in every verse. Plus, Cas doesn't have any other distinguished scars, so. *nod*

You are more than welcome, bb, and thank you for the awesome comment. I am so with you on the OTP front, oh my god. Blaming you. ♥
From: [identity profile] norgbelulah.livejournal.com
Raylan enters the motel room quietly, careful to shut the door soft behind him. He lays his hat down on the table and keeps his keys in his coat pocket so they don’t jangle and knock against the wood. He shrugs off his coat, keeping an eye on the sleeping, feminine form in his bed.

It’s only as he goes over to the sideboard to pour himself two fingers of bourbon that she stirs.

“Baby, where you been?” she mumbles into her pillow, rolling over slowly to peer at him.

“Something came up with work,” he answers softly, tinkling the glass just a bit and taking a long sip.

She groans and flops face up on the bed. “Only a lawman,” she complains in an over dramatic tone, full of sighs, “would leave his best girl home on a Saturday night. I waited forever for you.”

Raylan smiles, takes another sip. He goes to the bed and leans over her, letting the alcohol linger on his lips as he kisses her. He knows she loves to taste it on him. Her hands reach up through his hair and wrap around his neck as he sinks onto the bed next to her. She tastes like sleep and his mouthwash. He’s sorry he had to leave her here.

“Who says you’re my best girl?”

She sits up and leans forward to keep their lips touching as he pulls away. She smiles and tugs on his tie. “I do,” she says, then whispers, “Come here, Man.”

Carol Johnson, he thinks, is the only woman he knows that would persist in calling her on-again, off-again, sometimes lover by the most simplistic name she could think of. Like Cat, Raylan has been relegated to Man ever since they began spending almost all of their non-work hours together.

He lets her pull him up onto his bed and after he settles he kicks off his boots, asking, “How long ago did you give up on me?”

“About an hour, I guess,” she replies, turning to be the little spoon to his big so he can press his face to her shoulder and breathe her in. “I thought we were gonna go to my place, cook something up, get pay per view.”

“Art put me on prisoner transport. Things got a little... complicated. I couldn’t call.”

She sighs again, this time it’s her sleep sigh. She takes his hand and wraps his arm around her waist. She’s warm as the blankets, softer than the bed. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight.” He runs his hand through her hair. He’s always liked redheads. He likes that this one is never mad when he doesn’t want to talk.

She rolls over and looks into his eyes. Hers are very green and look softer than in daylight, he’s continually surprised by this. “You are very lucky I am so low maintenance, Deputy. And that you are the best looking man I have seen in these parts,” she says with a sardonic smile.

He draws his hand down to caress her hip through the fabric of her silk pajamas. He likes the twinkle in her eye. “I suppose I am,” he says.

“Lucky or good looking?”

He just chuckles and kisses her, pulling her closer, but she pulls back with a frown. “You think you’re getting some when you left me by myself in your dingy motel room all night?”

“No, honey,” Raylan huffs. “I’m beat. Can’t we just neck for a while and fall asleep?”

She laughs and twines her legs with his. Even with his jeans still on, he can feel the chill from her toes, the warmth from her calves and thighs. “I do love a man with simple desires.”

Her lips are full and soft and her tongue darts in and out of his mouth expertly. Her eyelashes brush against his cheek, as her toes curl up his pant leg. “Good,” he says.

He falls asleep in his clothes, his forehead brushing her collar bone. He wakes at five thirty because she’s on her way out the door. He remembers she complained some executives were in town for the day, on a Sunday. She winks at him and motions for him to go back to sleep. He rolls over and breathes her scent from the sheets until Art calls and tells him to get up.

He knows she’ll call later or he will when he gets off. Maybe they’ll cook in her room at the Sheraton. Black Pike had sprung for a suite with a kitchenette and he had a powerful craving for fried chicken.

He figures they could figure out how to make it together.
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
Oh, I love this! They're so domestic and lovely together. And she simply calls him "man"-- perfect. *happy sigh* Thank you so much for this! <3
From: [identity profile] norgbelulah.livejournal.com
Yay! You're welcome. I was just glad to have an excuse to write blatant!AUs containing Raylan/Carol.

OMG, Carol Johnson. There is no world in which I do not love her. <3
From: [identity profile] ienablu.livejournal.com
She still visits, when she can. It's not often -- she works for UNIT, and her time off is usually split between her family and her fiance -- but it's more often than he would expect.

Every time she comes, there seems to be more wrong with his body. He sits on the autopsy table, while Martha examines the wounds, and he explains that he got that cut from a scalpel lying around, and that scrape from being thrown against a concrete wall when chasing a creature from the Rift, and that cut is from a rather funny incident at a bar.

Tosh, Gwen and Ianto usually make themselves scarce during Owen's examination, since it probably makes them uncomfortable, but Jack hangs around for most of it, leaning against the staircase up to the Hub. He probably feels responsible for everything, as well he should, the bastard. Owen insults him openly, and Jack bows his head in agreement, and Martha looks between them with a worried expression on her face.

But in a way, Owen is glad Jack is there while Martha looks over his body. If he's talking to Jack, looking at Jack, then he's not looking down at Martha. He's not seeing her hands flutter across his skin, fingers skimming over scrapes, nails tracing bruises, palms pressing down over bandages; he's not seeing her touch him without feeling it.

The scrapes should sting, the bruises should hurt, her touch should be warm and Owen calls Jack a bastard and wishes he felt something.
From: [identity profile] ozmissage.livejournal.com
This makes me ache in the best way. I loved this bit: He probably feels responsible for everything, as well he should, the bastard. Owen insults him openly, and Jack bows his head in agreement, and Martha looks between them with a worried expression on her face. SO GOOD. Thank you so much for this! <3


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