My Five Acts List
4/18/10 04:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ozmissage
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toestastegood is hosting a Five Acts comment fic-a-thon this week. Here’s the deal: - Post a list of your five favorite themes/kinks to read about and a list of your favorite fandoms/pairings.
- Read other folk’s lists here at the master list (and leave a link back to your own.)
- Post comment fic for people based on their lists.
Here’s my list, I apologize in advance for the serious lack of kinkiness in my kinks. If I were an ice cream flavor I would be vanilla. Probably low-fat.
1. Kissing (First kisses, almost kisses, welcome home kisses, kissing hands/necks/legs/whatever)
2. Hot Nights/Days (can’t sleep because of the heat, trying to cool down, sweaty sex, disrobing to cool off, just drop the characters in the hottest day of the year and see what happens)
3. Scars/tattoos (I have a serious thing for scars and tattoos, particularly when it involves one person seeing the other’s for the first time)
4. Domesticity (cuddling, shopping together, cooking for one another, hanging out, spooning, anything that an established couple/friends who might as well be a couple might do)
5. Forced to share a bed (make it as dirty or as non-dirty as you like)
Fandoms/Pairings
Lost: Juliet/Sawyer, Miles/Juliet, Jack/Juliet, Miles/Richard, Miles/Dan/Charlotte, Dan/Charlotte, Desmond/Penny, Miles/Dan, Miles/Ana, Jack/Boone, Jack/Ana, Jack/Kate, Jack/Claire, Jack/Claire/Sawyer, Charlie/Kate, Charlie/Miles, Charlie/Claire, Frank/Juliet, Frank/Sun, Sayid/Any female character (especially Ana, Kate, and Juliet)
BTVS/Angel: Willow/Oz, Buffy/Xander, Anya/Xander, Fred/Gunn, Cordy/Angel, Oz/Xander, Faith/Robin, Fred/Willow, Wes/Gunn
Dollhouse: Adelle/Dominic, Adelle/Topher, Paul/Mellie, Sierra/Victor, Topher/Bennett
Being Human: Any combination of George/Mitchell/Annie.
Doctor Who/TW: Doctor/River Song, Nine/Jack/Rose, Mickey/Martha, Rose/Alt!Ten, Jack/Donna, Eleven/Amy, Tosh/Owen, Rhys/Gwen, Ianto/Owen, Jack/Owen
Supernatural: Dean/Cassie, Dean/Anna, Bela/Sam, Ellen/Bobby, Jo/Dean, John/Ellen, Jo/Bela
Harry Potter: Remus/Sirius, Luna/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Ron/Hermione/Harry, James/Lily
Community: Jeff/Annie, Jeff/Britta, Abed/Troy
Mad Men: Don/Peggy, Don/Rachel, Pete/Peggy, Joan/Roger, Peggy/Ken
Ugly Betty: Betty/Daniel
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Being Human, George/Mitchell, scars, domesticity, PG
Date: 4/18/10 10:48 pm (UTC)Claw marks on his shoulder, clean lines: to George, they represent the end of his life. To Mitchell, it represents the beginning.
They're sleeping in on a Sunday morning (nothing to do, nobody to see, might as well doss around while they have the chance) and George is as close to docile as he ever gets. His breathing flutters in and out from his bare chest; Mitchell watches. He makes his lungs move in time with George's, allows them to align. For him, the act is artificial. His need for air is long gone, long dead. Doesn't matter. It's all a performance, these days. Everything is.
A wave of peace washes over him as they match up, George's dozing breaths with his forced ones, and he stays like that for a while, too long. This is what life should be. This is comfort.
Pressed against George's body beneath their shared blanket, Mitchell's fingers reach for the scars. He barely dares to touch them at all, knowing that George doesn't like it; it feels wrong. A violation.
Lighter than butterfly wings, his fingers trail over the lines. They mark what George is now, a werewolf, but it's more than that; they make George his. They pushed George into the world of the supernatural but it's Mitchell that keeps him here, clinging on tightly. Sometimes he wonders if he ought to feel guilty about that, but every second he spends with him, his best friend, makes it impossible.
In his arms, George stirs. His eyes blink open like a long-gone drunk. "What," he asks, half-mumbled, "are you doing?"
Mitchell hides his mouth in the crook of George's neck. He's trying not to smile, but George always sounds slurred and confused when he first wakes up. It's as if everything has changed around him while he sleeps. "I'm touching," he says. "I like it."
"Oh." That seems to be the most that George can come up with. He leans lazily back against Mitchell's chest, eyes closing once more. "Carry on, then."
Permission granted, Mitchell can't stop grinning. With his fingers against the injured marks on George's shoulder, he is free to touch, kiss and worship as he pleases - as long as he is careful not to disturb George's rest.
Re: Being Human, George/Mitchell, scars, domesticity, PG
Date: 4/19/10 01:23 pm (UTC)OMG. This is so insanely adorable and perfect. I love how comfortable they are with each other and they're snuggling in bed on a Sunday morning! *hugs*
Mitchell's voice is so wonderful here and his view of George and his scars (!!!) was perfect. This bit in particular made me squee all over myself because matching his breathing to George's manages to be both incredibly hot and the sweetest thing I've ever heard:
A wave of peace washes over him as they match up, George's dozing breaths with his forced ones, and he stays like that for a while, too long. This is what life should be. This is comfort.
Thank you so much for this! What a wonderful way to start my Monday. :)
Re: Being Human, George/Mitchell, scars, domesticity, PG
From:annie/mitchell, kissing
Date: 4/18/10 10:54 pm (UTC)he kisses her and doesn’t know why and decides it’s again, he’s doing it again for all those times he could have but did not. again. this time he means it. she’s here again (with them) and she’s real and gorgeous and solid enough for him to see her, touch her, crush her palpable softness to his chest and taste her. real. here. cool. here. again.
almost flesh and bone and blood.
she’s laughing her happy laugh that’s always hers.
she doesn’t mind. she knows he means it for the way his palms caressed the screen from the other side, as if it were her skin. she knows. has for a while. she laughs. genuinely. for one second the memory of the pain of missing her (him) is gone and the fear and the longing and she sounds happy, is happy, jingles happy as her laugh always does.
“mitchell…” she sings.
she smiles like she used to, pretending to scold him while she laughs and laughs and doesn’t pull away, clings to him as if she never would. “mitchell…,” she repeats after a while, the singing fading. “mitchell.”
Re: annie/mitchell, kissing
Date: 4/19/10 01:28 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for this! :)
LOST, Sawyer/Juliet, Hot Days and Domesticity
Date: 4/19/10 06:10 pm (UTC)Disgustingly.
He’s lounging on the couch in just jeans, clutching a sweating glass of lemonade that is now dilute because of the amount of ice he’s had to put in to keep it cool. There’s a book on his lap but it’s too hot to read, too hot to move, too hot to do much of anything.
There’s a soft, sleepy sound from down the hall and then the quiet pad of footsteps in the hallway. Glancing behind him, he catches a glimpse of Juliet in the doorway, her hair mussed, clad only in a pair of skimpy pyjama shorts and a light lace tank top.
She stifles a yawn before bitching,
“Why’s it so damn hot?”
He shrugs, “There’s lemonade if you wan’ it.”
“Coffee.” She grumbles.
He raises an eyebrow, amused and confused,
“It’s a million degrees out, an’ you want coffee?”
She just narrows her eyes, frowning until he relents,
“There’s a pot on the counter.”
He watches as she fills a mug, mixing in heavy cream and the tiniest hint of sugar. He pulls up his leg, making room for her, but she diverts to the fridge and grabs a handful of ice. When she releases the ice into her glass, he grimaces,
“That’s nasty, Juliet.”
She shrugs, sinking down on the couch but ensuring a foot of space is still between them to keep the warm body heat away, and absently prods at the ice with her finger to try and cool the drink,
“We had iced coffee in the 2001, why not now?”
He remains adamant with his grimace, shaking his head,
“Didn’t like iced coffee then, don’t like it now.”
“Your loss.” She says, taking a sip.
It’s too hot to argue so he lets it go, draining the last of his lemonade and reclining on the couch, draping his arm over his face. She wiggles her feet closer, nudging his ribs as she asks,
“Watcha’ reading?”
“Nothin’, He grunts, “Too damn hot.”
She drains the last of her coffee, sucking a melted cube of ice into her mouth to chill her warm mouth. She inches closer on the couch and he moans,
“Back off, you’re like a damn fireball.”
He moves to push her away lazily but she’s quick, ducking beneath his arm and straddling his waist. She jerks away from her with an irritated glare but she rolls her weight onto her hips, pinning him down and lowering her mouth to his chest. He jerks beneath her, cussing colourfully as she opens her mouth and lets the ice trail over his chest, goosebumps raising over his skin.
She snakes a hand down, squeezing between his thighs and he bucks up against her. She traces kisses down the centre of his chest, lips hot against his skin despite the ice, before asking,
“You want to?”
He’s going to kill himself for what he’s about to say but the thought of hot, sweaty sex while the tiny yellow house is acting like an oven is making his temperature sky rocket. He can’t even say it, just gives her this pathetic ass look until she laughs,
“Shower sex? We can at least turn on the cold water.”
*
Re: LOST, Sawyer/Juliet, Hot Days and Domesticity
Date: 4/19/10 10:01 pm (UTC)That she then put on his chest...
OMG I LOVE YOU.
That was hot and adorable. I love that Juliet clearly wants to have sex, but he's so hot that he can't even think about it. And she suggests shower sex! *dies*
But I think my favorite part was poor Sawyer.
He’s going to kill himself for what he’s about to say but the thought of hot, sweaty sex while the tiny yellow house is acting like an oven is making his temperature sky rocket. He can’t even say it, just gives her this pathetic ass look until she laughs,
This was perfect! Thank you so much. <3
Re: LOST, Sawyer/Juliet, Hot Days and Domesticity
From:mad men, peggy/pete, kissing
Date: 4/19/10 07:42 pm (UTC)(Ever since she told him she didn't choose him, he's wanted to protect her, keep her for himself.)
Because they're the best of the best, they don't go home even when the air conditioning blows on Labor Day weekend. There's work to be done.
Pete finds excuses to stand by her corner desk, lets his fingers trip from where Trudy sits to where Peggy's pens spill. He always cleans up after himself (and it puts him that much closer to her breath).
Nobody pays attention.
But Trudy always goes home an hour earlier than he does and he catches Peggy in the tiny kitchen making iced tea for the stragglers. I miss you, he breathes against her neck, and presses a damp kiss against the moisture collecting there.
The ice falls with a soft clatter as she grips the kitchen counter, his hands sliding around her waist and down over her dress. Pete, she starts, but he presses another kiss against her neck, moving closer to her pulse. She stops talking, just waits, tense, as his hands move in deceptively soothing circles, turning her in his arms.
I miss you, he says again and she lifts her head. Anyone else would mistake it for an invitation. Pete waits.
Peggy struggles only a moment longer before sliding her hands into his hair and pulling him down to her mouth, lips pressing softly against his. He tries not to lose it, tries not to push back too hard but her mouth is open and sweet against his and he's crushing her waist against his. His senses shut down and he's warm and shivering against her at the same time (feels wetness slide between their cheeks and wonder which of them it came from).
But then her hands are gone from his face and are pushing his away from her waist. He stands, hungry and in shock as she smoothes her skirt and brushes his hair back. Breathing (he knows her act).
Peggy, he rasps and she smiles her sad knowing smile at him before walking back to her desk without a word.
He finishes the iced tea for her.
Re: mad men, peggy/pete, kissing
Date: 4/19/10 10:09 pm (UTC)Excuse me for a minute, I have to go pick my jaw up off the floor.
DUDE. This is fantastic. You write these two perfectly, the way Peggy pulls away, the way she puts on a act, and that kind of puppy dog thing Pete does. And I kind of love that he takes these risks in front of Trudy (that makes me a bad person right?)
Also the hotness. OMG, the hotness.
And this is made of win:
He finishes the iced tea for her.
GUH. Thank you so much for this!
Re: mad men, peggy/pete, kissing
From:Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 1
Date: 4/19/10 08:21 pm (UTC)They’re running out of gas and people are jumping and ol’ crazy eyes is yelling about a bomb, but Frank is a man, and even when the world is falling down around them, men notice women. She’s a pretty, almost ethereal (Frank doesn’t usually think in such airy-fairy terms, but this bird deserves special treatment), and even though shit is going to hell, it must be his lucky day, because she appears to be a friend of his passengers.
Within seconds, it turns out to be his most unlucky day. The Asian guy they leave to his death is her husband. Not only was she married, but he’s the reason she isn’t anymore.
Sun spends the week on the boat giving Jack and Kate the stink-eye, but for some reason she doesn’t seem to blame Frank, the pilot, the one actually responsible. She actually talks to him, as much as she talks to Hurley or Sayid or Desmond, even though he doesn’t deserve it. They chat about little bits of nothingness: about the island, and the Others, and her vegetable garden, and lost friends like Kevin the freighter janitor, Aaron’s real mother and some girl named Shannon who sounds like she was a real piece of work.
Never once does her father, the Fortune 500 tycoon, come up.
When they part ways, only Sun and Hurley seem to give a damn. It’s alright, though. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but he’s had more than enough of this group’s drama. He just says, “Bye,” feeling strange that his usual “see ya” isn’t applicable here. He isn’t supposed to see any of them ever again. Sun gives him a hug and waves a sad little wave as Jack and Sayid paddle away. He can feel the ghost of her fingers through his shirt all the way to Fiji, where Penny lets him off.
Frank has never been one to follow the news unless it’s directly relevant to his life. It’s funny how in the past year, it feels like all the news is relevant. He watches every day, smirking inside at the lies these people tell and the way everyone soaks it all up. Not that anyone would ever believe the truth. Funny how life works that way.
He’d lived with these people for over a week, but he feels like it’s only through the news that he gets to know them. Kate Austen, rampaging killer; somehow that had never been mentioned. Jack Shephard, miracle worker; that one actually wasn’t all too surprising. Sayid Jarrah, desperate romantic; who knew? Hugo Reyes, gazillionaire; he sure didn’t act like one. Sun Kwon, daughter of gazillionaire; somehow even more surprising.
He watches her in all of the reports, looking distant and pained, trying to pretend that wounds are less fresh than they actually are, that the screams he remembers so piercingly never happened. He watches and feels guilt like he’s never felt before.
It’s wrong and it’s selfish and she’s pregnant, for fuck’s sake, but those scraps of conversation replay themselves in his mind long after he’s switched off CNN and long after CNN has switched off of her. Everyone’s fifteen minutes of fame run out after… well, fifteen minutes, right?
Frank continues to fly around the world. He’d quit his job with Oceanic in order to join Widmore’s freighter, but he’s a good pilot and finding a new gig isn’t hard. He does his job and he does it well, pretending nothing has changed even though it has. He never saw any monster, but knowing one is out there is enough to rock anyone’s world view.
Sun’s out there, too. Frank flies in and out of Seoul every so often with Ajira, but Kwon is hardly an uncommon last name, and he can’t make heads of tails of languages that have characters instead of letters. She’s as lost as she was on the island. Plus, Frank has a feeling Jack wouldn’t like it.
A few months after returning to civilization, Frank reads it in the newspaper: “Oceanic 815 survivor Sun Kwon buys Paik Industries just before giving birth to baby girl.”.
Fuck Jack, Frank decides.
He waits a couple of months, and then googles Paik Industries, typing with one finger while biting savagely into an apple. Sun is no longer a private citizen lost in an unreadable phone book. She has an office now, and a public phone number and a secretary whom Frank hangs up on without saying a word.
Re: Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 2
Date: 4/19/10 08:22 pm (UTC)The guys at work tease him about wanting to take vacation time in Korea of all places. “Got a girl there?” they ask. He wants to punch them, because they’re more right than they know, except that they aren’t right at all.
When he gets to the lobby, he asks the receptionist to let Sun Kwon know that Frank Lapidus is there to see her. It takes some wrangling, between the language barrier, the culture barrier, and the fact that he doesn’t have an appointment much less a plausible way of convincing the receptionist that he isn’t a psycho-stalker (maybe he is). In the end, he finds a young secretary with a weakness for sweaty, blue-eyed pilots. She’s planning on quitting the next day, so she has nothing to lose in helping him.
“Mrs. Kwon, a Mr. Lapidus is here to see you.” Frank doesn’t speak a word of Korean, but some things don’t need translating. He’s standing outside the door of the big boss’s office as the girl announces him. He can hear a chair scratch against the floor and Sun’s quiet voice repeat, “Lapidus?” Something happens, Frank’s little friend sounds terrified, and then the door closes.
This was a terrible idea.
“She doesn’t know anyone named Lapidus,” the secretary says. “Please follow me to the exit.”
Well, shit. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble,” Frank apologizes, feeling crushed. The girl glares at him.
On his way out, another woman, running by him without acknowledging him, slips an envelope into his hand and keeps going. Frank pretends nothing’s happened until he reaches a bar down the street. He definitely needs a drink after all that.
Inside the envelope are a key and a note.
The address is below, written in both Western letters and Korean characters.
Frank downs his whiskey. And then another.
Re: Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 3
Date: 4/19/10 08:23 pm (UTC)“If I hadn’t known you were coming, I would not have recognized you. You look different without your beard.” She always had a knack for saying it like it was; Frank never knew if it was lack of native English fluency or just her personality.
“That was just something I was trying out back then when I didn’t have a real job,” he replies as she ushers him in. He hopes that ‘different’ means ‘better’.
This sleek, modernist apartment is just as jarring as her suit. Just as Frank’s wondering to himself what the hell he’s doing here, Sun asks, “So what brings you here? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to check on you.”
Sun studies him again and then leans in to give him a little peck on the cheek that quickly turns into a full-body hug. Sun grips Frank much more tightly than he expected, and he has a feeling she’s repressing the urge to burst into tears.
“Thank you,” she whispers into his shirt pocket.
It should be the most awkward experience of his life, but Frank’s suddenly oddly at home. Ill-advised as this visit was, Frank’s glad now that he came.
“Where’s the rugrat?” he asks, still holding her.
“She’s asleep. Come, I will show her to you. But shhhh…” Sun wraps her tiny hand around his and leads him to the other end of the apartment. She pushes the door in a little to show a sweet toddler fast asleep. She’s the spitting image of the poor screaming bastard who haunts Frank’s nightmares. At the sight of her, whatever crazy fantasies Frank had entertained about this visit are gone; the guilt is back and he wonders how he ever thought he could deserve to make a move.
When Sun closes the door again, Frank says, “She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure,” he says, hoping that she’ll give him lemonade or something, because he’s still getting over that whiskey.
“How long are you here for?” Sun asks on the way to kitchen. She gestures for him to go out on the balcony, where he finds two lounge chairs.
“Just a few days.”
“Where are you staying?” she asks next, just before reappearing on the balcony with a tray holding two glasses and a bottle of that fancy French-looking pink lemonade he’s seen sometimes in expensive airplane bars.
Frank shrugs, watching as she pours them both a drink. “Some hotel near the airport. I have no idea what it’s called.”
Sun shakes her head and takes his hand again. “No you aren’t. You’re staying here, for as long as you want. I can show you around the city tomorrow, if you like.”
Frank isn’t sure what comes over him, but he takes advantage of their already joined hands to bring hers to his lips. He kisses the soft skin lightly, fixing blue eyes on brown. “Thanks, Sun.”
“It’s my pleasure. I have often thought about how nice it would be to see you.”
“I’m really sorry,” he blurts out, apropos of nothing. The sweet way she’s looking at him, how nice she’s being---he doesn’t deserve it and he feels like he’s the only one who sees the elephant in the room.
“It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you,” she says, and then bends over to return his hand kiss with another one on the cheek. Frank feels his face turn red.
He breathes a sigh of relief on his own behalf and tries not to get too excited, but something hard in her voice makes him afraid for the people she does hold responsible.
Re: Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 3
From:Re: Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 3
From:Re: Frank/Sun, kissing Pt 3
From:Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
Date: 4/19/10 09:54 pm (UTC)If you had asked him on the freighter, he’d have laughed in your face. Because really. Sharing a bed with Daniel Faraday in the seventies in the worst tropical heat ever existed?
Yeah. Not really. Thank you so much, just not his thing.
Except that circumstances change people, or something like that, and it’s not like the Dharma people here decided that they could give them separate places. No, they gave them one house with three rooms. Now, Juliet got one because she’s the only woman and all that jazz and of course Sawyer bunked in with Jin, he’s the one he’s known longest anyway.
And that’s how he ended up with Daniel, who has stopped being in shock over Charlotte for maybe three days now or so, and Miles really would like to know what the fuck he should do. Daniel hangs around all day looking at that journal and trying not to stare at the younger version of Charlotte who conveniently lives almost next door, and during the night he just sticks to his side of the bed.
But this particular night the heat is insufferable and there’s something about the way Daniel lies still that makes Miles almost snap. It bothers him enough that he decides to do something, anything, and the first idea he has is reaching out a hand towards Daniel’s hip.
He expected him to flinch. He doesn’t. He actually arches back.
A-ha. Miles decides to be bold and even if his senses scream that he doesn’t need fucking body heat of anything, he reaches forward and moves closer until his arm lies across Daniel’s stomach.
Daniel actually moves and presses back against him.
This is fucking unbelievable.
“You don’t… you don’t have to,” Daniel mutters, even if it sounds like he’s saying it because it’s proper and not because he wants to.
“Genius, I know I don’t have to. Shut up,” Miles answers back, his voice less harsh than he had planned, and if Daniel moves backwards a bit, well, Miles asked for it.
“I… I mean it. Don’t, don’t feel like you should…”
Miles rolls his eyes and pushes on Daniel’s side so that he rolls over and they’re face to face.
“I don’t fucking feel like I should anything. I just give a damn about you. That so hard to get? One would think it can’t be harder than string theory or whatever it is.”
Daniel bites his lip, his cheek flushed, obviously not knowing what to do with it even if his eyes tell another story (translation: that he’s fucking happy to hear it), and Miles decides that really, at this point, he can safely allow himself not to give a damn and just act.
He moves closer and kisses Daniel, and for a second he thinks he royally fucked things up; then Daniel surges a bit up and presses back in a way that is both eager and tentative, obviously not expecting this. And Miles, well, Miles figures that he’s doing something right, praise somebody, and he doesn’t let go until he has thoroughly made his point.
And considering that, when they part, for the first time in weeks Daniel looks something close to okay instead of close to outright suicide wannabe, he figures that he isn’t doing a bad job.
When he throws his arm around Daniel again and complains something about the fucking heat, he’s pleased to hear the ghost of a laugh echoing in the room.
Re: Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
Date: 4/20/10 01:29 am (UTC)I swear you just hit every kink I have in one kickass comment fic. Sharing a bed? Check. Hot night time kissing? Check. Cuddling? Yep. And that's not to mention the part where it's Miles and Dan.
You write both of these boys so well. Your Miles voice is stunning, it's so snarky and defensive, but you can see how much he cares under all of the bravado. And Miles caring about anyone makes me happy, but him caring about Dan makes me doubly so.
When he throws his arm around Daniel again and complains something about the fucking heat, he’s pleased to hear the ghost of a laugh echoing in the room.
This made me grin like a crazy person. *happy sigh*
Thank you so, so much for this! :D
Re: Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
From:Re: Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
Date: 4/20/10 05:46 pm (UTC)Re: Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
From:Re: Lost, Miles/Daniel, forced to share a bed + hot nights + kissing + sorta cuddling, PG13
From:Harry Potter, Remus/Sirius, scars, PG
Date: 4/20/10 02:45 pm (UTC)“Moony, don’t you ever wish things were different?” he asks with something like mourning in his voice.
It’s a very blunt question, although Sirius sort of pretends to look into the fire, not at Remus’ arms and the endless scars, disappearing somewhere into his sleeves. So many marks, as if he would’ve slashed his arms over and over again in some desperate, angry fit – which, of course, isn’t very far from the truth. But Sirius is nothing if not blunt and none of them would want him any other way; Remus certainly wouldn’t.
It’s also a very leading question, although these days everyone wishes things were different. The war separates friends and it’s not like Remus would’ve asked them to stay over at full moon on the night they all happened to be home. Free nights are too precious, between this and that mission. Easier to forget that once upon a time, Sirius would spend mornings trying to make his scars go away by distracting him; never wished them away, staring at flames. There were fewer of them then, so Remus could almost succumb to the illusion, for a while.
It’s not unbearable, but then, Remus has come to notice, few things are. “You don’t miss what you’ve never had,” he says without bitterness.
That’s not quite true, it's just that he never makes unreasonable wishes.
end.
I’ll come to your meme and make depressing things out of your kinks, ha!
Re: Harry Potter, Remus/Sirius, scars, PG
Date: 4/20/10 04:04 pm (UTC)*tackles you*
THIS. You wrote my OTP! And they have to be angsty, no worries, that's their thing. :D
This is so good, I love the line about the scars disappearing into his sleeve (Oh, Remus) and it's so haunting, the way Sirius is pulling away from him just breaks my heart. But still...GUH. My boys, I've missed them so!
Thank you so much for this!
Re: Harry Potter, Remus/Sirius, scars, PG
From:Dollhouse, Adelle/Dominic, Scars (PG-13)
Date: 4/21/10 03:08 am (UTC)Her scar has faded over time, into a pale skinny line pointing towards her navel. Laurence traces it with his finger, and occasionally his tongue. She calls him a sadist when it does it, that he enjoys the memory a little too much. He tells her it’s a reminder of what they’re capable of. It’s as close to sentimentally that they can manage.
“How’s this gonna end?”
“Badly.”
Even now, when things are allegedly back to normal, they circle each other like the chair is still downstairs. They’ve both tried to end it, her with lazy apathy, and him with drunken tirades. But the alternative is what brings them back here. A kinder, gentler America is no place for someone who’s bargained their soul to the quick.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”
He only believes this when the guilt creeps in, when there’s something in the way she touches him that makes him forget why they’re here in the first place. She says, “Yes, you were,” because haven’t earned the luxury. “I thought you would die too. I was disappointed when you didn’t.”
The scar could fade eventually, rubbed away by bath scrubs and loofahs. She wonders if they’d take that as a sign that this should fade too, that whatever they’re clinging to is too old to be of any use anymore. Maybe they’ll drift instead of splinter, walk away with a modicum of function instead a bitter, fractured mess.
“Maybe it’ll disappear.”
“It was a bullet Dewitt; they’re called war wounds for a reason.”
It’s just as well. They probably haven’t earned that either.
Re: Dollhouse, Adelle/Dominic, Scars (PG-13)
Date: 4/21/10 03:37 am (UTC)Her scar has faded over time, into a pale skinny line pointing towards her navel. Laurence traces it with his finger, and occasionally his tongue. She calls him a sadist when it does it, that he enjoys the memory a little too much.
is frakking brilliant. GUH. And the fact that they can't even live in this new world. Wow. That feels so true to them. Thank you so much for this! <3
Re: Dollhouse, Adelle/Dominic, Scars (PG-13)
From:no subject
Date: 4/21/10 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 4/21/10 11:27 pm (UTC)there is no moon, jack/claire, scars, r!
Date: 4/21/10 11:14 pm (UTC)lost, jack/claire; 410
wow, so... this is kind of smutty, be forewarned
There's a scar beneath her chin that Jack can only see when she's on top of him, Claire's body moving in concert with his, the friction between them making his eyes cloud over, making it hard to concentrate, to focus enough to process the hidden mark.
Its color is faint, just a shade or two lighter than her natural skin tone, and Jack's surprised it even caught his eye. The wisp-like, not quite jagged line stretches to the vertex of her throat, and then reaches toward the edge of her jaw where it thins out and fades away completely.
Jack's hand slides over her abdomen, almost instinctively, pausing momentarily to run a thumb along the underside of one breast, and then further, gently ghosting a callused pad along the scar. Claire inhales sharply, shivers, affected by his touch. Jack leans up, pulls her closer, his lips going to her neck, swallowing the mark. He traces it with his tongue until he reaches the spot where it disappears, and he can feel Claire shudder above him in response, her orgasm hitting her hard.
She clings to him a while, coming down from her high, and after a moment she lets go of his shoulders and reaches between them to take him in her hand. He's slick with the remnants of the two of them and still hard. She moves her hand along the length of him, slowly at first and then more fervently until her name is on his lips and he comes hot over her fingers, dripping onto his belly.
-
Later, while they're lying naked in each other's arms, the summer's moonlight streaming through the open window, Jack brushes her hair from her neck and once again traces the mark with his fingertips.
Claire makes a soft noise at first, and laughs when her nipples harden visibly.
Jack relents, kisses the corner of her eye, whispers, "Where did it come from?"
Claire shrugs, her hand going to her throat protectively. "I don't remember," she tells him, her voice sounding like a revelation, like she's never noticed it before, like perhaps it came from nowhere. "I think I've forgotten," she says. And the truth is that there are a lot of things Claire forgets. There are a lot of things they've all forgotten.
Jack tugs the white sheet over them, pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair. "Maybe tomorrow," he says, he hopes.
"Maybe," Claire agrees, her voice soft and tired, her eyelids fluttering closed. "Maybe."
-fin
Re: there is no moon, jack/claire, scars, r!
Date: 4/21/10 11:21 pm (UTC)LOVE it! Totally gorgeous and intimate. Such a lovely snapshot.
Re: there is no moon, jack/claire, scars, r!
From:Re: there is no moon, jack/claire, scars, r!
From:Re: there is no moon, jack/claire, scars, r!
From:Lost, Jack/Ana Lucia, Hot Nights/Days
Date: 4/22/10 04:08 am (UTC)He’s too aware of her watching him, waiting for his privileged snobbery to rear its head again. It’s happened once so far, the day they arrived, when he was (rightfully) surprised to see the rickety air conditioner, circa 1989, sitting in the living room window of what the website generously described as a cozy beach cottage on the edge of paradise. She wanted Mexico, he’d chosen Puerto Vallarta, which led to the first of several bemused grins. No actual words, she never says he’s soft or spoiled, whatever, but she doesn’t have to. Everything Ana feels is in her eyes and she doesn’t hide from him anymore. It’s probably why he accepts her superiority as more of a character flaw than a substantial disconnect between them.
Still, he’s not thrilled by the prospect of another smirk or eyeroll in his direction, so he doesn’t mention the heat or the cotton t-shirt plastered to his back. He ignores the sweat stinging his eyes and the slow whirl of the peeling ceiling fan spinning uselessly overhead. No, he just flips the page of his paperback and thinks cold thoughts (ice cream, swimming pools, Antarctica, his house, his beautiful central air system in his own goddamn house) without seeing much of anything printed on the page.
“Whatcha reading Jack?”
He didn’t hear her come in, probably because she’s still barefoot. Ana doesn’t like shoes. She rips them off as soon as she gets home, flings them across the room like they were eating her feet alive. Jack looks up and confirms his hypothesis, that she is in fact barefoot, her trimmed toenails painted a dark burgundy red.
“Steinbeck.”
She’s also shed her shorts, which were barely there to being with. Now her legs are completely bare, tanned a deeper brown, all the way up to a small pink triangle resting just below her t-shirt. Ana grimaces, places her arm behind her head and lifts the hair from her back, “Sounds boring.”
“It’s not actually,” It’s Jack’s turn to grimace. He sounds like a school teacher. “It’s The Grapes of Wrath, I’ve read it before.”
“So you know how it ends?”
He nods, though that’s not the point of rereading—hell, it doesn’t matter anyway, he can’t care about the book anymore, not with her slinking her way towards him like that. “Yeah.” He swallows, difficult because he’s thirsty, more so because of her. “I do.”
The book’s dangling from his fingers. By the time she’s reached him, it’s dropped to the floor with a muted thump. Ana straddles the chair first, patiently moves into position before sinking slowly into his lap, “Okay, so then tell me.”
“Tell you what?” His brain feels lethargic, slow to form thoughts, complete sentences. He can see her sweat now that she’s closer, thin wet rivulets on her throat, at her temples. Ana sucks in her bottom lip, tosses her hair back, “How it ends.” Jack tries to respond, but what results is a garbled half-word that’s not a word, more like an audible intake of air that’s all her fault. He looks at her neck again. “You’ll ruin the story.”
“I’m not gonna read it.”
“You might.”
“Jack.”
She gives his cheek a playful slap and he looks up, blinks at her. Ana grins, “I’m not gonna read the book Sheppard.” He likes that, when she calls him by his last name. He’s not sure why. He grins back, “This place is a piece of shit.”
“Poor little rich boy.”
“Yeah, well.” He sighs, runs his hands up and down her thighs. “I might be a little spoiled, but this room is a sauna.”
“We can go swimming.”
Jack looks at her neck again, then lower. “We could.” They can fuck in the ocean. He can lick sea salt off her breasts and stomach, get sand in places there should never be sand.
“How does it end Jack?”
This isn’t so bad, a little rustic but—she’s here—
“Don’t know.” He doesn’t care. “Can’t remember anymore.”
Re: Lost, Jack/Ana Lucia, Hot Nights/Days
Date: 4/22/10 04:29 am (UTC)I love these two to pieces to begin with, but the way you write them together just makes me love them all the more.
Ana is so wonderful here, pestering him about his book, teasing him about being wealthy, and her barefeet! <3
And then of course there's Jack trying so hard not to be the spoiled little boy for her. Plus there was Steinbeck.
This bit made me grin so much:
“How does it end Jack?”
This isn’t so bad, a little rustic but—she’s here—
“Don’t know.” He doesn’t care. “Can’t remember anymore.”
Thank you so, so much for this! I'm going to bed with a big, goofy smile on my face thanks to you. :D
Re: Lost, Jack/Ana Lucia, Hot Nights/Days
From:we swallow the shine of the sun, jack/claire/sawyer, hot days + kissing, pg
Date: 4/22/10 11:54 pm (UTC)It’s dry heat here. It warms her skin and colors her cheeks. She can breathe here.
But they never stay anywhere for long.
They’re on their way out of town when the car breaks down. The backseat of the old brown station wagon houses piles of boxes and bags. It was on its last leg and about to die any minute, but Claire takes it as a sign that they should stay anyway.
She pays attention to these kinds of things after all.
Sawyer’s the first one out of the car. He’s met with a cloud of smoke when he opens the hood. He and Jack flip a coin for flat tires but Sawyer fixes the mechanical stuff. Jack’s hands are steady and sure but they know blood and bones, not gears and oil.
Jack props himself against the back of the car, fishes out a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket. Claire stands in front of him, her thin limbs casting a shadow over part of him.
She listens to the electric buzz of power lines and cicadas. When she was little she used to think it was the sound of the sun, shining so hot that it was actually sizzling by the time it got to Earth.
Claire drinks the last sip of Jack’s diet Coke. It’s warm and flat, but it feels good on her dry throat. She lifts her blonde curls off the back of her neck. (She makes a mental note that she really should get it cut one of these days) She holds it on top of her head, letting the breeze dry the sweat there until her arm tires and she lets it fall again.
Jack tosses a half gone cigarette on the ground, kicks it away with his boot. He holds out a hand to Claire and she takes it without hesitation. She leans against his strong frame and smells the smoke on his breath when he kisses her temple. His body is warm, too warm in this kind of heat and she kisses him back once before stepping away.
She hears Sawyer curse at the car and it makes her smile. She enjoys that kind of talk even more when it’s being pulled from him by her or Jack at night in their bed. But something about him is suited for the mouth of a sailor, the way he’s suited for the sun. He has his t-shirt tucked under his belt and she watches the tan muscles of his back shift and strain.
Jack is less settled in the sun. After too many hours he starts to burn and the faintest layer of freckles will scatter themselves across his cheeks and the backs of his shoulders. Claire ghosts her fingernails across them at night when he’s asleep.
Sawyer does the same to her, with the freckles on her nose.
She and Jack, they’re a bit alike in that way.
Sawyer kicks the car one last time but it’s all for naught. The problem is worse than cussing and simple know-how can fix. So they call a tow and catch a lift to the nearest garage.
There’s a lake about a mile down the road where they wait for the car. Claire has already made up her mind that they’re driving it right back home once it’s fixed. She knows a sign when she sees one.
They stare at the water and Claire tells them all she knows about fishing. This, as it turns out, doesn’t amount to much. Her favorite part was always digging for worms. She’d have grime and dirt under her nails and her Granddad would laugh.
Claire Littleton, never afraid to get messy. That’s my girl.
She lies back, squinting her eyes against the light. She can feel dry grass prickling her back and knows her hair must be getting full of dirt. Claire feels Sawyer run a hand up the inside of her leg, pushing aside the fabric of her dress. He stops to rub his thumb over the scar on her knee. Claire is proud of it, says it looks like a star and Sawyer kisses it in agreement. He darts a tongue out to lick over the same spot and she laughs as nudges him away.
Claire stands up, sudden, pulling them with her by the collars of their shirts. She runs toward the water, lifting her dress over her shoulders as she goes. Her modesty is fleeting, a split second before she’s diving into the water. She surfaces to see Jack and Sawyer wading in after her.
The water washes the dirt and sweat off of them. Washes the mess off.
Claire kisses them again, each once on the lips. Playful. They’re not afraid to get a little messy. Theirs is the good kind, like the Arizona heat.
She can breathe this way.
Re: we swallow the shine of the sun, jack/claire/sawyer, hot days + kissing, pg
Date: 4/23/10 01:23 am (UTC)Re: we swallow the shine of the sun, jack/claire/sawyer, hot days + kissing, pg
From:Re: we swallow the shine of the sun, jack/claire/sawyer, hot days + kissing, pg
From:Re: we swallow the shine of the sun, jack/claire/sawyer, hot days + kissing, pg
From:Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 1/3
Date: 4/23/10 01:03 am (UTC)It’s strange, though; upsetting, because he feels that terrible plunge in his gut, the one that dives, plummets when he loses someone, when he fails -- he feels it even as he watches that chest rise and fall, listens to the ECG after the man’s out of surgery; head trauma and oxygen deprivation, a near-drowning, apparently, but the kid’ll be fine -- he’d read the chart.
He knows the young man’s a lifeguard, somehow. He knows his voice will sound harsh, raspy when he wakes up, but that it’ll be warm, deep. He knows what his blood feels like, soaking his hands, even if all the wounds have been closed, even if Jack can see the stitches at his hairline from where he stands in the doorway, a specter in the silence.
He knows, bone-deep, that the man is merely unconscious; know it somewhere instinctual, hidden -- he knows because Jack’s seen what he looks like when he’s lifeless, when he’s cold; can tell the difference.
Nonetheless, that telltale beep never sounded so precious, so necessary. Like such a lie, and yet, like hope.
Jack spends the night making excuses, finding things to do that take him past that room, and when the young man’s eyes are finally open -- come the seventh time he wanders past, just into the first hours of day -- when their gazes meets through glass, something snaps in him, something forgotten, flooding and overflowing; something critical.
Boone, that’s the man’s name; and somehow, when Jack lets the sound, the syllable slip silently through his mind, it falls against the backdrop of rolling waves, the slush of sand underfoot, the rustle of leaves and a heat that’s only half the sun.
_____________
He’s not the kind of man who possesses what most people’d call courage; so he doesn’t expect that he’ll manage anything aside from awkward explanations of why, exactly, he comes to check on Mr. Boone Carlyle when the nurse had been in just ten minutes earlier, before the man’s sent home.
And he’s right, of course, except not quite; because as Boone’s singing the last of his discharge papers, and Jack just so happens to saunter into the room to wish him well, Boone pins him with a stare that gleams, glitters like the ocean under the sky, and slides a business card wordlessly across the wheeled cart that’s still holding the remnants of the last hospital meal the man will have to endure.
Jack, with all the dignity he hasn’t got, manages to wait until he gets off the next afternoon to call him. He’s sent straight to voicemail -- to page this person, press one; to leave a callback number, press zero; to replay these instructions, press eight -- and he almost hangs up, almost leaves well enough alone.
He doesn’t remember the message he leaves, heart in his throat like a teenager about to loose his fucking V-card; what he does remember is that Boone calls him back that night, and they meet for lunch three times over the following week.
It’s the start of something, Jack thinks. He’s pretty sure of it.
_____________
It’s funny, because technically, they’ve met before. They don’t realize it, of course, not at first -- not until months later over a dinner somewhere with exorbitantly priced entrees the size of a matchbox, the kind of place that will have them running by Mr. Cluck’s on the way home for some wings; it’s not until they’re talking about the sort of things that make them who they are, the parts they’d rather forget, that they realize it.
Sarah hadn’t insisted on much, just the dress. Jack had taken her for her last fitting, waited outside while she went on about tradition and insisted she couldn’t be seen; he’d chatted idly with a lean brunet who’d told him his mother owned the place. The only other thing Jack remembers is the way his eyes moved, the ways their colors changed, like the rolling currents of the shoreline, dancing under the sun.
Small world.
_____________
Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 2/3
Date: 4/23/10 01:05 am (UTC)Jack’s falling hard, and every time he thinks of it, it’s half-exhilarating, half-terrifying; half-filled with screeches and smoke, greens and yellows caught in the twisting, teasing firelight, blood and dirt and tired eyes in tangled sheets of metal that used to know how to fly.
It doesn’t stop him from leaning too far over the edge, though. At this point, nothing could.
When they kiss, it’s as if time stops, as if Jack knows what it means to be in two places at once; like a life he never lived that flashes before his eyes, images he knows and doesn’t know, and Boone tastes of mangos and beer and hot water, stale stagnant fish underneath the mint of his mouthwash and the cinnamon of his chewing gum, and Jack loves it -- the way their lips fit together -- all the more for the things he can’t understand about it, that he doesn’t have any desire to figure out.
He doesn’t like being kept in the dark. But with Boone, it never fails to feel as if it’s not just the California sun keeping them warm. So Jack thinks it’s okay.
_____________
They’re together one night, the sheets stiff, starchy compared to the slide of skin on skin, the heat oppressive, though not as much as it could be -- it could be tropic, he knows; it could be searing, it could burn into Jack’s skin, and broad hands could massage him with fresh aloe, broken under the same pillowed fingertips that stroke now at the dip of his back, the slow, lazy curve of his ass.
Boone slides up against him, his mouth at Jack’s neck before he can breathe out, before he can steady himself, tongue in the line of scar tissue that drags pale, translucent white at his neck; something he can’t remember, won’t ever forget; doesn’t want to, if Boone’s mouth stays there, never leaves.
He’s almost asleep, and there are three words that are spoken in the haze of humid summer, stuck in the damp, dangling heat -- Jack’s half surrendered to the dark as they’re spoken, and he’s not entirely sure if they’re even real.
The words, though -- true or imagined -- they feel new; they’re not fragments, detritus from another time, another place, another him; another them.
They’re something else entirely.
And they’re beautiful. Frightening. Flawed. Whispered. Nothing.
Everything.
It’s how he knows that this is reality, and whatever else he sees, thinks he sees; whatever else is just a vision, just a dream.
_____________
Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3
From:Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3
From:Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3
From:Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3
From:Re: Lost, Jack/Boone, PG-13, Kissing, Hot Nights/Days, Scars, Domesticity(ish); 3/3
From:Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
Date: 4/23/10 06:41 pm (UTC)Bobby pushes the door of the Roadhouse open, expecting a welcome blast of air conditioning to cut the stifling August evening heat. Instead, he’s met with more warm, humid air. Knitting his brows together with displeasure, he glances over to the bar and sees Ellen pause drying off a clean glass to wipe the back of her hand over her brow.
“Woman, it’s hotter ‘n hell’s basement in here. What’s a man gotta do to get some A/C?”
Ellen’s eyes warm over in affection when she looks up to see her old friend. “Been busted since this weekend. No one can come by til next Monday, but I tell you what – I’ll let you fix it your own damn self right now if it’ll make you feel better.”
Bobby grins back. He knew his way around any car you put in front of him, but hell if he knew the first damn thing about fixing an air conditioner. “Beer still cold?”
“You know it,” Ellen answers, pulling a bottle of Bobby’s favorite from the fridge and popping the cap off of it for him. “First one’s on the house.”
She notices a new scar, deep and angry red, running along his forearm as he picks up the sweating bottle of beer from the counter. Just one more of countless others marking the skin of hunters, constant reminders of the evil they face and the sons of bitches they blow to bits.
As Bobby sips his beer, Ellen returns to her task of drying the remaining glasses. As she’s about to put the final one away, she thinks better of it and sets it down on the counter and pours herself some of her favorite whiskey. With the crowd having long thinned out and only a couple regulars finishing off their drinks, she walks over to the other side of the bar and sits down at the stool beside Bobby.
“You hear John’s boy is in college now? Sam? Applied without telling a soul. Hear he’s doin’ real good for himself. Wants to be a lawyer, I think.”
Bobby chuckles. “Well good for him. He always was a smart kid. I bet that sure pissed John off, though.”
“Oh you know it,” Ellen laughs. “That son of a bitch don’t want those boys out of his sight.” Her face sobers. “Although I guess I can’t say I blame him so much.” She thinks of the tight reins she tries to keep on Jo, especially after her father died.
She starts when she feels Bobby slide his hand into her free one resting on the bar. He gives her a soft look – not pity, ‘cause Lord knows that would only rile her up – but compassion. All of them had dealt with a lot of loss living this life, and being there for each other was really about all they had.
“I’m about to lock up. Think you’d like to stay awhile?” Ellen asks, raising her eyes from their clasped hands to see Bobby’s gaze still on her.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I’d like that a lot, actually.”
Re: Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
Date: 4/23/10 09:50 pm (UTC)PS: You should totally post this to
Re: Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
From:Re: Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
From:Re: Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
From:Re: Supernatural, Ellen/Bobby, scars, hot days/nights [PG]
From:Lost, Charlie/Miles, kissing - 100 words
Date: 4/23/10 10:22 pm (UTC)Ghosts aren't usually solid, but Charlie has sauntered into his life like he's always been there: snarking, teasing, singing, advising. Miles thinks Charlie might be the devil himself.
Now Charlie's added kissing to his repertoire.
It's an expert push of his lips, followed by a swipe of his tongue. Miles can't help but give in: he's making out with a ghost and he's got no damn idea what this looks like from the outside.
If he's mad, that's fine as far as Miles is concerned. He's picked a damn fine way to go.
Re: Lost, Charlie/Miles, kissing - 100 words
Date: 4/24/10 04:23 am (UTC)You wrote me Charlie/Miles! I just...*hugs*
Ghosts aren't usually solid, but Charlie has sauntered into his life like he's always been there: snarking, teasing, singing, advising. Miles thinks Charlie might be the devil himself.
I can't even express how awesome this is in words. It's just not possible.
I mean it's Charlie. And Miles. Making out. How did the universe not just implode from the awesome?
Thank you so, so much!
Re: Lost, Charlie/Miles, kissing - 100 words
From:Jack/Boone, Scars
Date: 4/24/10 08:40 pm (UTC)Which is most certainly not a bad thing, Jack immediately decides.
"I've never done this before," Boone gasps out, as Jack presses him hard against the wall, fingers fumbling at the zipper on his jeans.
"Never would have guessed that with the look you gave me," Jack banters back, and kisses the smirk off Boone's face.
The tiny bathroom is sweaty, the mirror literally steaming, and Jack wipes it with his uncuffed sleeve, bending Boone backwards over the sink until he is face-to-face with himself, eyes almost closed, mouth gaping open, face flushed and lips swollen.
Jack's frantic fingers fight a losing battle with the buttons on Boone's designer shirt. "Rip it," Boone pants out, and Jack obeys, until his fingers freeze on Boone's now-exposed chest and stomach.
"Where did you get these?" Jack chokes out, voice trembling. "These scars are from major injuries, blood transfusions-" The words are stuffed back into his mouth by Boone's tongue, his hands grabbed and removed from Boone's chest and transferred to Boone's ass, and suddenly his jeans are gone, and Boone is pressed against his side.
"Another life," Boone says, only once, his eyes filled with something Jack does not wish to remember, and Jack turns Boone to press his stomach against the sink, and the scars vanish from sight.
Re: Jack/Boone, Scars
Date: 4/25/10 04:31 pm (UTC)I love the way you used the scar imagery here, with Boone not elaborating and Jack not wanting to remember. Thank you so much for this! :D
Re: Jack/Boone, Scars
From:Re: Jack/Boone, Scars
From:Re: Jack/Boone, Scars
From:Re: Jack/Boone, Scars
From:Lost, Charlotte/Daniel (plus others), kissing, hot days/nights, scars/tattoos, domesticity
Date: 5/26/10 03:02 am (UTC)Re: Lost, Charlotte/Daniel (plus others), kissing, hot days/nights, scars/tattoos, domesticity
Date: 5/26/10 03:26 am (UTC)*tackles you*
Thank you, thank you, thank you! That was amazing and incredible and I love it to pieces. I'm so glad my wacky kinks helped inspire something so delightful. I totally want to go live in that s4/s5 AU now. :D