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21 May 2010 @ 03:40 pm
"Fuck the party, let's get to the porn!"  
So today eltea and I were talking about how bored we were, because no one's on LJ and we didn't feel like doing anything, and then she suggested we have an LJ party. But we were trying to think of events and failing, so... you'll find the verdict above. Basically,


Rules, If You Can Even Call Them Rules:
1. Specify a fandom and/or a pairing if you want.
2. Be as anon or not as you want.
3. Be as porny/kinky/creepy or not as you want.
4. Write for as long as you want. (Except please don't stop in the middle, because that just ain't right.)
5. Give as many prompts as you feel like and fill as many as you can.
6. Re-fill a filled prompt if you want to. (Ooh, that sounds kind of dirty.) No one will mind.

Basically, just go for it. If you're feeling nice and generous and want to appeal to my organization kink (*meaningful wink*), include the fandom and pairing you want (if you have a preference) in the subject line of your request. When you fill a request, please put "FILLED" in the subject line. If you don't, I'll just secretly hate you, but that's okay. ♥

ETA: Feel free to pimp this! In fact, please do -- the more the merrier, if you know what I mean.

Feeling: boredbored
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:49 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
In the style of James Joyce.
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:50 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
In the style of Doctor Seuss.
I MUST: Death Note --> Light's a teenage heartthsabriel75 on May 22nd, 2010 04:03 pm (UTC)
Filled: DeathNote/Light&L/A Seussical DeathNote Seduction

Rhymed Crack sort of... not fit to be consumed by the masses. Sorry.

I am gay.

Gay am I?

No. No. Don’t say it that way.

Yagami. It’s Yagami.

I am not gay.

Do you like me?

I do not like you,

L Lawliet, you poof.

I do not like you,

you freaky spoof.

Would you do me here or there?

No, I wouldn’t you demented hare!

I wouldn’t do you here or there.

I wouldn’t do you on that swivel chair!

I do not like you, now or ever.

I do not like you, however clever.

Would you? Could you? Do me?

If I were your sweetheart?

No, I wouldn’t do you.

Couldn’t do you.

You moony tart.

I wouldn’t do you.

Couldn’t do you.

Here or there or anywhere!

I do not like you or all your smarts.

I do not like you, cross my heart.

Try me! Try me!

Light, I am not gay!

Try me. Try me.

I say and you may.

L Lawliet!

If I try you,

As you say

Will you quit accusing me?

Uh… No. You are Kira.

L! God, you’re such a prick!

Uhm… so Light-kun, will you?

You will see!

Kiss. Kiss.

You do like me!

You would do me.

You would do me here or there.

You would do me anywhere.

You would, You could… You should.

Yagami-kun, please.

Fine L, how about the bed?!

Edited at 2010-05-22 04:43 pm (UTC)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:51 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
In the style of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, or John Milton. Or all three, alternating, if you feel ambitious.
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:52 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
A story in text messages.
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 01:41 am (UTC)
FILLED for Doctor Who



Yes. Who else would it be? This is my phone.

it was meant as a greeting

What can I do for you?
First off, is Earth being invaded?


No giant spaceships about to crash into it?


Mobile phone tycoons running for Prime Minster?


Strange feelings and coincidences that would ordinarily be written off as meaningless, but that might be considered foreshadowing if you were part of a science fiction television drama?

god, doctor, no

What’s wrong, then?

i’m horny


i’m drunk and horny
and thinking about u

I’m not quite sure what the proper response is.
I’m flattered?

oh come on doctor
even u must get bored and lonely sometimes
haven’t u ever, u know?

I’m going to choose not to reply to that.

what r u wearing?

You do realize that you’re soliciting a nine-hundred-year-old Time Lord for phone sex.

yes. the brown suit? and are u wearing a tie?

Why is that important?

because if u are, i could take it off
get ur hands behind ur back
tie ur wrists so u can’t move
can’t get away

That would be… oh.

would u like that?

Well. Of course not.

i could get a silk scarf
tie it over ur eyes
another in ur mouth


getting a little hot and bothered?

No, of course not.
Keep going.

ur helpless
i’m going to use u however i want
for as long as i want
does that turn u on?

I’d be trying to get away

i hold u down
on ur back
tie ur ankles to the bedposts
spread u open

Don’t stop

i take off ur belt
put it around ur neck like a collar
snug, so u can breathe
but u feel it pressing on ur throat
it feels good
u try to move but u can’t

I want to touch you

i don’t let u go
i pull back and watch u there
trapped and ready for whatever i want
how desperate are u?

I want you

slowly u feel fingers creeping under ur shirt
they slide up ur stomach
the other hand starts to oops g2g

Where are you?
Who is this, anyway?
Are you still there?

You are a horrible, horrible person.
Re: FILLED for Doctor Who - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 01:46 am (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:53 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
A little too late.
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:54 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
(Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 01:34 pm (UTC)
[Arthur/Merlin, not kinky, unless sap is a kink, and if you see something that looks vaguely like this, at a later date, don't be surprised, OTL.]

“But your father,” Merlin says. “You can't lie to your father. I could never ask you to, and you... you can't. I don't think it's even physically possible.”

And that's insanely accurate, of course, but Arthur just huffs against Merlin's skin and says, “My father doesn't ask, Merlin. He just... I told him everything he wanted to hear. You know. About being heroically dashing with a sword, and running through druids. You know as well as I that he has little desire to hear about anything more than that, let alone about how it was you who did most of the dashing, and...”

Arthur's voice trails off.

Merlin is looking at him, somehow managing one of his are-you-daft head tilts, even whilst laying amongst pillows.


Arthur frowns. “And it doesn't seem right, really, because I know that I didn't actually do anything amazing. Yes, I waved my sword around, but you saved us, Merlin. It... it's always you, isn't it?”

Merlin has his hands against the bare skin of Arthur's back. Arthur doesn't even remember when it was that he'd taken his shirt off. Some time, before they'd tumbled into bed, perhaps. Or, you know. After. The whole thing's a bit of a blur. He's more surprised to realise that he isn't regretting it, than he is that it's happened. Finally.

“Does it bother you?” Merlin asks, quietly. As though he doesn't really want to know; as if he can't not.

Arthur looks at the ceiling. “What? Yes. No. Maybe.” Merlin's idiocy must be rubbing off on him. He clears his throat, and tries again, “I mean, no, it doesn't bother me. Well, maybe, perhaps just a little, but, being saved, ha, you can't really complain about that, you know, not when you're being alive when you could have been dead, and all. But me getting the credit, Merlin, that's just... it's not right.”

Merlin is silent a long while.

Arthur falls to counting Merlin's breathing; counting the rise and fall of Merlin's chest beneath Arthur's hands, beneath Arthur's breath.

Then he says, eyes dark, and honest, beneath his stupid haircut, “I don't mind, you know. Really, Arthur, I just... I don't know why I don't, but I don't. I think it's because...” Embarrassed, his cheeks pinking, he looks down; mumbles, “I think it's because it's you.”

Arthur feels such a glow inside of him then, he almost chokes on it; he lifts his head and he vows, like a river of words, like a river of feelings, “I swear, Merlin, I swear on my mother's grave, that things will change when I am king.”

Merlin smiles, and his smile turns into a grin, his grin turns into a chuckle, here and real and warm against Arthur's skin, and he's saying, “I know, I know, I know,” as if it's a vow of his own.
FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 01:35 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 26th, 2010 09:36 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:55 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
An unexpected heat wave.
(Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 02:25 pm (UTC)
FILLED [Arthur/Morgana, pre-series]
And the weather licks at their skin as they lay together, doors locked and windows barely cracked enough to let cool air in; sheets tossed down to the floor long before now. The whole castle has given up the ghost, today, overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of the sun, and the silence is palpable.

Morgana can hear him breathing, across the space between them. She shifts her legs, and feels the way the sweat behind her knees is almost cool against the air, compared to against the sheets. She lifts a knee, letting it fall sideways, and feels the same cool between her legs.

Arthur's hair is close to dark, against his forehead.

I did that, she thinks. Myself, and the sky above.

It's so bright, outside, that the blue has been bleached into some shade of white.

Morgana puts her hand against the middle of Arthur's chest. She feels the hair growing there, beneath her wandering palm; raises her other hand, and thumbs the line of his jaw, unthinking.

"I thought you were asleep," he says, hushed, heavy; his voice deep with the curl of the air against them. He opens his eyes slowly, as though he can feel her smiling, and pulls one of those faces of his.

"You were," she taunts, like it's a contest between them. Probably it is. Everything else is. Even this, here, beneath Uther's roof, when they know he'd be livid – though, whether they're competing against him, or against each other, Morgana doesn't even know anymore. The weather makes her not care. So do Arthur's hands, as they encircle her waist and shift her closer to him. Their bodies are boiling where they meet, as she slides her knees to either side of him, as she runs her own hands down and strokes herself against him; strokes his dick against her, when he grows harder, when she wants him. Everything's a competition, but this is a different kind, and she's lost track of the rules, as she takes him inside of her, as they meet in a lazy rhythm, quiet and slow in the thick honey of the air. Quiet and slow, beneath the touch of his fingers, beneath the journeys of her own, beneath the way that he looks at her, when she's watching through her lashes, when he thinks that she isn't. Quiet and slow, and this competition is a gamble, and the gamble is enough to make their blood spike sharply.

She drags herself closer against him, angling hungrily, pressing him against that place inside of her that makes her stomach tremble; she rewards him with his name on her tongue, when he marks time within her, just how she wants it. "Arthur," she says, and lets him see her, wants him to see her, as she leans her spine back further, breasts pushed out, nipples tight, hair curling against her shoulders and stuck to her neck. She likes his hands against her, likes it when they move upwards, to grasp and touch and knead at her breasts; loves it when they move downwards, to rub knuckles and thumbs between her legs, curling through the apex of dark hair, to where she wants them most.

"Morgana," he answers, teasing, warning, as he lifts her up, and then she's sitting in his lap, her breasts pressed against his chest, their faces dangerously close, and she doesn't mean to kiss him, she really doesn't, but she's not to blame if he kisses her back. "Morgana," he says again, guttural now, tighter edge to his wanting, "Morgana—" She bites back a response, refuses, tries to, grips at his face instead and clutches her legs tighter against him; kisses more, desperate, burning. He's sucking on her lip, as she falls apart around him, falls apart into heat and bright and a keening version of his name that she'd never meant to utter, Arthur-Arthur-Arthur, and him inside her, and him around her, and sweat down her back, and his hair against her face as he holds her, holds her, so tight, too tight, just tight enough; he breathes, as if she herself were his air.

She doesn't even know, anymore, as they fall, soft-hard-something-new, against each other, against her bed, against the heat that holds them steady, what the competition is; what feeds their gamble, and the risk for it.

She doesn't even know, but she can't bring herself to need to.
Re: FILLED [Arthur/Morgana, pre-series] - (Anonymous) on May 26th, 2010 09:38 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:56 pm (UTC)
Any Fandom, Any Pairing
Dressing for the occasion.
(Anonymous) on June 2nd, 2010 05:57 am (UTC)
Filled: HP fandom, R/T pt 1/2ish
No point in being anonymous here, but imma do it anyway. Also: Wow, I'm slow. XD

He heard the footsteps in the hall before there was a knock at the door, but the sound still made him jump. Given two guesses, Remus would have said it was either Sirius looking for a drinking buddy or Sirius looking for a drinking buddy, since it was too late for anyone else to be awake. It was one of those few nights of the month he suffered from sleeplessness that wasn’t insomnia so much as it was him turning into something nocturnal. He dropped his book, rolled out of bed and opened the door, expecting Black with a bottle of Jack and seeing instead one Nymphadora Tonks. Wearing…a towel.

Her hair dripped on the floor. He stared—it was a natural enough response. Or maybe he really was asleep after all and it was just another One of Those Dreams, in which case when he got back in bed, she’d already be there. He moved to shut the door.

“Hey—“ she put a hand out to stop it, holding that towel closed with the other. Water beaded on her collarbone and rolled down between her breasts to god-knows-where, and there was not enough/too much towel, and things were showing and-or almost showing and bouncing hypnotically. “Hey, Lupin. Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I left my stuff at the office—”

Before she’d half-finished speaking, chivalry took the controls and he automatically scrambled out of the t-shirt he usually slept in and handed it over to her. The hallway was unreasonably cold—goosebumps spread across her shoulders and elsewhere.

Football, he thought frantically. Football, Quidditch, algebra, ice-fishing, going to confession…

“Oh,” she said, “Um. Thanks.” And stood there, blinking. She licked her lips, moving forward with a tiny step. “Did I wake you?”

He shook his head, surprised to hear his own voice. “No, Nymphadora, you didn’t.”

“I thought I asked you not to call me that.”

“You didn’t ask very nicely.”

“I’m not very nice.”

“Really?” he deadpanned, trying to shut the door. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve been thinking—“ she said, and stopped short, reaching up to flick a strand of pink hair out of her eyes with one black-lacquered fingernail. The towel slipped an inch. “I’ve been thinking about you…and I was wondering if you were still awake.”

“Huh?” His brain was much slower than the rest of him in figuring out what she was saying, and the subtle implications therein. Somewhere, in the dusty part of his mind not occupied with filing away images of her wet, half-naked body, it occurred to him that she was very, very bad for him. Which, admittedly, only made for more interesting mental imagery.

“Um. Never mind. Goodnight.” She turned to cross the hall. Unthinkingly, and for no reason he would ever be able to justify, he hooked two fingers into the back of the towel and pulled. Tonks stumbled backwards against his chest and he pushed the door shut with one foot.

“Took you long enough. I thought you’d never catch on.” She grinned at him in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, and found herself pinned between his arms, his hands planted on either side of her head. Throwing her down on the bed with a “That’s okay, this won’t take long at all!” was something to be contemplated, but instead he said;

“What the hell are you doing here? I mean other than upholding the family reputation for being batshit crazy. You’ve finally gone around the bend, haven’t you?”

“I love it when you say nice things to me, it’s so romantic.”

“If romance is what you’re after, you should have put more effort into your outfit.”

“I thought I looked nice.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

She arched an eyebrow at his reflection.

“’Nice’ isn’t the word I would use, though.”

“What word would you use, Remus?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why, indeed?” she countered, straightening the towel. “That’s five words, by the way.”
Filled: HP, R/T pt 2/3ish?, lolz - (Anonymous) on June 2nd, 2010 08:45 am (UTC) (Expand)
Filled, 3/3 - (Anonymous) on June 2nd, 2010 09:10 am (UTC) (Expand)
ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - tierfal on June 3rd, 2010 12:44 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - (Anonymous) on June 3rd, 2010 11:12 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - tierfal on June 4th, 2010 11:29 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - (Anonymous) on June 5th, 2010 12:08 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - tierfal on June 6th, 2010 09:02 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: ANON YOU WIN AT LIFE, AND AT THIS PAIRING - (Anonymous) on June 10th, 2010 12:17 am (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 10:57 pm (UTC)
Doctor Who, Jack/Ten
Lost in translation.
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 11:00 pm (UTC)
Merlin, Arthur/Merlin
Um, I'm trying to find a tactful way of saying 'chainmail sex'... But I can't so chainmail sex, plz? Not fussed as to who's wearing it or if it's both of them.
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 12:55 am (UTC)

Mail is like a second skin for Arthur, like a coating of mercury that grounds him, weighs him down and keeps him safe. He has a kind of affection for it, but all the same he’s grasping at the edging of the neck to pull it over his head as he bursts into his bedroom—an endless day of drills is an endless day of drills, and Merlin can make it up to the armor later.

Speaking of Merlin, Merlin is standing there, thoughtfully touching his chin, and not helping at all.

Arthur clears his throat extremely loudly, and Merlin persists in ignoring him, gazing at him with a vague sort of approbation. Arthur’s mouth gets a bit dry from all the throat-clearing, at which point he loses his patience, gives up, and starts drawing the mail off, avoiding his ears and muttering “Fat lot of good you are” in Merlin’s direction.

“Wait,” Merlin says, rejoining concrete reality all at once. “Leave it on.”

Arthur lets the chain mail fall back into place, if only because he needs to clear his line of vision in order to stare incredulously at his manservant, who is insane.

“Leave it on for what?” he demands, and then Merlin comes very close and sets his hands on Arthur’s hips, and Arthur’s mouth goes from a bit dry to arid.

“Three guesses,” Merlin says, “and the first two don’t count,” and kisses him, wetly and with a great deal of characteristic clumsiness. Merlin’s mouth is soft and no more apologetic than the rest of him, and it’s not just the weight of the armor that makes Arthur’s knees wobble where he stands.

Merlin smoothes his hands down Arthur’s sides, and the rings clink like jewelry.

“Might hurt you,” Arthur manages, because apparently pronouns have ceased to be necessary. “Broken rings…”

Merlin snorts, fists both hands in the mail delightedly, and hauls Arthur back towards the bed. “Give me a little credit.”

Arthur is about to utter a stunningly brilliant retort when the backs of Merlin’s knees hit the mattress, and Arthur’s momentum carries them both over the edge.

Some part of Arthur is strangely reserved from all of this, as if a corner of his mind has deemed it simply too surreal and has resolved to analyze it from a distance instead. Merlin’s hands have suddenly become a great deal defter, about which Arthur will have strong words with him when those hands aren’t making short work of his trousers and then ghosting down his thighs just beneath the bottom row of rings.

He would start now, but he can feel a deep, low groan building in his throat, and if he parts his lips and frees it, Merlin will take it as a compliment.

Damn Merlin. Damn Merlin and his hot fingers burying themselves in Arthur’s hair, and damn Arthur’s own traitorous hands, which are peeling Merlin’s clothes off, and damn Merlin’s tunic, which gets tangled in the neckerchief so that Merlin laughs, his narrow torso jumping, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright when Arthur tugs him free.

This is a disaster on many levels, but at least it’s a disaster that tastes like Merlin’s collarbones and sounds like his breath catching as Arthur’s teeth and tongue leave a telling red mark behind.

Merlin demonstrates an aptitude for multitasking that he has never shown in his servant duties, kicking his boots off as he reaches for—

Not the armor grease!” Arthur growls, and Merlin pouts up at him attractively.

“What do you suggest, then, Sire?”
FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 12:58 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - happy_mystic on May 23rd, 2010 02:14 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 09:05 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 26th, 2010 09:38 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Eltea: Treeeltea on May 21st, 2010 11:04 pm (UTC)
Menagerie, Will/Paolo
No point being anonymous here. XD
Vitamin C: Blue Rosetierfal on May 22nd, 2010 05:03 pm (UTC)
FILLED!! ...sort of. Fuck.

William shrugs off his shirt, revealing the deep gashes running down his shoulder-blades, jagged lines angling towards his spine. Toni hates soldiers—hates their posture, hates their unfeeling eyes, hates that they can’t think for themselves but somehow show such creativity pursuing greater men’s goals.

He gets up off of the bed and examines the wounds, standing close enough that William must be able to feel his breath, to sense his warmth, to read his intent. He’ll be the first to admit there’s something insane about it, something childish and not, something wild and something that makes his stomach turn, but he’s thought it over, and there’s no need to suppress it, not really, not now.

He starts applying salve and spells with equal attention, his fingertips grazing William’s skin, following the lines of lean muscles, spelling unmistakable words in a universal language. William shivers just once, when Toni’s fingers flick over his lower back, a telling distance from their task.

When Toni finishes, he steps back, and William turns, and he knows.

His voice is soft, as is his hand on Toni’s shoulder, resting gently like it belongs.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Toni smiles. “Care to find out?”

William does.

Toni knows how he looks, and he knows the effect he has—he’s outwitted and outpaced more than his share of hustlers. He’s spent his whole life running, hiding, shying away, passing as less, fitting himself into a costume that’s always been too small. He’s tired of it. He’s finally safe—there’s nowhere in the world safer than a five-foot radius from William Leone. Why not make it five inches? Why not take everything he can get—take it all? He doesn’t have to hold back anymore, doesn’t have to hold himself down.

It’s slow, careful, and a little bit uncertain. Toni never had the time or the will—so to speak—to figure out sexuality, but he’s very smart, and William is very forgiving.

He’s also not entirely new to this, though Toni suspects his previous experiences were with women. Toni doesn’t exactly complain, however, because the tenderness is unfamiliar but not at all unpleasant, and being licked and nibbled and nuzzled in all of his softest places—the potential of attack transformed into kindness, into warmth—makes him feel reckless and secure at once.

He wants William to feel this, too, the rush of relief mixed and tangled with the thrill of indecency. Everything is so stark and specifically clear to Toni now, so intensely detailed; the rough weave of the blanket clenched in his fingers, the sweat prickling at the small of his back, William’s individual eyelashes, the dampening hair at his temples, the careful concentration in his slightly hazy eyes. And then, despite the not-inconsiderable pain, a stinging at first and then an ache, William feels so full and solid inside of him that all of the sensations spike wildly, and Toni thinks that if he feels anything more he’ll shatter.

He wants William to know it—to know what he’s done, what he’s doing, how amazing and how generous it is.

Toni shucks off his forearm guards and curls his fingers, trying to force his tightening body to relax. William’s eyes widen, and he flinches, and his hips shift, and Toni almost loses his mind on the spot. A gasp of breath anchors him, and he spreads his palms on William’s back, fingers grazing the wounds, and sends a dart of icy magic down William’s spine. William chokes, and his eyes fall shut, and he crushes his hips into Toni’s, and Toni lays a thin coating of frigid nothing over William’s whole back. William’s left hand, planted on the mattress by Toni’s head, starts to shake, and his right buries itself in Toni’s hair and drags him into a hungry kiss.

They come together, one layered arc of rising flesh and shining skin, trading breath, and Toni hisses through his teeth and collapses to the mattress, the blankets coarse and crumpled underneath him. William eases himself down close by, releases a deep breath, and then lifts Toni’s hands one by one, sliding the guards back on.

Toni closes his eyes and smiles, drawing William’s arm to settle across his waist, because that’s exactly why he knew this would be all right.

Edited at 2010-05-22 05:04 pm (UTC)
Re: FILLED!! ...sort of. Fuck. - eltea on May 22nd, 2010 05:09 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED!! ...sort of. Fuck. - tierfal on May 22nd, 2010 10:41 pm (UTC) (Expand)
ACTUALLY FILLED THIS TIME, BUT NOT VERY KINKILY - tierfal on May 23rd, 2010 05:27 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 21st, 2010 11:05 pm (UTC)
Doctor Who, Eleven/Jeff
i.e. Eleven/“the good-looking one”. OH COME ON, EVERYONE THOUGHT IT. :DDDD Doesn’t have to be kinky unless you want. XD
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 03:22 am (UTC)
Jeff is just lonely. That’s not his fault.


It’s not that he isn’t grateful to the Doctor, because now he’s sort of rich and famous and whatnot, which is great. And he even has more access to people because of it, more acquaintances and more opportunities; more of everything, and it’s genuinely nice.

It’s just that he’s still Jeff. And he still feels like Jeff. And Jeff and Jeffrey are two different people, and only one of them can put on a business suit and talk to powerful people with the Doctor’s blessing still in his ears. Jeffrey’s pretty brilliant, and Jeff is not; Jeffrey is kind of suave, and Jeff is not; Jeffrey is content, and Jeff is lonely, and that’s not his fault.

It’s Friday night, and he’s sitting on the sofa in the front room of his flat, his tie undone, his feet up on the coffee table, his computer on his lap. There’s a strange buzzing noise out in the hall, and then his door pops open, and then Jeff’s stomach drops so hard he expects to find it three floors down, because the Doctor pokes his head into the room.

“Jeff!” he says brightly. “How’s it been? Actually, how long’s it been? Because I lose track, you know, all the running about and evading things, and that is a gorgeous computer; can I see?”

Jeff likes to think that even Jeffrey would be speechless if the Doctor burst into his flat and immediately threw himself down on the other couch cushion, nattily dressed now and chattering away.

“The TARDIS always gives me the cold shoulder if I have too many foreign electronic signatures, but—Jeff, what did I say about the girlfriend?”

Jeff goes very red very fast.

“Oh,” the Doctor says, squinting. “Oh. That’s not the sort of thing for blokes who get girlfriends, is it? I’m sorry, Jeff, I’ve given you bad advice… a while ago?”

“Year and a half,” Jeff’s voice says.

“Right, right.” The Doctor considers the laptop screen for another moment, and his eyebrows dart up as the slim blond on the screen moans loudly.

Jeff closes the laptop and clears his throat.

“I like the bow-tie,” he says, tentatively.

The Doctor grins and fiddles with it. “Stole it. And I liked it so much that I stole a few more.” Then his face contorts into a disappointed frown. “But Jeff, everything else came together. Look at you, look at this place—but it’s still you and the computer instead of you and someone.” Before Jeff can mount a defense, the Doctor purses his lips decisively. “Sometimes you humans amaze me, how deliberately uncreative you are. So I’ll tell you what, Jeff.”

“What?” Jeff asks, his voice a little high.

The Doctor snatches the laptop away, sets it on the table, drops to his knees in front of Jeff, and rubs his hands together.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” he remarks. “But it’s probably like a bicycle. Then again, I fell off my last bicycle. I shouldn’t have told you that. Hold onto your hat, Jeff.”

“What h—”

The Doctor wiggles his long fingers and then employs them delicately undoing the fly of Jeff’s trousers.

“What are you doing?” Jeff yelps, freezing helplessly.

The Doctor’s forehead furrows as he starts to tug at the fabric, impeded by Jeff’s immobility. “I would have thought that would be obvious by now.”
FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 03:23 am (UTC) (Expand)
OP WORSHIPS YOU - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 03:31 am (UTC) (Expand)
ANON IS DELIGHTED - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 03:57 am (UTC) (Expand)
(Deleted comment)
(Anonymous) on May 23rd, 2010 04:04 am (UTC)
[Please excuse extremely spotty grasp of canon!]

When Will stepped into the Geek Inner Sanctum, Henry was curled up in front of the largest monitor, his hands sheathed in fingerless knit gloves and wrapped around a coffee mug. Will hugged himself, huddling a little, and scuffed his feet to announce his presence, avoiding a tangle of cords.

“You know it’s Friday night,” he said.

“Huh?” Henry jumped, and the coffee sloshed. Then he half-turned and flashed a cheesy grin. “Oh. Well, almost Saturday morning, at this rate.” He gestured to the screen. “It’s calibrating.”

“Do you have to watch it calibrate?” Will asked.

“I guess not,” Henry replied, blowing at the steam and sipping gingerly. “But if it shoots me an error, I’d rather be here when it does, so I can shoot back.” Another grin, a little more hesitant this time. “Troubleshooting. You know.”

Will mustered a smile, although this really only confirmed that Henry needed to get out more.

He looked for a chair to pull up, but there wasn’t one, and there wouldn’t have been enough space anyway, so Will scratched that plan and went to lean against the back of Henry’s chair instead.

Henry itched at his stubble and watched numbers flicking across the screen, little lights in the dark. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

Will had a long list of ideas, but all of them would have given Henry a heart attack. “Just can’t sleep,” he said. Henry nodded understandingly, and Will watched the way the harsh fluorescent light deepened the circles under his eyes. “You know, Henry,” he said, “I think we could do to make some changes around here.”

Henry glanced up at him uncertainly. “You want to tell me what that means?”

“For one thing,” Will said, “you really ought to see the sun sometimes, every now and then. For another, you shouldn’t be up this late every night unless you’ve got a good reason.”

Henry frowned a bit and started chewing on his lip. “Okay,” he responded slowly, “but how do you quantify ‘good’? I mean, will a mediocre reason do? Or a relatively decent one? Can you give me an example of a reason that’s good?”

Will decided he couldn’t quite pass that one up.

Henry was initially just surprised at the kiss, which was fair given its suddenness—and it took all of Will’s remaining presence of mind not to cringe.

But then, as he had hoped without daring to expect, something else surfaced from under Henry’s customary nerd persona. Will fully believed that Henry was a person first, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a wolf inside him, too.

And it was the wolf that clenched both hands in Will’s jacket and dragged him closer, so forcefully that their teeth knocked together before Will found his balance again.

It was all downhill from there—or all down Henry’s chest, then into his jeans, Will’s cold hand tingling as it pressed against increasingly hot skin; Henry gasped a breath in, and Will sighed one out. He ran his free hand along Henry’s jaw, stubble scraping at his palm, and started putting the more important one to very good use—stroking and pulling, altering the speed and the pressure as he went, slower and then faster and then almost stopping, smoothing just his fingertips down Henry’s length, curling his fingers tightly around the base. Henry was sucking at his bottom lip desperately, a soft whine rising out of his throat, and twisting his hands in Will’s jacket, his knuckles going white.

The computer beeped loudly.

“Oh,” Henry gasped out, releasing Will’s shirtfront, applying both hands to the keyboard, and starting to type furiously. His cheeks were shot with pink, but his eyes were intent on the screen, and his hands were steady over the keys. “Hang on—well—you don’t have to hang on literally—”

Will was torn between hysterical laughter and plain old hysteria.

Before he could determine which made more sense at this juncture, Henry smacked the Enter key and turned to him again, beaming.

“Where were we?” he asked.

Hysterical laughter won out, though Henry ended up smothering the worst of it with another messy kiss. Some sentient part of Will hoped that no one saw fit to walk in on this.

Then again, Kate would probably set up a video camera first thing.
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 02:15 am (UTC)
Doctor Who, 10/Shakespeare
Martha isn't the only one who gets a sonnet written for her. :D
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 04:06 am (UTC)
It’s a hot, thick June night, and the breeze whispering through the window is cool on the bare skin of the Doctor’s back. London went to sleep hours ago, and he’s just starting to doze himself, floating in the soft pillow and light sheets, when the man beside him laughs quietly.

“You said your people didn’t sleep,” a voice murmurs, and warm human fingers trace along his skin, just above the sheet, dipping gently into the small of his back.

“We don’t,” the Doctor mumbles into the pillow, then amends, “much.”

The fingers run up his spine, drawing a shiver in their wake, and a calloused hand flattens gently over one of his shoulder blades.

“Two hearts,” the voice says softly, “and moonlight in your hair, Doctor. Sometimes I think you’re no more than a fancy of my imagination. A midsummer night’s dream. Why else would a celestial being spend its company on such a poor ass?”

“I’m bewitched,” the Doctor murmurs, because he is, and he can’t help it. “Your words, that saved your world last year.” It wasn’t the words that drew him back, though – it was the mind. The ability to understand, and to dream, because never before has he found a human imagination great enough to hold a Time Lord. For the first time in centuries, he doesn’t feel alone – and he knows he can’t stay, but he’ll allow himself this one night’s indulgence, safe in the dark, quiet universe of this room.

There’s a soft chuckle from above him. “I suspected as much. I’m a scoundrel.” The voice is soft and low, and a warm hand is coaxing more shivers out of his spine. “Before you go,” (because he knows, he understands), “I have one more spell for you.”

“What is it?” the Doctor mumbles, a slow, delicious shudder going through him as fingers slide up the back of his neck.

“Hold still,” the voice murmurs, and there’s a gentle rustling, the soft pop of a bottle of ink. A moment later, he feels the cool swipe of a brush across his skin, painting words onto his back. It crosses from one shoulder to the other, then moves down and starts again. Pressing his face into the pillow to keep himself still, he focuses on the sensations, and a minute, then two, pass in fragile silence as the brush moves down, painting the last line from hip to hip.

“Read it to me?” the Doctor whispers, finding his voice unusually low.

When most I wink,” the voice begins softly, “then do mine eyes best see, / For all the day they view things unrespected; / But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, / And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. / Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, / How would thy shadow's form form happy show / To the clear day with thy much clearer light, / When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! / How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made / By looking on thee in the living day, / When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade / Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! / All days are nights to see till I see thee, / And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

The Doctor lets the words wash over him, eyes closed, dizzy and dreaming. He’s never heard these lines before, he thought he knew them all – but as he listens, they swim into memory one by one. This sonnet isn’t a fixed point, he realizes – many of them are, would have been written for somebody else if not him, but this one isn’t. This one has never existed, would never have existed, until now; it exists for him, and it feels like magic tingling on his skin.

“That’s beautiful,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re beautiful,” a low voice replies, and a cool breath ghosts across the ink, drying it.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” the Doctor admits, a little thickly, wondering how long the words will stay on his skin before they fade. How many minutes until the sun breaks the horizon. How long he’ll spend alone before he finds another person who can see the universe through his eyes.

“Shh,” soothes his lover, and a steady, ink-stained hand settles at the base of his spine. “Don’t think. Just sleep. Tonight, there’s no world outside. Tonight, there’s no past and future. Tonight, you’re safe in my dream.”

The warm hand continues to stroke calm into his back, and the words of the spell settle slowly into his skin, and the Doctor closes his eyes and sleeps.
AJKFLDSJALKJFDSI - (Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 04:13 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED ♥ - sabriel75 on May 22nd, 2010 04:05 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on May 22nd, 2010 04:21 am (UTC)
Doctor Who, Master/Ten
Erotic asphyxiation-- preferably the Master doing it to a (consenting, please!) Doctor. Because this meme needs more kink. >D
(Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 07:55 pm (UTC)

“Tighter,” the Doctor whispers.

The Master frowns, and his face veers in and out of focus. “You’ve really lost it this t—”


The Master rolls his eyes, but he obliges, pulling harder on the silk tie that encircles the Doctor’s neck. For all his complaints—or are they cautions?—the Master is good at this. He’s good in general, in his way. He’s straddling the Doctor’s hips, the jumpseat creaking under their combined weight, and the Doctor’s fingertips tremble as he tries to suck in a deep breath and gets a trickle; tries to arch his back against the tremor that races up it like lightning, white and forked and sizzling.

“And people,” the Master murmurs, dragging on the loose ends, shrinking the knot, mouthing at the Doctor’s jaw, “think I’m insane.”

You are, the Doctor tries to say, and his constricted throat scrapes out, “Yes.”

He feels the Master’s smirk curl against the skin beneath his ear, feels the Master’s right hand close and tug at the tie as the left trails down his chest, down his stomach, over his hip. “You and your reputation are a bit at odds.”

Perhaps that’s because said ‘reputation’ is imposed on me without regard to the sheer complexity of nine hundred years of personal histo—

The Master shifts, grinding against him, hard but so slowly; painstakingly slow, like he’s trying to prove they have forever, and they’ll never get bored.

The Master’s lips part in a leisurely grin, and he nips at the Doctor’s neck above the band of silk; the blood vessels are practically enflamed; the Doctor’s head is starting to float as he suppresses his body’s urgent suggestions that he implement the respiratory bypass, that he save himself. The Doctor is tired of saving people, himself included.

So light—part of him wants to try to anchor his mind, try to pin himself back down in the TARDIS, in the moment, in the truth, but most of him just shudders and shakes at the delicate precision of the Master’s hands, at the maddening pinch of the next deliberate bite. The Master knows him, knows him, knows him every way it’s possible to know; knows his nooks and crannies and secrets and lines; knows his shadows and the swell of glacial ice beneath the surface others see.

And the Master is still here. The Master knows what he actually is, and the Master doesn’t stop touching, doesn’t stop twisting the tail of silk, doesn’t stop pushing clothing aside as the Doctor’s muscles clench against the evaporating-disintegrating weightlessness of his brain; and it’s beautiful not to think and not to be expected to.

The Master’s thumb grazes the inside of his thigh, and his hips jerk, and he’s dizzy with it, intoxicated, stars bursting in the unattainable air before his eyes; black and gold and white, which isn’t right, since stars are—stars go—supernovas—

Something like dark smoke coils around his vision, narrowing sight to a telescope view of TARDIS ceiling, of coral struts that look like wavering towers before they disappear into the dark; he looks at the Master, all gold-bright star-eyes and wet red mouth, no forgiveness, all acceptance; no warmth, all searing heat.

And he doesn’t think he has the strength to rise to that, to twist against the tie and the deprivation and catch the Master’s lip, bite down hard, taste sharp iron that sings in time with the last fading pulse that makes it to his brain.

The Master makes a small noise of surprise and thick delight, and then the Doctor passes out.
FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 25th, 2010 07:55 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 26th, 2010 12:44 am (UTC) (Expand)
Re: FILLED 2/2 - (Anonymous) on May 26th, 2010 09:39 pm (UTC) (Expand)