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Five Acts Meme!

It's that time of year again, that time of year where we post the links to our kinks and write porn for each other! And who doesn't love that? The lovely toestastegood is keeping the master list of people (and various other helpful links to kinks) over here: Five Acts Meme.

My top five kinks at present (in no particular order):

1. Power Play - Dominance and/or submission, bondage, different ranks or social positions, a special ability, bringing a little extra edge to the bedroom to see who does (or doesn't) wear the pants!

2. Urgency for sex - Gotta have it, gotta have it all right now! Uncontrollable desire, sex pollen, the people just have to to the horizontal (or possibly vertical) tango right the heck now!

3. Alternate Universes - Throw the modern guys into a medieval setting or a futeristic one, swap time periods, have everyone be a cat, blow up the world, put everyone on a sports team or in a coffee shop or a hospital, have a zombie apocalypse, vampires and werewolves and demons, just shake things up in a big way and have the dynamics play out sexily.

4. Multiple orgasms - Once you pop, you just can't stop. The fun just keeps on coming. And coming. And coming.

5. Fuck-or-die - Aliens made them do it, have to complete an obscure ritual, illnesses with strange cures, needful to share body heat, at gunpoint, just do it!


Supernatural: Dean/Sam, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Ruby, Dean/Anna, Dean/Sam/Castiel, Sam/Madison, Pam/Jo, or some variation on the above, including threesomes or moresomes!
Heroes: (I like virtually everything about Heroes, but here are a few faves) Nathan/Peter, Noah/Nathan, Sylar/Peter, Adam/Monica, Adam/Peter, Elle/Sylar, Sylar/Claire, Sylar/Luke, Matt/Mohinder, and anyone else you like in threesomes or moresomes!
Torchwood: Jack/Ianto, or Jack/damn near anyone. Seriously. It's Captain Jack.
Star Trek reboot: Any pairing really. They're all pretty awesome. Mirror verse rocks too. Special faves are Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura.
Sherlock (BBC): Sherlock/John
Crossovers: Parker (Leverage)/Elle (Heroes)



( 12 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 8th, 2011 04:08 pm (UTC)
Sequence: Sherlock, John/Sherlock, multiple orgasms
John really, really needed to realise that Sherlock didn't operate entirely on human logic. Given that Sherlock had, in the past, been quite clear about his lack of interest in sex, John had figured him for asexual and left it at that.

Sherlock happened to be perfectly interested in sex. Just not in the pursuit of it. So when John had, over a few too many near-death experiences, re-expressed his own interest in Sherlock, Sherlock had nearly attacked him with his lips.

Somewhere between ripping off each other's clothes and a race for the bed that was, in retrospect, hilarious courtesy of both of them limping at the time, John had extracted that Sherlock paid no attention to sex because he thought discussing it in public was tasteless and hunting for a partner was an exercise in boredom and failure.

In between mutterings of "Ow, sorry, just, leg -" and "Watch the shoulder" they had somehow both managed to extract orgasms out of the first sorry mess and scolded each other for being idiots before bursting into giggles.

Round two had been much more fun, a lot less to do with frantic attempts to come and more about teasing each other and learning with lips and fingers what the other liked. The teasing hadn't been restrained to physical touch either; Sherlock kept attempting to put John off through discussing various kinks he had come across in his research and which ones he'd like to try, and John upped the ante with a few suggestions that he liked to thank both the army and several weeks of boredom on the Internet for. Interestingly, while both of them were capable of being thoroughly disgusted to the point of applying force to bruises until the other shut up, neither of them appeared to actually translate disgust into being turned off.

At the end of the second round, John was through, tired and sweating and really, really sore, and he knew full well Sherlock was too, but it didn't stop Sherlock from sulking at refusals of a third attempt. He didn't quite seem to grasp the concept that human bodies had limitations for a reason, resented getting ill, hungry, thirsty, tired - and apparently 'chafed' could be added to the list of things bodies did that Sherlock didn't wish to acknowledge.

On the plus side, it did mean that for once he knew exactly what to say on what could have been, given who he was in bed with, the most awkward morning after ever.

"Round three?"
Jan. 10th, 2011 09:56 pm (UTC)
Re: Sequence: Sherlock, John/Sherlock, multiple orgasms
Hee! Oh boys, I love that their intellect just doesn't quite turn off, but even the most obscure things can't make them push away from each other. I love their frantic pace to get to things right now, and how neither of them is willing to stop. Sherlock's not wanting to know his body's limitations is great, and John's morning-after talk made me giggle. Thank you!
Jan. 8th, 2011 10:38 pm (UTC)
Keep moving


(I might have something else for you too.
Jan. 8th, 2011 10:57 pm (UTC)
#2 is my bulletproof kink. NEVER gets old - just never.
Jan. 10th, 2011 09:57 pm (UTC)
I know, rite? :D
Jan. 11th, 2011 11:12 pm (UTC)
Heroes, Adam/Monica, urgency, fuck or die
He finds himself on his back before he can process quite what has happened. The hard ground is beneath him, the individual they'd been fighting over is gone, and St Joan herself is on top of him, rubbing herself against his leg like a cat in heat. Despite the profound oddness of the situation, Adam's face lights up with surprised glee. "Enjoying yourself, darling?" he asks.

"He got me," she answers, with a frustrated groan. Her hips grind and push against his thigh. He can't see her face, bathed in shadow by her hood, but he can hear the heavy panting of her chest, and see that frantic rise and fall of her bosom. "God, if you tell anyone about this I'm gonna have to kill you."

"I look forward to it," Adam assures her - their skirmishes always offer him a healthy shot of adrenaline, all too rare in this long life. "In the meantime, might I suggest that we make it indoors? The police might take note if you start ravishing me in public."

"I am not going to ravish you," St Joan states.

"Really? Pity. I've seen what happens to his victims and I'm not sure if I would like to see it happen to you." He strokes his hand along her side, feeling the tension in the body beneath his palm. Already his cock is stirring with interest, eager to help out in anyway he could; it would be a lie to say that he hadn't thought about something like this. She's a beautiful woman who works to block his plans at every turn, a well-meaning super-hero that doesn't know when to back off. It would be a strong man indeed who didn't situate her at the centre of his fantasies.

Yet not like this.

"You'll die, Joan," he breathes. He reaches up, hand slipping beneath her hood, into the shadows where he can feel the strands of her hair. "Despite the annoyance you cause me, I don't want that to happen."

Joan stares at him with her eyes narrowed and her expression unreadable. She's a lot less naive than she had been when he first met her; he thinks that this big city might have broken her optimism. Maybe he contributed too. The girl rutting desperately against his thigh is a long way from the innocent student who had got in his way for the first time a year ago.

"My name isn't Joan," she says - her voice hitches at the end of the sentence, breath shaking as she hits it just right, her hips moving frantically. "Monica. I'm Monica.

"Monica," he repeats, and it feels like warmth inside his mouth, like a present. "Pleasure to meet you, Monica. Let's take this elsewhere."

It's difficult to get to their feet when Monica can't stop touching him, when she yelps as if she's been burned every time the connection between them breaks. In the end, he picks her up, her legs wrapped around his waist. She grinds against him in a way that is more than a little distracting - it makes him want to slam her against the nearest wall and take her right there, but he at least has the presence of mind to realise that that might not be such a great idea. She, on the other hand, doesn't. Her mouth sucks on his neck, leaving marks that heal instantly, and the wet lick of her tongue at the lobe of his ear nearly makes him drop her.

They find a house - it isn't his, but the door has been left unlocked and that is enough of an invitation. Slipping in through the back leaves them in the shadowy kitchen, and he barely makes it two steps before she takes him to the floor, flinging herself backwards and using the surprise to take him with her. They hit the ground hard, air exploding from their chest, and within seconds she has them flipped around with him on his back, her form solid above him.

Her hands scramble across his body, and at this point nothing could stop her. She barely even resembled herself, and in the dim moonlight through the kitchen blinds he could see the shine of tear tracks upon her face. Sitting upright, he runs his hand across her cheek but makes no move to stop her hands from pulling open his trousers, struggling with his button and zip. "You'll be alright," he promises, seeing her hands trembling. "I promise. I'll take care of you."
Jan. 11th, 2011 11:12 pm (UTC)
Re: Heroes, Adam/Monica, urgency, fuck or die [2/2]
He hasn't looked after anyone but himself in a very long time, and he shouldn't be foolish enough to try to protect a woman who is determined to get in his way and prevent his plans - yet she has been a staple of his life for a year now. She has been there to block his way when he is about to go too far, and now she is in his lap, silently crying like she might be broken.

"It hurts," she admits, barely a whisper. "God, Adam, I feel like I'm burning up."

He takes over the job of undressing them, pulling her black leggings down to her boots and pulling his trousers down enough to expose his erection. It is harder than it ought to be considering the situation; unlike Monica, he has no excuse at all. He pulls her panties to the side, finding them damp with excitement, but before he can do anything more she is already sliding down, taking him deep inside her cunt.

He grips hold of her hips and guides her as she rides his cock, furiously fast and hard. Her breasts rub against his chest with every solid bounce, nipples hard and pointed. He pulls her hood back to take a good look at her face, staring his share as she fucks herself on him. She's every bit as beautiful as he thought, and the tired, sweaty desperation on her features only adds to it.

"I want to kiss you," he admits, panting. Her pussy is tight and hot around him, and even if her hips are moving with an expert's ease he knows that with her power that doesn't mean a thing - it is a reflection of her viewing habits and nothing more. "Please, Monica. Can I?"

He doesn't have the right to do it without asking. He can pretend that this is doing her a favour, helping to sate the hunger implanted inside her, but he isn't an idiot. He isn't the one being taken advantage of.

Without saying a word she moves her head to catch his mouth, open lips against his own, her tongue flashing forward. He groans without being able to control it, and eases her down onto the floor, lying between her legs as he begins to thrust into her. He moves his hand between their bodies, his fingers seeking her clit. The first brush, barely touching it at all, makes her clench around him and cry out - she's close, so close. Moving his mouth to brush against her neck, he presses his fingers more insistently, tracing shapes against her pussy.

Lower down, he can feel the way that his member is stretching her, the way that her body is forced to take his dick. Stretched tight around him, he wishes that he could keep her like this forever, desperate and panting and utterly, completely his.

Yet nothing can last forever. Everything ends.

The touch of his fingers is enough to end her, to send her rocketing into a climax that makes her writhe and twist beneath him. Hips snapping, he fucks into her until he follows, muffling his own cries against her neck, her hair tickling his nose and mouth. Panting, he feels as if all of the energy has been drained from his body, taken from him to her.

"How do you feel?" he asks, pulling out of her body, slick and messy now. She stays on the ground for a few moments, her groin exposed while the rest of her remains closed, only a small patch of trimmed hair on display. "Has it passed?"

She nods, a frown on her face, and he can see a thousand emotions passing through her, none of them positive. "Thank you," she says. "You shouldn't have had to do that."

He wants to tell her that it's alright, and that after all they've been through together - albeit on separate sides of the playing field - a little shag between friends is nothing to worry about. He could even tell her that he's been thinking of this for a long time.

In the end, he holds his tongue and they get dressed in silence. It seems like the only dignified thing left to do.
Jan. 12th, 2011 03:04 pm (UTC)
Re: Heroes, Adam/Monica, urgency, fuck or die [2/2]
Oh noble Adam! Even after all the trouble Saint Joan has caused him, he's not only willing to lend a hand (or a cock), but also to keep her honor by asking for the permission of a kiss. That question in the midst of all the life-or-death intercourse was so very lovely! Thank you! :)
Jan. 13th, 2011 04:47 am (UTC)
Sherlock: John/Sherlock. Urgency, mild power/class dynamics
John pulled at his tie and then, when a nearby upper-crusty woman in a teal gown raised an eyebrow at him, tried to look like he wasn’t fidgeting.

The ballroom—who had ballroom’s in their home, really?—buzzed with chatter at which John could only smile and nod. After fleeing the last conversation he’d attempted (“Yes, my agent came back from Sotheby’s with the most appalling Degas sketch. I’m sure you saw in the papers. No?”), he felt a profound gratitude and visceral relief similar to when he’d escaped a gang of armed criminals.

After waving off the advance of yet another black-suited waiter bearing a champagne-laden silver tray, John forged a path through the crowd, craning his neck over the heads of the guests to try to catch a glimpse of a certain curly-headed detective. He curled his left hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg, which had begun to throb with a phantom pain. Another hour of this madness, and he’d need the cane again.

The sound of a smooth wash of laughter caught John’s attention. He pivoted on his good leg to spot Mycroft Holmes standing in a circle of distinguished looking men in expensive suits. Next to him stood Sherlock. Not next to Mycroft, precisely. John might characterize it more as “nearby” Mycroft, as Sherlock was currently staring at the ceiling, looking like he was wishing fervently for death.

As soon as John’s eyes landed on them, Sherlock left off his contemplation of the heavens. His eyes searched the crowd until they found John, and there they stayed. He muttered something John couldn’t hear, and patted absently at his brother’s arm before striding away from the group, leaving Mycroft to stare daggers at his back.

Sherlock came right up to John, caught his arm, and kept walking, steering them toward the far end of the ballroom. “How are you getting on?” he asked.

“I feel like a peasant.” John pulled at his tie again.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side a bare degree, as if he needed to study John’s statement from another angle. “A peasant?”

“Yes.” John lowered his voice below the level of the buzzing crowd. “A commoner. The help. Like I belong below stairs. This isn’t my kind of party, Sherlock.”

“Nor is it mine.” Sherlock snatched a glass from a passing waiter’s tray, tossed back the contents, and deposited it neatly on the tray of the next waiter they passed.

“That’s not precisely true, is it?” John said. “And since when do you drink champagne?”

“I’m celebrating.” They’d reached the edge of the ballroom, where a hallway branched off further into the mansion. Sherlock steered them into an alcove screened by a ficus. “Explain. What’s not precisely true?”

John glanced out over the sea of upstanding citizens from the relative safety of the alcove. “How many of these types of things would you say you’ve been to in your life?”

“Countless,” Sherlock said, then grimaced. “I could count, of course, but I see no reason why that’s necessary. Several dozen.”

“See, there you have it. Several dozen. You have the right kind of clothes. You know which fork to use. You treat everyone like a servant, so having someone hand you a towel in the loo probably doesn’t seem jarring.”

“And yet I avoid these kinds of engagement.”

“You’d rather play at being charmingly bohemian in your bachelor’s flat with a washed-up Army doctor.”

“Have I done something you don’t like?” Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled now. “You asked me to come. I’m here.”

“I thought you should be here. The way you looked at the RSVP card…” John trailed off. He’d interpreted Sherlock’s long contemplation of Mycroft’s invitation as interest. Sherlock so seldom showed interest in any social activity that John had insisted they go. “You weren’t secretly dying to come?”
Jan. 13th, 2011 04:48 am (UTC)
Sherlock: John/Sherlock. Urgency, mild power/class dynamics [2/2]
“I was trying to figure out which of two printers had set the typeface. If I wanted to go, I would have said so.”

“Not if you were secretly pining,” John said, but he knew he was grasping at straws.

“I never pine in secrecy,” Sherlock said seriously.

“True enough.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Alright. I apologize for getting us in to this. My fault entirely.”

“Yes it is. Come along.” Sherlock grabbed John’s elbow and pulled him down the hallway away from the ballroom.

“What’s this about?”

“Exit strategy. Coping mechanism. Means of extracting further apology. Take your pick.”

“Hurry,” John hissed.

Sherlock responded by reaching up for John’s wrists and pressing them to the wall on either side of him. “Do calm down, John,” he said, breath ghosting over John’s thigh. “Considering how many bottles the sommelier took out of here earlier this evening, they won’t need more for at least ten more minutes.”

Sherlock had easily figured out the mansion’s floor plan well enough to navigate unseen to the wine cellar, and though John had not planned on earning forgiveness in quite this way, he found it difficult to argue when Sherlock was tugging open his pants.

“Ten minutes.” John darted out his tongue to lick his lips. “Not much time.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock’s look was meant to be angelic, but on his knees in that damn expensive suit, he looked positively sinful.

“Absolutely,” John said.

Sherlock surged forward to swallow John down, and began taking him apart with methodical, precise abandon. John pulled one hand out of Sherlock’s grip and fastened it onto the wine rack on his right to prevent his knees from buckling as Sherlock hummed around him. He told himself he had to listen for sounds, to be ready if someone were to come in, but the roar in his blood drown out everything else. His brain only had room for sensation, and he’d venture to say that even a genius in deductive logic would have trouble keeping coherent thought alive when such things were being doing with a tongue.

When Sherlock growled around John’s cock and shoved him back into the wall, John bucked forward. His mouth fell open in a soundless shout as his release spiraled through him. John slid down the wall to land in a crumpled heap. He allowed himself a few seconds of recovery before prying his eyes open.

Sherlock had sat back on his heels, braced a hand on the floor, and taken himself in hand. John leaned over and added both of his hand to the process. “Come on, then,” he whispered. “You’re getting away with fooling around in the wine cellar of an MP’s mansion. Bet those ponces upstairs wish they were down here watching you rather than upstairs talking nonsense.” He leaned closer, nudging Sherlock’s legs as far apart as they could go with his expertly-tailored pants still caught around his thighs. “You have this gorgeous look of full attention on your face when you come, and I know no one up there saw that from you tonight. Come on, show it to me.”

“John,” Sherlock choked out as his cock jerked, spilling his seed over John’s hand, the floor, and onto his Italian wool suit.

They slumped together a moment, breathing hard, until John said, “Well, what do you know? Turns out it is our kind of party.”

Edited at 2011-01-13 04:48 am (UTC)
Jan. 13th, 2011 04:59 am (UTC)
Re: Sherlock: John/Sherlock. Urgency, mild power/class dynamics [2/2]
It's my kind of party tooooooooooo!

I love seeing Sherlock in his former element, and John calling him out on his pretentions. The lad is too elegant for his own good. But Sherlock sure as hell can make up for it. John wanting to see that look of "full attention" focused on him... gorgeous. Thank you m'dear!
Jan. 21st, 2011 06:40 pm (UTC)
Re: Sherlock: John/Sherlock. Urgency, mild power/class dynamics [2/2]
You give the best prompts that cause all these things to happen!
( 12 comments — Leave a comment )



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