And now, for your viewing pleasure...
Firefly, Mal & River, she's unfortunately very good at tying people up. Him in particular.
Properly Helpless - Firefly, Mal + River, PG-13
"Now just a damn minute!"
"Captain, Simon says you're to rest," River admonished, tightening the ropes around his ankle with deft pressure, making sure he wouldn't lose circulation in his feet.
"I'm the Captain, you know. I know how badly I've been hurt, and I can take care of my own self," Mal protested. He tried to wrench his arm out of the rope cinched around his elbow and wrist, but had to stop and wince as the cut on his chest pulled.
"That's not acceptable. Tissue regeneration can happen much more swiftly if undue pressure isn't placed on the wound. And you're properly helpless when strapped to the corners of your cabin," River said in a kind of sing-song, touching the belt that kept his waist down on his bed.
Mal blinked, hoping he hadn't heard that right. "River..."
She giggled and tied one of her brightly-colored scarves around his eyes.
"Just following Doctor's orders, Captain. I promise I won't mutiny. Cross my heart."
Mal muttered unappreciatively under his breath as he heard her leave and leaned back into his bunk, his limbs all softly secure in the silk ropes River had gotten from Inara's shuttle. He had to stop getting himself hurt in bar fights. This kind of recovery was driving him insane.
Iron Man (movie), Tony/JARVIS, He likes being held down, he likes it even more when JARVIS is in control
Well Suited - Iron Man, Tony/JARVIS, Hard R
He loaded everything into JARVIS. Absolutely everything. From the specs on every machine he'd ever made, to the extensive and truly spectacular list of XXX titles he had in his entertainment system. All of that was loaded with JARVIS into his suit.
Tony had long ago come to the conclusion that machines were alive, conscious, and as needing of an occasional break as humans. And JARVIS, more long-suffering even than Pepper, deserved a little bit more of a break and consideration every now and then. Tony liked all the women in his life, for their beauty and occasional complete unpredictability. Even Pepper, whom he'd known for years, still surprised him more than just occasionally.
JARVIS, however, he knew everything about. And visa versa. No matter how much Tony charmed a willing lady, he could never know them enough, or get them to know enough about him.
And JARVIS knew what he liked, with no additional mood-killing conversation necessary.
"Schedule clear for the next two hours?"
Inside the comforting confines of the Iron Man suit, Tony quirked a smile. Fun times like this didn't come along too often, even for him.
"Slave controls to you for the next one hundred twenty minutes," Tony said. Then he relaxed completely.
The suit abruptly tipped over, limbs no longer responsive to Tony's movements, leaving him trapped on his back on the floor. It'd take six strong men or more to even budge the hundreds of pounds of metal and machinery. Tony squirmed experimentally anyway, and found while his torso commands still functioned, his arms and legs were dead weight, nailing him to the floor.
Tony loved that. JARVIS knew, of course. He could struggle from now until the end of next century and not be able to get away.
Then the pressure began, like phantom fingers probing and stroking him. The external design of the Iron Man suit got all the attention, with the missiles and repulsor rays and flares, but the internal mechanics were just as spectacular, if more subtle. There was an anti-shock system that shielded Tony from taking the great brunt of damage from being hit or thrown, a kind of gel-like substance that shifted with him to protect his fragile human body from the superhuman stresses he subjected himself to. If you were clever, and JARVIS was very clever, you could modify it for all sorts of other uses.
The pressure varied, from light caresses to deep exploration, JARVIS monitoring every one of Tony's vital functions to keep him from getting too hot, too fast. Deep stroking along his arms and legs, light, ticklish touches along his ribs and shoulders, delicate flicking against the very edges of the arc reactor that kept Tony's heart safe. That touch was so arousing, so dangerous, that Tony would never let anyone else but JARVIS do it. It was too much power in anyone else's hands.
Wave-like stroking started on his lower body, finding Tony's arousal and capturing it, holding him still and keeping him from getting friction. Moaning, his voice echoing oddly in the sound-dampened confines of his helmet, Tony struggled against JARVIS hold to no avail. That only made it better, and JARVIS had to work to hold him back from completion.
Hot, close, deep, still, dangerous, the very rarity of surrender made it too good to last, and still JARVIS held him teetering on the edge, heart thundering in his ears. Tony was rather convinced JARVIS had something of a sadistic streak in him, because he flashed a clock with the remaining time across Tony's vision, showing him how much longer he would be toyed with before he'd be let go.
Tony would have clenched his fists if he'd been able to move the heavy suit gauntlets, but couldn't even manage that. Sweat broke out on his forehead and was immediately cooled by the temperature regulation system. Too much noise JARVIS muffled with a sound overlay, forcing Tony's attention on the building and cresting wave within him. One he had zero control over how big it would get or how far it would drop him.
"Sir, controls returning to you in ten seconds," JARVIS said finally, bringing Tony into sharp focus of what was about to happen. Knife-fine pressure needled around the arc reactor as the seconds counted down in JARVIS' cultured voice.
"3, 2, 1-."
A supernova went off inside the suit.
Tony didn't think he'd felt a more satisfying explosion since he'd become Iron Man.
Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, Dean permanently loses his voice.
Understand - Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, PG-13
Dean was expressive. Hands, stance, facial expression, they could tell people volumes about what he wanted without having to say a word. Sam could decipher his brother's comments with almost telepathic accuracy, reading his silent lips to get whatever new things he was trying to convey with very few mistakes.
Castiel didn't have that lifetime's worth of experience. When the demonic curse had silenced Dean forever, Castiel had been woefully unprepared for the consequences. Whenever Dean was trying to explain some nuance of humanity to him, it took painfully long minutes of pantomime, and usually ended up resorting to paper and pencil. It had robbed Dean of his trademark witty repartee and quick rejoinders.
Though Dean had been very, very quick to pick upon a wide variety of rude gestures and signed insults as compensation.
Castiel knew Dean hadn't been so open to physical affection before the incident. But now it was sometimes the only way he could get someone's attention. He couldn't phone anyone, and his texting was atrocious, even compared to Castiel's fumbling attempts. All he had now was to touch Castiel's arm, grab him by the shoulder, point out the danger...
Kiss him, wrap himself around him, use his entire body to shout when they were together, making up for every word he couldn't speak, saying without voice that none of it was Castiel's fault, and Dean wouldn't leave him for anything. No matter how long it took to make him understand.
Any, any, "What Would You Do For a Dollar?" (The Adventures of Pete & Pete)
Lunchtime Suicide - Supernatural, Sam + Dean, PG
Elementary school!Sam and Dean!
"Don't do it!" Sam groaned, hiding his head in his hands.
"What? I can totally keep this down," Dean insisted.
"Ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper, Coke, gravy, and pickle juice should never be drunk together. I don't care if he bet you a dollar," Sam said, shooting an irritated glare at the guy at the next lunch table. At every new school they went to, Dean always had to do something to prove his superiority. And as a mighty sixth-grader, Dean had a lot to prove, being the new kid.
"Come on, Sammy, Dad sees worse than this before breakfast. I can handle a lunchtime suicide." With no further preamble, Dean tossed the concoction back in three long slugs, slammed the glass back down, and wiped his mouth with every evidence of satisfaction.
The guy at the next table over watched with his mouth open for the full thirty seconds that Dean had to not hork. One minute later, Dean plucked the dollar out of his nerveless hand and went back to eating his lunch.
"Easy as taking candy from a baby, Sam," Dean said, grinning.
"What won't you do for a dollar?" Sam muttered.
Dean through about that long and hard, and finally shrugged.
"Yeah, that's what I figured." Sam rolled his eyes as the lunchbell rang, and Dean stuffed the money into his already overflowing wallet.
Supernatural, turnedintoagirl!Sam/Gabriel. Sam's transformed into a girl by cultists in need of a (female) virgin sacrifice. Gabriel removes the threat by 'de-virginizing' her.
Wildcat - Supernatural, Gabriel/justturnedintoagirl!Sam, R
She was still tall for a woman, tall and athletic. Definite muscle definition, and a flat belly that some would die for. Only a few curves, enough to add a hint of sensual interest, along with her long, blonde hair. Her features had been softened and shrunk, but she still had her wide smile so indicative of Sam Winchester.
And all together, she made for a pretty stunning package.
"So, I guess I call you 'Samantha' now, eh?" Gabriel said, leaning against the door to the bedroom. He leered appreciatively, something Sam had never quite been on the receiving end of before. At least, not the kind of leer that promised things he'd never even contemplated before.
"No! I'm still me; I don't care what those idiots did-," she protested, and stopped, startled when her long hair lashed her shoulders and arms as she emphatically shook her head.
"Oh, you're still you. Believe me. They wanted you just the way you are," Gabriel said, grinning.
Sam went almost scarlet with suppressed anger and gestured at her very new feminine body sharply.
"Virginal," Gabriel clarified. "Hard to find female virgins these days. Your purity was a damn beacon for the cult, and the spell requires a woman. They'll be along to collect you pretty soon, I expect. Good thing I turned up."
"So you can turn me back?" Sam asked, smiling very tightly, teeth gritted.
"I create realistic illusions, sweet pea. And counterspelling this takes more time than we have. They're locked on to you; they'll find you anywhere."
"Well, I can't turn you back into a man, but I definitely can remove the other requirement for the spell." Gabriel's grin had reached shit-eating proportions as Sam gaped at him incredulously.
"Remove my virginity?" Sam squeaked. Yes, squeaked, in ranges she probably hadn't reached since before puberty.
"Well..." Gabriel said, striding forward, taking Sam in his arms, and dipping her backward dramatically. "I prefer to say, make sweet love to you." He said it in a ridiculously exaggerated accent, conjuring a dashing moustache for him and a slinky red gown for her.
"Does this work on all the girls?" she demanded.
"Let's find out," Gabriel said, raising an eyebrow as his hand wandered south of her hip to squeeze firmly.
Sam glared at him for three more seconds, and then pushed her lips to his with a sigh that melted into a moan.
One hour later, all the furniture in the room had been destroyed, the cultists had come and gone in extreme disappointment and empty-handed, and Sam... hadn't stopped coming. Gabriel figured it was the least he could do, especially for anyone who managed to surprise him. Sam Winchester, recent ex-virgin, was a wildcat in the sack. Gabriel made a note to copy that gender-swapping spell for future need. Just in case.
Supernatural, Anna/Crowley, every morning she gives him a feather
Sacrilege For Breakfast - Supernatural, Anna/Crowley, PG-13
It's such a lovely gift. She has a real flair for its placement every morning; inside the newspaper (marking the obits, naturally), by the TV remote, under the computer mouse, a couple times stuck in my coffee and used as a stirrer. Sacrilege for breakfast, my favorite.
There's enough of them now to make quite a statement. More than half are in my hands permanently, shed every time I touch her and make her scream of her own free will. I could have done it the hard way, no question, but that's not what I do. I let people damn themselves, and just give a little push every now and then.
Anna enjoys it, and frankly it didn't take much to push her at all. That red-headed temper isn't just from her vessel, oh no, that's pure Anna. She spent too long in the dirt to be happy in the sky, and I do love to make people happy, for a little while at least. Until I come to collect my due.
I think I'll have the feathers made into her Halloween costume. By Samhain morning, she should have plucked herself bare. Besides, they'll look better on her once they've been through my hands.
CSI:NY, Danny/Don/Mac, bondage freaks Danny out since he was held hostage but he used to love it. He wants to try again and his guys are patient but it's still too much to handle, he gets frustrated with himself.
Safe – CSI:NY, Danny/Don/Mac, R
If Danny let Mac ask again, he was going to keep asking all damn night. "Methodical" didn't begin to describe him when he really got wound up and going. Better to channel that energy from asking to doing.
"Yeah, sure." Danny said it with a smile of confidence that was only half-true, at best, and made himself lay back. He could do this in his sleep. He had done it in his sleep once; he'd let Don and Mac tie him to the bed for the whole night, trapped between them and unable to escape. There hadn't been a whole lot of actual sleep going on that night, but what there had been of it... he'd never dreamed so much. He only dreamed when he was completely tapped out, totally relaxed, and being bound had been a big part of it.
It used to be with every buckle of the leather cuffs set him free, made him calm, let him feel everything more keenly. Don and Mac had given him all sorts of hell when he'd first shown them his very expensive custom-made bondage set. After the first time, they still gave him hell, but only behind closed doors.
Mac started first, threading something cool and soft around his wrist and tightening it very gently. Danny twisted to see a pale blue silk tie around his wrist and scoffed.
"Come on, Mac, we're all professionals here," he snorted, twisting his hand and slipping the bond with no problem.
"Don't get him started," Don warned. "You have him start quoting regulations and he'll turn on football instead 'cause he doesn't think it's time yet. We'll have to watch the Bears losing all night."
"I'm not made of glass," Danny snapped. "Get the cuffs; you know where they are."
He closed his eyes as a fragment of fear made him shiver. "Get him." "Shut up!" A boot came down with a crunching sound next to his head. Danny curled his hand into a tentative fist and made himself relax. It was still healing. Mac was probably right about waiting.
Hell with it. He needed this. He needed to not be here, he wanted to be where his mind went when his body was helpless and someone else was in charge just for an hour or two. He trusted Don and Mac with his life and his secrets. They knew what they were doing. They-.
Don slid the leather ankle cuff into place slowly, and Danny was unwillingly yanked into the here and now, solidly aware of everything. Don kept pausing, hesitating, probably watching him for any sign of something being wrong. Danny set his jaw. He wouldn't see it. There wasn't any fucking thing wrong with him.
"You forget how that catch works, or what?" Danny demanded, eyes closed. Mac had taken his glasses away, so everything would have been blurry anyway. Easier to just concentrate on the familiar ritual. Left ankle, three buckles, middle, top, bottom. Check for tightness (Danny had dropped a few pounds from stress, so Don might have to go in a notch or two on the buckles). See if his foot was still warm, that he was still getting good circulation. Then the right ankle, then the left wrist...
Mac slid something soft around his wrist before putting the leather cuff on him, and Danny almost sighed at Mac wanting to coddle him. He never did that on the job. Matter of fact, Mac would be the last person to let Danny slack off on anything. Mac started to tighten the cuff, closing in snug around his skin, and Danny flinched. It was almost involuntary, completely unintentional, but Mac stopped instantly.
“Just keep going, Jesus, I’m fine,” Danny said, trying to relax again. He could feel the heat from Mac as he shifted near his head.
“We don’t have to do this yet,” Mac said quietly.
“I want to. If you hadn’t noticed, I’d invited you two over with intent, not for football. So make with the leather.” Even to his own ears, Danny didn’t sound very convincing.
There was another long pause, and Danny could just tell Don and Mac were probably sending silent messages over his prone body. Damn it, they could just as well do it with his body, if they got a move on! Danny liked being able to do what no one else could, being the playground, or battleground, for his friends. That’s what made this work, the three of them. Trust. He just needed them to trust him that he could get past one measly bad experience if they’d stop pussy-footing around.
Mac got over himself first and slowly tightened the cuff, pausing every time one of those involuntary tremors rocked Danny’s body. Danny swallowed and consciously tried to relax.
Breathe, Messer. This is your thing. Breathe. Think of something else. No one’s yelling, this is your own damn bed. Think of something else. It’s Mac and Don, they’re safe. They’re safe.
Then Don started on the right wrist.
“Shit!” Danny started, the memory seizing him for a second with rabid intensity. He jerked, feet and one wrist caught, struggling against the bonds in a moment of mindless panic.
“Danny! Danny, it’s us. Danny!” Mac shouted, Don right there with him, trying to catch him before he hurt himself against the imperfect bonds.
Mac wrestled his arms down and held him tight against his chest while Don twisted to pin his waist and legs. Trapped between two almost immovable forces, the panic burned itself out quickly, and Danny slumped back, head thunking against Mac’s chest.
“Get it off. Get it off me, shit, get it off,” Danny said in resignation, pulling on his left wrist. He was less panicked than he was a minute ago, but just needed to have his arm free. Don leaned up to get the buckles off quickly, no finesse, and Danny quickly brought his hands up to rub at his face.
“I’m an asshole,” he muttered. “Ok, who won the bet as to how long I could hold out?”
“If you think we bet on that, then you really are are an asshole,” Don said bluntly.
“Are you ok now?” Mac asked. Danny could feel the words in Mac’s chest, he was being held so close, the heat suffusing him. He wasn’t going to get out of Mac’s grip easily (Mac was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked, the skinny bastard), but the hold around his chest held no trace of the warehouse. Don straddling him was ok too, solid, easy.
Amateur hour as far as Danny’s experience with tying him down went, but good.
Danny took his hands away from his face and breathed again, eyes closed as he felt Don and Mac’s breath on his skin, close enough to kiss.
“Ok. I’m ok.”
He felt them holding him securely, and relaxed, just a little. It was a start.
Criminal Minds/Bones, Any Gen, "I've seen worse."
I've Seen Worse - Criminal Minds/Bones, team/team, PG-13
"I've seen worse." Dr. Brennan bent over the partially melted and shattered skeleton to take a closer look at the angle of the cuts on the femur. The smell was enough to gag a goat, and even the experienced Rossi was looking green.
"Worse than a dismembered corpse that was doused in acid and sent through a garbage truck?" Reid asked.
"Oh yeah. There was that one that was inside a crushed car-," Hodgins said.
"Or that one that had been encased in concrete."
"Or that one in the barrel!"
"Or the mummy."
"Mummy?" Prentiss asked incredulously.
"Or that one in the sewage treatment plant purification pit-."
"We believe you," Morgan said loudly, before the rest of Dr. Brennan's team could get wound up any more.
"But there are still a lot of worse ones..."
"Like that one on the cross!"
"Agent Booth, do they ever stop?" Hotchner asked, very quietly.
"Not to my knowledge, no," Booth said cheerfully, and despite the situation, grinned widely.
Torchwood, any, Out of all their experience at Torchwood, this was the weirdest thing they has ever seen
The Pastry Debacle - Torchwood, team, PG-13
Out of all their experience at Torchwood, this was the weirdest thing they had ever seen.
Alien tech? Check.
Unusual things glowing? In every color of the rainbow.
Strange visitors? From every era and planet possible.
People coming back from the dead? Sometimes a twice-daily occurrence.
Jack in some truly spectacular sexual position with any number of props and/or any number and variety of partners? Occasionally educational, but no longer weird.
Ianto getting coffee for the entire team while in the buff? Startling, but if he'd spent the night with Jack, clothes could sometimes become secondary concerns.
But a pink cupcake sitting in the middle of the floor of the Hub was the weirdest thing they'd seen. It wasn't levitating, emitting strange energy signatures or unusual odors, or attempting to communicate. The Hub had been locked last night, and no one had or was going to have a birthday for a month. There was absolutely no reason on Earth or off it for there to be a perfect pink cupcake in Torchwood's workspace.
Yet there was.
"Is it dangerous?" Gwen asked finally, after everyone had spent twenty minutes trying to analyze the pastry as a potential threat.
"No readings. It's just... there," Tosh said tentatively. Owen shrugged minutely, and Ianto had a pinched and set look on his face.
"Well, one way to find out," Jack declared, not wanting the Hub held hostage to frosting. He took a few steps forward and snatched up the sweet, devouring it in a few bites. Everyone waited for him to start choking and die again, almost preemptively cringing.
"It was a good cupcake," Jack declared, grinning at the team.
"It was a cupcake that breached our security!" Tosh reminded him.
Owen snorted behind his hand, and Gwen glared at him.
"I'm not going to arrest any future cupcakes," Gwen said, shaking her head. "This job's strange enough as it is."
"Maybe it just wanted us to think it's harmless..." Tosh said tentatively, and threw up her hands.
"Let's never speak of this again, shall we?" Ianto suggested, with perfect timing.
And they never did. Ever.
ST: Voyager; Janeway/Seven; Showing Seven the seasons on the holodeck
Summer Storm - ST: Voyager, Janeway/Seven, PG
"This is a training exercise?" Seven inquired, as the captain tapped in her code on the holodeck door.
"Partially. I thought you might like to experience the different seasons on Earth."
"We will not reach Earth for another sixty-eight years," Seven pointed out logically.
"Yes, true, but we will be stopping at other planets along the way, for exploration and reprovisioning..."
"And it would be beneficial to experience the possible scenarios in different weather conditions. I understand, Captain."
"Well, yes. That's important. But many different seasons have different... rituals and holidays that happen during those time-frames. They're part of your heritage, Seven, at least in general. Perhaps it would help you to remember," Janeway said gently.
The doors opened and she ushered Seven to precede her onto a green meadow, tall trees rising along the edges of a small stream, wildflowers nodding in a faint breeze, heavy with scent. The air was sultry hot, the sun just starting to descend, bees buzzed around the flowers, and from the trees came the loud racket from cicadas, making an ever-present drone that gave the whole field a sleepy air.
The doors swished shut behind the two women, completing the illusion of being in a summertime field. Seven looked about with polite interest, cataloguing everything she saw.
"The noise?" she asked.
"Insects. Harmless to humans. This is a place from the mid-latitude northern hemisphere of Earth during the summer equinox, Seven."
"It is very warm, and the moisture in the air would make it difficult for prolonged physical activity for those who are not acclimated," Seven said, nodding with finality.
"This is a season of growth. Many plants are undergoing their most productive period of growth during this season. Due to ancient agricultural calendars, this is also a time when many families take their vacations. They prepare and eat food out of doors, travel to parks, and play games under the sunshine. Sometimes the weather can produce powerful thunderstorms, some of which can be dangerous, but many like to watch and listen to the storm, or even stand out in the rain," Janeway explained, looking about a bit wistfully.
"Why would individuals subject themselves to potential harm from a stray electric discharge to observe damaging weather?" Seven asked, tilting her head to the side.
"Computer, run program Thunderstorm One," Janeway commanded.
Above them the sky began to crowd with clouds, rapidly turning dark as the wind picked up. In moments, thunder began to growl, booming in the two women's ears, as lightning began to flicker across the sky. A bolt struck far out in the meadow, followed by a huge clap of thunder, and the heavens opened up, drenching Seven and Janeway both to the skin in seconds as the summer-warm rain pounded out of the sky.
Lightning continually flashed and the thunder crashed and roared around them, drowning out any potential conversation. Seven's eyes had gone huge and round in her face at the symphony of noise and sensation. Janeway didn't know what was going on in her mind, but the young woman had an unusual expression of almost-fear on her face.
Janeway reached out and laced her fingers with Seven, feeling the metal from her remaining implants digging into her skin as she squeezed her hand in reassurance. Seven didn't take her eyes off the display of nature's fury above her, just stared into the sky, rain running down her face, and gripped Janeway's hand hard in return.
It was long moments later when the storm finally blew itself out, leaving the meadow once again in hot and sultry sunshine.
Seven let go of Janeway slowly, and looked around the meadow with a renewed curiosity and interest, a spark of life in her eyes that was all-too-rare in the ex-Borg.
"Captain, what is this called?" she asked urgently.
"Seven, this is summer." Janeway smiled at this most unusual member of her crew, and saw a small attempt at a smile in return.
"There is more to experience?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then I wish to know more."
Janeway voiced another command to the computer, and the meadow began to fade, the grasses drying, the trees blazing with color, seed heads nodding, heavy with summer's bounty, the air crisping and scented with wood smoke and the faint hint of vegetal decay.
"This is autumn..."
any, any, the song Fresh Blood by Eels
Howl - Leverage, Eliot, PG-13
It would have been his choice anyway. Nate asked him to watch the girl, Angelica, to keep her from being used as leverage against her own father, pulled into a web of crime against his will. Eliot had tried to be discrete, but there was little cover on the deserted streets. It was better that way, though. Angelica knew he was there, and so did the other predators on the streets. They could see him, and know Angelica was too much for any of them to handle.
Especially this week. The moon was heavy and full in the autumn sky, the light silvering the streets even though the dim yellow light from the street lamps. Enough silver light to illuminate the dark corners, to pale Angelica's dark hair, to quicken Eliot's blood.
The team had never really questioned Eliot's past too closely, partly out of courtesy, partly because they didn't need to know. They'd always assumed his far-ranging travels to the most benighted corners of the world had been because of business. And that was partially true. The other part was because in places where technology was scarce and superstition held sway, no one would question what they'd seen. No one would question that a man with no gun, a good head shorter than the other four men he'd been fighting, could leave them all groaning and bleeding in the mud.
That he'd moved faster than any human had a right to, that he'd struck harder than anyone his size should be able to, that in the silver moonlight, he had almost no bruises to show for his trouble. No one would question it.
Eliot didn't need guns. He'd always been weapon enough on his own, especially on a night like tonight. And that was something the two massive bruisers emerging from the shadows were going to learn. There would be fresh blood tonight, and it would not be Angelica's.
Stepping into the full silver light of the moon, Eliot howled. Let Hardison figure that out.