Five Acts Meme

[linndechir]

This is my post for the Five Acts Meme - which looks really awesome and you guys should all sign up. It means that people might write fic for you. And of course you're so allowed to write fic for me even if you don't sign up. ;) It's multi-fandom, don't let the SoA banner scare you away.





- Post a list of your five favourite kinks/acts or themes in your journal. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.
- Comment to the master post with a link to your post.
- Read other people's lists here.
- Post comment-fic based off of other people's lists.




Five kinks:

1) asphyxiation, breath play, choking, collars; also neck/throat petting and biting.
2) guns, knives
3) powerplay, D/s, humiliation (verbal or other), bondage
4) one person being dressed during sex, the other being naked. Can be just that, or can include an actual clothes fetish: leather (boots, gloves, coats etc.), uniforms, or nicely tailored suits, whatever fits the characters.
5) Hand fetishization (big strong hands; steady hands; rough knuckles; calluses; scars) (especially hands on other people's necks, I have a situation okay)



Fandoms/Pairings:

A Song of Ice and Fire: Victarion/Asha, Balon/Victarion, Victarion/Asha/Theon, Victarion/any of his relatives really, Roose/Robb, Aegon/Orys; Stannis/Davos, Stannis/Jon, Stannis/Sansa (although I'm not sure if Stannis ships lend themselves very well to kink ;))

Justified: Raylan/Tim

Skyfall: Bond/Q (top!Q preferred; bottom!Q only if he isn't written as insecure/inexperienced/shy)

Generation Kill: Brad/Nate

Sons of Anarchy: Chibs/Juice, Clay/Tig

The Shield: Vic/Shane, Vic/Aceveda, Shane/Lem

Supernatural: John/Dean (only consensual, I really don't like non-con for this ship)

Inglourious Basterds: Landa/Hellstrom

I ship a lot of other pairings, too, but these are the ones I'd be most interested in reading at the moment. Of course I will be eternally grateful to anyone who writes anything for me. :)






Fics given:

Who needs poetry in a love song (Justified, Raylan/Tim, Grand Romantic Gestures (of sorts)) for ozmissage

Breathe my air and I'll be fine (Skyfall, Bond/Q, oral fixation + breath + kissing) for doreyg

A knife and a kiss (ASOIAF, Victarion/Asha, bloodplay/knifeplay + D/s) for sternflammenden

Crosses on your body (Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, scars + goodbyes) for crickets

I made this place for you (Supernatural, John/Dean, hurt/comfort + UST + touching/bed-sharing) for outboxed



Fics received:

ASOIAF, Stannis/Davos, hand fetishisation and neck touching by janie_tangerine

Trust Me (Sons of Anarchy, Chibs/Juice) by kayim

As you say (ASOIAF, Roose/Robb, kinks: breathplay and neck petting, humiliation, and gloves) by sternflammenden

Untitled (Justified, Raylan/Tim, guns , hands + neck touching) by norgbelulah

Make something happen (ASOIAF, Stannis/Jon) by outboxed

Cold Steel and Smoking Lips (Skyfall, Bond/Q, Knives + Dressed V. Naked, + A bit of powerplay) by doreyg

Comments

[cat-irix.livejournal.com]

Hey :) I haven't had any writing inspiration for ages, so writing memes are out, sadly :( but out of curiosity I followed the link, and discovered the Grand Kink List... LOL! There's really a lot of kinks out there! And I don't even share them all, I feel almost normal ;) Was so amused to see intelligence listed as a kink - never thought of it this way, but I have to agree, indeed intelligence *is* sexy (and lack of intelligence is a turn-off).

Now I'm tempted to repost the list with my own kinks bolded, like all these silly list memes... would take a lot of time though.

I hope you'll get a lot of kinky fics for your list :)

(Oh and Sons of Anarchy? Now I remember I had started to watch it (on a rec from someone from FB) but found it too boring and couldn't keep track of all the characters, so quit after a few episodes... maybe it ought to get better after a while?)

[sternflammenden.livejournal.com]

Roose/Robb never gets old. Just saying. :)

asoiaf, stannis/davos, hand fetishization + neck touching, pg

[janie-tangerine.livejournal.com]

Stannis had known that Davos had rough hands. He had known in a purely abstract way, until this very moment. It’s not as if he’s ever touched them if not for brief moments once in a while, and Davos had been wearing gloves most of the time – he never had any reason. But Davos used to be a smuggler and smugglers can’t have soft hands – that much he’d have imagined on his own.

But now that he feels them, it’s an entire other matter.

He hadn’t thought it would happen. He had been the first to be surprised at his reaction the moment Davos showed up in front of him at Winterfell with Rickon Stark in tow and the alliance coming with it (not that he could care less right now). He had surprised himself when he asked Davos to follow him to his quarters and then grabbed the lapels of his worn-out cloak and brought him forward, and he hadn’t been expecting Davos’s hands to brush against his neck as Davos moved back (a while later). But he had felt that, and he had reached up and grabbed the both of them so that they’d stay there. Davos had looked surprised but hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t moved them either.

No one would say that they are nice hands. The skin under Davos’s fingertips is rough and calloused and there isn’t a part of them that is soft against his neck. He doesn’t have very long fingers, and his right hand is slightly shaking but he’s not moving it away. But it feels nice. There are no gloves now, and the fingertips were cold when they touched him at first, but they’re slightly warmer now.

That’s for the fingertips. On the right hand, because the fingertips from the left aren’t exactly in contact with his skin. But the palm is, and it’s almost as rough as the fingers. Stannis can imagine the lines running over it, and he thinks that it would look dark against his neck (spending half of your life on a ship will make your skin darker), and when he looks straight at Davos he doesn’t even know how to describe the way he’s looking at him. Surprised. Not disgusted. Maybe a bit wary of doing the wrong thing. In his position, Stannis supposes he would – he’s not exactly behaving the way he’s done all of his life. But it’s just – he had thought that Davos was really dead this time, and he doesn’t know what’s possessing him right now. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t ask himself.

He reaches up with his right hand, covers Davos’s left the best he can without actually seeing it, and curls his fingers downwards. He thinks he visibly shivers when Davos’s maimed fingertips meet the skin where neck meets collarbone, and they’re – it’s different. They’re still rough, but not as much, and there are no nails, of course, and for a moment he wishes he had never swung that blade.

“I shouldn’t have,” he says, and he can’t recognize his own voice.

“I remember agreeing to it, Your Grace,” Davos replies, and his voice is half-shaking as well.

“Don’t,” he replies. “Not right now. And it doesn’t matter.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed for just anyone.” Davos’s voice is barely audible, and they’re so impossibly close right now. It would be the work of a moment to close that distance entirely, and now that Davos is here and alive he can’t find it in himself to move away.

He shouldn’t be that weak. At least, a part of him is insistently repeating that. But it’s drowned out by another part that says just do it for once, you denied yourself long enough.

And he can’t take that step himself, he knows he can’t, but then he just nods, once, hoping that Davos understands what he means (he should, he always does) and then Davos’s right hand slowly moves upwards, touching his cheek almost reverently. His left stays where it is, his thumb pressing softly against Stannis’s skin, and then his mouth is right there and his lips are touching Stannis’s – his right hand shaking just slightly but not moving away.

He kisses back, his own arms tightening around Davos’s waist, grabbing fistful of his tunic, and it’s the first time in his life where he doesn’t kiss someone out of duty, and as Davos’s left hand moves to the back of his neck and the right still cradles his cheek, the only thought passing through his head is yes, yes, yes.

[kayim.livejournal.com]

I couldn't resist a SoA prompt! I've never written anything like this before, so I hope it's okay....



Trust Me, Sons of Anarchy, Chibs/Juice, Rated R

"Trust me."

The Scottish accent was familiar enough that Juice closed his eyes and let the feel of it wash over him. He let Chibs' ease his naked body against the wall, his hands gripping Juice's wrists gently enough that they both knew he could break free any time he wanted to, but tight enough that Juice didn't want to. Chibs brought his arms up, pinning Juice to the wall, before Chibs' leaned into him, their bodies linked from chest to leg, nothing between them except the soft white t-shirt and jeans that Chibs still wore. Chibs was leaning heavy against him making it hard to breathe, but all Juice could think about were the words Chibs was whispering in his ear.

"You should have come to me."

Chibs let go of Juice's arm, and brought his hand down to Juice's throat. He ran his fingers over the still visible bruising that circled the smooth flesh, skimming the skin with his blunt nails. Juice felt himself grow hard and longed to rub himself against Chibs' denim-clad thigh, but he knew if he moved too much, Chibs would stop and walk away.

"You should have told me."

The fingers pressed tighter as he spoke. Juice sucked in a breath as deep as he could and imagined Chibs' fingers covering the bruises, replacing them with new ones. New ones that would be evidence of the good that Juice could do, rather than the bad.

"I could have helped."

Chibs spread his fingers until his hand was circling Juice's throat. As he rested his hand there, he released Juice's wrist and brought the other hand down between them to grip Juice's rock-hard erection. He began a slow rhythm, squeezing gently with one hand, then the other. His breath was warm against Juice's face, the scent of cigarettes and whiskey a heady combination.

"Come on, Juice, my boy. You need to listen to me. Come on."

Juice wanted to cry out, sob, apologize, beg, but he was struggling to breathe. His eyes still closed, he listened to the sound of Chibs' voice, allowing himself to drown in the softness. He barely heard the words, hearing only the promise of protection, safety, home that surrounded him. He felt the world outside fade away until the only thing he was aware of was Chibs.

"I'm here."

He wasn't even aware of the tears that rolled down his cheek as he came.

Roose/Robb, As you say (kinks: breathplay and neck petting, humiliation, and gloves)

[sternflammenden.livejournal.com]

A/N: show!verse Roose/Robb, only way that this works is with McElhatton’s “flaying you with my eyes, boy” and Madden’s hormonal puddle of angst.

Roose Bolton arrives at his tent late that evening, and reluctantly, Robb grants him entrance.

“It is done, Your Grace.”

Robb looks at him, eyes full of torment that he will not voice, that shows all too well in the glassy gleam therein, the slumped cast of his shoulders, the tightness in his voice. “I thank you for that, Lord Bolton.” He sinks his head in his hands, imagining how it will go when Bolton’s Bastard and his men march on Winterfell. Robb has heard tales from his father, from Old Nan, from the smallfolk who cluster inside the walls of Winter Town, about what sort of man Ramsay Snow is, what sort of casual cruelties that he is capable of, and while there is a part of him that fears for the man who he’d once called brother, there is another, hardened by war, by family ties, that longs to see him on his knees, begging Robb for mercy, begging for an absolution that he has no power, nor will, to grant.

It is a part that he is desperate to root out, to cut away, a part that is alien to him, for it breaks his heart.

“Your Grace?” Bolton has neared the makeshift table where Robb sits, a map, untouched, spread in front of him, candles burnt to nubs providing the only light in the close, dim space. He feels the whisper of a touch, Bolton’s gloved hand, passing across the back of his neck, and he shivers. “Your Grace,” Bolton continues, his voice almost a caress, “what you have done was necessary. The Greyjoy boy must be made example of.”

Robb sighs then for even the mention of Theon’s name is painful now. “He was my brother. What I have done is unconscionable. What I have done is a death sentence. What I have done-”

“Is the action of a king.” Bolton’s voice is hard now, cutting off Robb’s childish protests. He feels the other man’s grip, once so tentative, tighten, and his breath draws harsh in his throat at the feel of the soft leather on his bare skin, at the closeness of Bolton as he leans toward Robb. His thumb toys with the notch of Robb’s collarbone, hand sliding around to encircle his throat, fingers sliding inside of Robb’s collar.

“What he has done to my Bran and Rickon…I should be glad to swing the blade. But must blood answer for blood?” Robb looks Bolton in the eyes, the pain writ large on his face.

Roose Bolton’s grip tightens at this, and a cold cast comes over his features. There is a slight contempt in his voice as he answers. “It must if you ever hope to rule. The north is full of hard men, and harder deeds. Look at Karstark. Do you think that he would hesitate were such an insult perpetrated upon his family? And the Greatjon, would he not destroy any who threatened the safe of Last Hearth?”

Robb gasps for breath, struggling against fingers that check it, and he lays a shaking hand on Bolton’s wrist. “And Bolton,” he says in response, “after all, you are the one whispering in my ear, and I know all too well what sort of man you are.”

With that, Bolton releases his grip on Robb. He laughs, a queer, dry sound. “And what sort is that, Your Grace? I live only to serve you in all things. It is not my concern that your tender feelings for the Greyjoy whelp cloud your judgment. And it is not my place to shield you were such thoughts made known.” He smiles then, his eyes dead to mirth.

Robb’s face flushes, and he breaks his gaze, staring into the shadowy corners of the tent. “He was merely my brother, and nothing more,” he says at last, releasing his grip on Bolton’s arm, hand snaking away in shame. “Nothing more.”

Bolton nods. “As you say, Your Grace.” He trails a finger down Robb’s cheek, wiping at the tear that has betrayed him in his misery. “As you say.”

[norgbelulah.livejournal.com]

Untitled | Justified | Raylan/Tim | guns , hands + neck touching

Raylan wraps his hand around Tim’s neck like he wraps his hand around his glock.

Index finger extended straight along the side, tip brushing the tender spot behind his ear, like it would along the frame below the barrel. Palm solid across the back, across the grip, across the short hairs that raise themselves up on their ends. Thumb curling around, sliding down, back and forth, getting it right, solid, but not too hard.

Tim’s head is bent down and he’s breathing like he’s run a mile, or an alley in Kabul. He’s on his knees on the bed. Raylan’s got him held like a weapon. He’s hard as fuck.

“You can touch yourself,” Raylan murmurs.

He would shake his head if he could, if he wanted to move in the slightest. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“Your call,” Raylan tells him calmly. “You know what to do if you want to stop.”

Tim does. He doesn’t want that.

Raylan’s index finger moves now, sure, across the stubble at his jaw, across the underside, the frame, slips across the trigger, rests just above his adam’s apple, like it lives there.

He waits a beat, for the word that won’t come.

And slow, so so slow, he starts to squeeze.

[outboxed.livejournal.com]

I also wanted to write you John/Dean and The Shield fic but, for now, have the pairing which brought us together.♥ Also, yes, I am cheating and writing fic even though I've not signed up (yet).



make something happen | asoiaf, stannis/jon, r
with references to a tonne of your kinks that I'm too lazy to list - also, this way it's a surprise, & who doesn't like surprises?


They argue. It's what they do. Stannis states his demands and Jon refuses to meet them. But that's it. That's all it is. Negotiation after negotiation with barely a raised voice or a fist slammed on the table.

Jon knows what it is to be impetuous and angry, full of frustrated rage and a sense of having been wronged, and he lets that show sometimes. Stannis' anger, if he feels it, shows only in his eyes and the way his speech becomes that slightest bit more formal, words clipped down to the most regimented versions of themselves. And sometimes, sometimes Jon just wants to see him break. He wants to push Stannis that bit too far, to see him crack, see the man inside, the way all that want is coiled up tight inside him, waiting for the dam to break. He wants to just get Stannis to move.

He wants Stannis to rise from his chair, rise to his full and imposing height, slam a hand, palm down, on the table, and make some greater sign of his distaste for Jon's proposal than mere spoken dissent.

He wants Stannis to break and belittle him, say all the things Jon knows he thinks about how low Lord Snow's position truly is. He wants Stannis to use the words he normally states as fact, 'bastard' and 'boy', as insults instead; wants to hear something more than mere distaste behind them.

He wants Stannis to crowd him up against the wall of his solar, pin him against it with just a hand to Jon's neck, and make him concede to his terms. He wants the hand to tighten, just enough that he feels breathless and helpless, before Stannis releases him. His breath gets shorter just thinking of it: Stannis' hands lingering, callus-rough and too-real feeling, as he pulls away.

He wants, more than anything, to be something more than another obstacle, another pawn to be manoeuvred for the good of Stannis' kingly campaign. But he'd take Stannis' hands on him, just the same, if he could only compel him to passion or anger, make him feel anything at all beyond the bounds of cold pragmatism. He wants to feel the air choked from him with the rush of surprise and triumph, if only he could induce Stannis to move.

[doreyg.livejournal.com]

(Ohai I also really love your Five Acts choices. AND I MAY BE BACK! Because Daniel Craig has really gorgeous hands, yep. <<)

Cold Steel and Smoking Lips (Skyfall, Bond/Q, Knives + Dressed V. Naked, + A bit of powerplay, R) 1/2

Take the picture: a bony, fragile man. Barely out of boyhood, still with the shadow of spots upon his face. Not a white hair on his head, not a single wrinkle crumpling his skin – only full black, smooth paleness that stretches into rough wool. The single hint to him being more than he seems, perhaps a bohemian university graduate in the habit of complaining in a threadbare box of a flat, the slightest glint to his eye – a little bit of wiseness that even an agent trained over twenty years could quite easily miss.

Now: take the way he holds a knife.

Take the way he knocks that trained agent back to the bed, as easily as breathing. Take the way he straddles, as no true innocent could possibly manage. Take the way he crawls, inch by inch with knife carefully ghosting over fabric so expensive that it could probably buy two ordinary cars – maybe three, depending on the seller.

“007,” Q purrs, and cuts him out of his bow-tie as easily as he’d slice butter.

You wouldn’t expect a boy, such a boy to the point where he’s wondering if this is the youngest he’s ever considered bedding, to know how to hold a knife. How to hold anything, really. He looks like he’d break a gun, with a dramatic fumble and awkward cough. Looks like his wrists could barely hold up the weight of a properly full mug, would need somebody to support him every sip of the way. Looks like he’s barely even touched a cock, the type of person who came out of some pretentious university with only a combined year of longing overall to show for it.

You wouldn’t expect it, But it still happens.

The jacket, ever so expensive, floats to the floor in mere rags. The shirt, slightly less so, follows smoothly. The undershirt, more a precaution than anything, is cut so close to skin that it can be felt. The sentiment is continued for a few long moments afterwards – the knife hovered deliciously over skin to the point where a cut is expected at any moment.

“Bond,” Q hums in his ear, and gets started on his trousers with a briskness that can only be admired.

He never even thought that he’d want this, he can admit now that things are getting tighter and closer and right to the point. Dangerous women squeezed into dresses, martini glasses in hand and guns held delicately behind back. Tough men, always older than him when he was young and close to his age now that he’s… Well. Those are his types, those are his almost-weaknesses, those are the things that boys who look barely capable of holding knives are surely not-

That point is a little confused now, he will admit.

His trousers go, like they were never there. His underwear follows in a businesslike motion, soon afterwards. Q even takes time on his socks, slicing them from his feet in a way that’s never been erotic before but that somehow manages.

“James,” Q deigns, and slithers back up his body with knife still in hand.

And it may be a surprise to some, definitely will be a surprise to most, but he’s never really gotten off on pain before. Adrenaline, yes. Danger, maybe. But he has no use for pain: has thought himself too experienced in the bastards of the world to ever get off on a gun held to his head or a fist slammed into his stomach or a tight hand around his balls or a knife-

And that has been rapidly proved untrue again, such a pity.

And the scrape of cold steel against his collarbone is intoxicating, and the tightness of Q’s hand around his cock is superb, and the still clothed weight of him upon his stomach is astonishing, and the sharp breaths in his ear sound like the best kind of bullets, and there is heat and light and brilliance and the last time he remembers coming this hard is with Vesper smiling in his ear and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

“James,” Q repeats, and laughs softly as he quietly falls apart.