Log in

No account? Create an account

the island of conclusions

Five Acts!

the island of conclusions

bright star

Five Acts!

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
This is my favorite meme, y’all! I haven’t written anything for so long—but this might be a good way to get back on that horse.

- Post a list of your five favorite kinks/acts or themes in your journal. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.

- Comment to the signup post with a link to your post.

- Browse the master list to see others' acts. Write something and post it in a comment on their journal. Other people might write something for you, too! (nb: you don’t have to sign up to write fic!).


Yeah, I’m predictable—but I need some of the old favorites right now.

1. Fever: h/c, with or without sexual content, bonus for fever!sex.

2. Voice kink: Intense sensual response to a particular voice. Could be dirty talk, could be just that voice saying ordinary things. Getting off from sound of the voice alone. Talking somebody through something, sexual or otherwise. I’m also interested in the darker side of this: verbal humiliation, dressing down, cussing out.

3. Impact play: sparring, wrestling, hitting, slamming into a wall, tackling, etc. Marking and bruising. I’m mostly interested in consensual forms of this, but dub-con is okay too.

4. Fuck-or-die: what it says on the tin.

5. Altered States: less interested in aphrodisiacs and sex pollen than in anything that changes perception in some significant way—though sex can certainly be part of it. Maybe a scenario where one character has to talk another person down from it, or get them through it safely. Maybe everyone just enjoys the ride.

Fandoms & Pairings:

Hawaii Five-O: Steve/Danny, Steve/Catherine, Danny/Kono, Steve/Kono
Sherlock Holmes: Holmes/Watson
BBC Sherlock: John/Sherlock, Lestrade/John, Lestrade/Sherlock, John/Lestrade/Sherlock.
Grimm: Nick/Monroe, Nick/Juliette, Nick/Monroe/Juliette, Monroe/Rosalee
Mission: Impossible—Ghost Protocol: Ethan/Brandt, Ethan/Brandt/Benji/Jane
White Collar: Neal/Peter, Peter/El, Neal/Peter/El
The Eagle: Marcus/Esca
The Unusuals: Beaumont/Walsh

nb: there are bunches of even smaller fandoms that I like--if you think I might like it, go for it!
  • ahhhh! Imma so write you something. This might be what gets me to write MI4 fic. :DDDDD
  • I was browsing the list and saw The Eagle under your name. So then I had to go look at your list of acts...and I'm toying around with the idea of the Voice Kink one, if that's okay with you?
  • Oh jeebus we have Unusuals as an option!!! I may be kinking for this lol
  • Unusals Beaumont/Walsh - Managed to hit Impact Play AND Voice Kink lol

    Best Shot

    Jason hit the ground with a thud and a groan for what was the… well he didn’t really feel like counting how many times his ass had hit the floor so far tonight. They’d been sparring for a while now, and he didn’t seem to be getting any better. He groaned again as he tried to stand and failed miserably – yeah, he was going to feel that one tomorrow. He just hoped Casey’d leave him with his pride when she found out in the morning. Assuming Beaumont even left his pride intact.

    He stared up at the Latina in question, standing serenely on the edge of the mat next to his bed, a mat they’d had to work hard to get into the room in the first place. He’d moved far more of his crappy furniture to get the damn thing flat than his back had been happy about. And that did not mean he was getting old… just not quite so young, exactly.

    Jason managed stood with a wince, and the pair began to circle each other again. Then Beaumont moved in to land a solid left against his ribs and then swept his feet out from under him again. He stayed down a little longer this time.

    Fuck, he was getting old. That or his woman was a sadist.

    “Come on, tough guy. You’re the one who thought you could take me hand to hand,” Beaumont mocked with a sly grin, crossing her arms under her breasts in a teasing move he knew was deliberately distracting.

    “Definitely a sadist,” he grumbled, and just sulked when she grinned all the wider.

    “Are you gonna get up or are you ready to give up already?” she said, sounding almost disappointed. “I gotta tell you, Walsh, I thought you had more stamin-”

    • Re: Unusals Beaumont/Walsh - Managed to hit Impact Play AND Voice Kink lol

      A sudden lunge from Jason, one that surprised him almost as much as her, cut her off as he full on tackled her off of the mat and onto the bed. She laughed, near breathless after the blow of his weight on her, and he raised his head and grinned back at her, albeit a little tiredly.

      “Well, now that’s more like it,” she purred, and he grinned again.

      “Like that, huh?” He settled himself more comfortably over her and leaned in for a few quick teasing kisses. “’Thought I’d have more stamina’ my ass.” He sniffed disdainfully and rocked his hips against her, and this time she was the one to groan.

      Jason’s grin was decidedly smug as he kissed her again, his hands busy pulling down her sweatpants and his own. Jason batted her hands away when she tried to help – his pride was at stake after all. He could get her naked all by himself, thanks.

      Jason said as much, and Beaumont threw back her head and laughed again and allowed him to raise her hands above her head to slide her shirt and sports bra off. She started to drop her hands back down again, but sighed and moved them back at his mock glare.

      “Pushy tonight, aren’t ya?” she said, her laugh still in her voice, and he went just that much harder at the sound. God but she was sexy when she was like this, all rumpled hair and sultry voice. And yeah, naked – but that was only part of the allure. The fact that she chose to be all laid out beneath him, giving up control when their little sparring session proved just how easily she could take it back if she wanted?

      Well fuck if that wasn’t fast becoming one of Jason’s bullet proof kinks.

      He lowered his mouth to her breasts and his hand to her core and set about making sure she was aware of just how much she drove him batshit. It didn’t take long until she was writhing beneath him, muttering his name over and over until she bowed up and came with a long shudder. Jason kept stroking her softly as she continued to tremble, and only once she’d managed to open her eyes again to stare up at him did he move his hand to reach for one of the condoms on his bedside table.

      She gave an unsteady laugh at the waggled brows and smug grin he knew was plastered on his face, and he couldn’t resist teasing her for it.

      “Little too much for you Beaumont? I gotta tell you, I’da thought you could take more than-” he broke off with a moan as Beaumont took the condom from him and proceeded to slide it on him, her clever hands every bit as teasing as his had been.

      “Mmm, you were saying?” She looked pretty damned proud of herself, not that Jason could blame her. Not that he’d say as much.

      He slid into her without any other warning, and was gratified to see the smug look fall off her face as her eyes shut at the feel of him. She reached up to clutch his shoulders and pull him closer, but he held himself perfectly still, just waiting.

      “Walsh…” Her voice was half demanding and half begging, just the way he loved to hear it. That tone was what finally had him moving, hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her.

      He’d leave bruises he knew, easily as many as she’d left on him while they were sparring, and the thought sent a dark thrill through him. One he didn’t doubt she’d be feeling too, judging from the wicked tilt of her lips and the way she deliberately dug her nails into his back and ass. He hissed as her hands hit a particular sore spot, but she just gripped all the harder dragging him with her as she came again. He cursed and followed, hips stuttering as he came hard enough that he went blind for a moment.

      Jason lay heavily on her, both of them breathing hard for a moment. Then he pushed himself up and pulled out, drawing a wince and a hiss from both of them this time.

      He dealt with the condom and grabbed a washcloth to clean them up, then all but collapsed face down on his bed again.

      “You really gonna sleep that way?” Beaumont asked softly, already near asleep. He grunted and managed to gingerly pull himself up slightly on his side, trying to avoid the bruises on his derriere.

      “My ass hurts,” he whined, and it was the sound of her soft laughter that soothed him to sleep.
    • Re: Unusals Beaumont/Walsh - Managed to hit Impact Play AND Voice Kink lol

      eee! the idea of Walsh and Beaumont sparring is hotter than--well, than just about anything--yum!! Plus, I just love Walsh, half-rueful, half just enjoying the heck out of his woman being a badass. Thank you so much for this!
  • I'm playing around with a John/Lestrade fuck-or-die scenario, but it's dub-con (they're captured and being threatened), so not sure if that would appeal? Though fuck or die strikes me as always being a bit dub-con anyhow.
    • That sounds awesome! I am completely fine with the dub-con part of fuck-or-die -- that's part of its appeal!
  • Half empty (1/7) - John/Lestrade NC17

    Warning: dub con

    Their plan to capture Colonel Moran had gone wrong, of course. But that's the problem with being the B team, Greg thinks, no longer having Sherlock to guide them. John and him had worked out there were two entrances to the house at 220 Baker Street. They hadn't spotted the third way in via the roof, so Moran had been able to double back and get them in his sights. And so here they are, held captive in an unoccupied house by a madman with a private arsenal.

    "It could be worse," John says, checking round the bare room yet again. "At least we're still alive."

    "Sit down," Greg tells him. "You need to conserve your energy." He's sitting on the floor himself, resting against one wall, making himself as comfortable as his handcuffs will allow.

    "If I sit down, I'll stiffen up," John protests. He tried to fight Moran, silly bugger, and nearly got himself shot. In fact he's lucky to have got away with a black eye and several kicks in the ribs, Greg reckons.

    "If I can just get some leverage on the cuffs–" John goes on.

    "You'll break something. Probably a bit of you." There are people Greg's met who can escape from speedcuffs; he's not one of them, and he doubts John is. "There's nothing we can do till Moran comes back."

    John turns to look at him. "If you get the chance, Greg, make a run for it. Don't worry about me, I can look after myself."

    "Oh, for fuck's sake," Greg growls. The last thing he needs now is John being heroic. "I'm staying with you. I'm not outliving you as well as Sherlock."

    Wrong thing to say, he realises, as John's chin goes up.

    "Sherlock isn't dead!" he almost shouts.

    The old argument again. They've had it a lot in the past three years.

    "You saw him die yourself."

    "There have been sightings."

    "None of them reliable."

    "What about Abdul Khan? He knows Sherlock well."

    "Millions of people on the hajj and he just happens to run into Sherlock in disguise in Mecca?" Greg replies. "He made a mistake."

    "And the reports from France?" John demands. His eyes are scanning the ceiling now, as if he imagines he can break out there.

    "I've talked to the Police nationale, I've talked to Interpol, I've talked to every French contact I have. The trail just vanishes."

    John's glaring at him now, turning into the small concentrated force of anger Greg remembers from the months after Sherlock's suicide.

    "But you know he's alive, don't you? You can feel he's alive. And Mycroft could have fixed the death. He's juggled round with corpses often enough."

    Greg can feel his own anger rise now, after so long forcing it down, being reasonable. How the fuck could Sherlock have done this to them, to John?

    "It's possible," he says. "Anything's possible with bloody Sherlock. But there's nothing we can do about it now. What matters is getting out of here alive. So come and sit down and stop wearing yourself out."

    John lets out a long, shuddering breath, and then comes and slowly, carefully, sits down beside Greg. Then his head slumps down.

    "You OK?" Greg mutters, but before John can answer, they hear the door opening. The blond, burly figure of Moran walks in, a thug barely disguised by the Armani suit. Though just about everyone looks more like a thug when holding a pistol, Greg reckons.

    "So Sherlock Holmes is alive," Moran says. "I thought you two might know something."
    • Half empty (2/7) - John/Lestrade NC17

      Warning: dub con

      "Shit," Greg breathes; he should have guessed that the room might be bugged.

      John's head stays down and he says nothing, but there's something about his very stillness that suggests a lack of surprise. He had worked out that Moran might be listening in, hadn't he, Greg realises. And decided it was safer to let Moran find out at once how little they knew.

      "We dunno where he is," Greg says, staring up at Moran, and John's knee presses briefly against his, accompanied by a momentary smile. I'm on the right track, he thinks, and goes on: "But I put in a request for an exhumation more than a year ago and it's been repeatedly blocked. Someone's keen to keep Sherlock dead and buried."

      "Do you think he'd tell us if he was alive?" John says bitterly, raising his head. "He didn't trust us enough to tell us anything."

      Moran smiles a toothy, brutal smile. "I'm not going to have a problem finding him now, though, am I? Now I've got bait."

      So that's why we're still alive, Greg thinks. Though for how much longer, God alone knows.

      John stands up awkwardly, levering his body up against the wall, and then walks towards Moran, staring up at the huge man.

      "Let DI Lestrade go," he says. "He's far more likely to be missed than I am, and I'm bait enough for Sherlock."

      "Very noble," Moran says, still smiling, "but I need both of you for my little message. You're quite sure you don't know how to contact Holmes?"

      John shakes his head.

      "Then we're back to the wonders of the internet," Moran announces cheerfully. "Isn't it amazing that there are a billion things on it, and yet a clever man, whether he's in Lhasa or London, can find the exact one that's of interest to him. Like a video of you two having sex together."

      "What?" Greg demands.

      "You heard what I said," Moran drawls. "That's my message to Sherlock. Don't you think he'll want to come and investigate, find out what you two are playing at?"

      He'll certainly suspect something's wrong, Greg thinks. Whereas if anyone at the Met hears about the video, they'll just presume Lestrade's having some kind of mid-life crisis and hush up his disappearance. It's a clever move by Moran.

      "Suppose we don't want to play?" John asks. He looks tiny next to Moran, but his voice is calm.

      "You don't need your toes to fuck, do you? You don't even both need to be alive."

      Moran's clearly as warped as his boss was, and probably just as deadly. John looks round at Greg, his face stiff, closed.

      "Greg?" he asks. It's not quite a plea, but if Moran's out to threaten Sherlock, it's obvious who he's going to harm first. And Greg knows he can't let John get hurt again.

      He nods and John turns back to Moran. "We'll need the handcuffs off," he announces.

      "Oh, I'm not letting you loose," Moran says. "You're far too eager for a fight. But don't worry, you don't need to do anything. What I want is Lestrade to fuck you, Dr Watson."

      Greg's stomach lurches and he can't help letting out a groan. John's prepared to shag almost anyone, with enough incentive, but he's not sure he can... Well, he's going to have to try, isn't he?
  • Half empty (4/7) - John/Lestrade NC17

    Warning: dub con

    John's idea of snogging seems to involve trying to wear away their lips by sheer force; Greg can't remember the last time he's been so thoroughly kissed. And, yeah, it does start doing bloody stupid things to his body. He realises after a few minutes that one of his hands is stroking John's hair.

    "John?" he mutters, and John's eyes, dark and grey, flick open for a moment. They look unfocussed, as if he's not properly awake.

    "S'OK," he says, "don't worry." And then his eyes are closing again and he's reaching up, attacking Greg's mouth, pressing his tongue against the line of Greg's lips this time. And also somehow managing to thumb one of Greg's nipples through his shirt, which is pretty bloody impressive while wearing handcuffs.

    What with that and the kissing, Greg can feel himself starting to get hard. Which is the point, of course, but it's still all wrong. Only somehow, despite that – because of that – he can't stop it. It's as if the wiring in his brain has been reversed and he wants something – someone – he knows he's never supposed to have. His body presses against John's, even as his mind is warning him not to.

    John breaks off the kiss abruptly and murmurs:

    "Time for battle." And then he says, in the officer's voice that brooks no argument: "Get your kit off."


    "I'll give you oral to start you off. We need all the lubrication we can get. Any better suggestions?"

    "No...but you don't have to."

    "If Moran doesn't get enough of a show, he'll want someone's blood," John says, and then he swallows and weariness comes into his eyes. "I've seen too many people die and we're not going to join them."

    "What's the best position for you?" Greg asks, because that's the one thing he can do. Try and keep John safe, even as he knows he's going to have to hurt him. He must be aching and tired enough already. Moran's stacked the handcuffs, so John's hands are facing in opposite directions, and he can't rest one without pulling at the other. They have to do this quickly, and rely on adrenaline to keep them going.

    "Kneeling's easiest," John says, and Greg helps him down, and then rapidly pulls off his own shoes, trousers and pants. He keeps his shirt on, because that somehow means he's got a trace of dignity left; no Peeping Toms on the internet get to snigger at his lack of a six-pack.

    "What now?" he says, trying to sound calm.

    "Don't fall over and tell me when to stop," John replies. "And suck your fingers. You'll need to start me off with them."

    He feels John's mouth close gently over his cock; his own mouth is dry but he works his throat, trying to get some saliva flowing, and then sticks a couple of fingers in his mouth, like some weird cigarette substitute. He starts to suck them and realises he's mimicking the rhythm of John's mouth, a rhythm that is sparking every nerve in his own body. He wants this; it's shameful how much he wants this. It's been so long since anyone has done this to him, for him...
    • Half empty (5/7) - John/Lestrade NC17

      He can suddenly feel how near the edge he is, and he drags his fingers from his mouth and yells "Stop" just in time. John's mouth comes off him, but John doesn't look up. Instead, he shuffles back on his knees and then bends to rest his arms on the carpet, obviously trying to find a position he can brace himself in.

      "You OK?" Greg says, and wonders why he bothers asking. Of course John isn't OK, but there's nothing he can do or say that will help. There's no reply from John, and Greg goes to kneel behind the smaller man, his legs straddling him. Then he reaches round, very cautiously, for John's flies.

      "Say if you need me to stop," he says, and wishes to God he can be sure he'll do this right.

      "Take it slowly," John says, and his voice now has the focused concentration of someone instructing a rather dim medical student. "Fingers in the anus first, then just the tip of your erection. So my sphincter muscles have time to adjust."

      Greg unzips John's jeans and pulls them down, then his boxers. He's not surprised by now that John's half hard. Doesn't mean he's enjoying himself. Once the pale skin of John's muscular arse is revealed, Greg spits yet again on his hand, and then his fingers trace down between John's buttocks, spreading them.

      He tried anal sex with his wife once, years ago, and she practically screamed the house down with pain. He suspects John won't scream, but part of him is still terrified, half-remembered warnings about safe sex floating back into his mind. But then you can't get any less safe sex than having a psychopath with a gun watching you. John must reckon it's OK, and since Moran is watching, they daren't try and fake anything. Greg puts his fingers cautiously on John's arsehole, rubs it, starts to press in. John gives a soft sigh and says in a shaky voice, slightly muffled by the carpet: "That's right. A tiny bit further and then stop."

      After a couple of minutes, Greg's world narrow to the strange sensations: the brush of his bare legs against the carpet, the sweat trickling down inside his shirt; John's carefully controlled voice telling him to push or to stop. There's no room for panic or excessive emotion any more than there'd be when you're resuscitating someone or running an evacuation procedure. But then John tells him to pull his fingers out, and he knows what is coming next. It shouldn't make any difference, but it does. He tugs at his cock, his erection rapidly returning and he knows this is where he to accept the impossible. That he wants this; that maybe he's always wanted this. That Moran has somehow seen something in him that he didn't know himself was there.

      "I'm sorry," he says, and John doesn't reply. Then Greg puts the glistening head of his cock against John's arsehole and pushes in slowly.
Powered by LiveJournal.com