lovely_ambition: (Default)
All right, more things.

For the twelve days of Christmas, my ONE TRUE PAIRING love gave to meeeee:

Twelve Bors exaggerating,
Eleven Dagonets smashing,
Ten Vanoras singing,
Nine Guineveres swooning,
Eight Romans dying,
Seven Saxons crying,
Six Tristans kicking ass,
Five bottom Galahads!
Four Gawains with axes,
Three wise Merlins,
Two Lancelots bitching,

AND AN…

Arthur with a shiny phallic symbol!

Joel/Hugh. No particular title. Outcamping Ioan and Clive. Sex. )
lovely_ambition: (Default)
"Sam," Josh would say. "Sam, it's time."

And Sam would know what time it is. It's the moment they've been waiting for. On Sam's calendar, there is no marked day for this event, but he has been anticipating it for years now. He has been waiting for the phone call, for the arrival, for Josh to show up (in from the pouring rain) and to tell Sam that he's found the real thing. But this time, there isn't going to be any leaving. No one is going to New Hampshire, because this time, the real thing is Sam Seaborn.





Dom doesn't cry over Billy. Dom doesn't cry over anybody, anyone, or anything. After all, he doesn't even love Billy, really. It's more a strong case of like. So it makes sense that Dom is sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a newspaper notice (two inches wide, ten long) about the tragic accident that claimed the lives of one actor, one dancer, and two drivers. His eyes aren't crying, but they burn something fierce.

And maybe, maybe he didn't love Billy.

He's pretty damn sure he was in love with him though.





Mal likes it in space. It's cold, it's quiet, and it's empty. He likes the moments when he's alone the best, and he's gazing out into the stars. He closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds, and when he opens his eyes again, he owns the sky. The stars are his. No one is going to run him off this piece of land, and Mal is ready to make damn sure that no one gets the oppurtunity to try.

They can take the war, that gorram Alliance with their perfect shiny space stations and uniforms. His freedom was another rutting matter.





Cole didn't even know he was saying the words, but hey, there they were passing through his lips in that astonished and wondrous tone. He blinked once, twice, and listened to himself. Had he actually, Cole thought, yes, yes he had.

"I'm gay," he'd said.

"Well, I fucking hope so," the retort was. Cole shook his head and became aware of his surroundings once more to realize that he was straddling some kid with blond hair and twinkling green eyes. "After all, you being straight would cause several problems."

"No, I was just realizin...mrpfh," Cole murmured, his eyes widening as the kid silenced him with a hard kiss.





James has heard stories about nymphs, faeries, and ghouls all the time. He delights in them himself once a year, marking the occasion on a chilly October evening by spooking the local children with a haunting tale of skeletal pirates and cursed gold. When he retires from his duties that evening and hangs up his hat, his bones ache and he feels as though he's lived an age in a day. He always feels that way after telling that story.

And when he dreams, he will have nightmares. He will see skeletons, he will hear the clinging of coins, and he always, always wakes to the sound of Captain Jack Sparrow's "Savvy?" rattling around in his head.





When Wesley was twelve, he heard about his Uncle Evan dying. He had two strange bite marks in his neck, and his body had been cremated. The wake had been in their home, and he had watched through the rungs of the staircase. He caught the whispers that drifted upwards. "Vampire..."

When Wesley was fifteen, he was mocked mercilessly for getting the highest grades in the class. He had been pushed into the mud, and a girl by the name of Annie had extended her hand, smiled in wrought sympathy and murmured something about, "getting you all cleaned up before the Headmaster sees you in this way!"

When Wesley was twenty-one, he sucked a man off in a dark alley. Just to see what it would be like, before Wesley had descended to his knees, he had bitten the man where neck met shoulder and tasted aftershave, sweat, and something that faintly resembled the pub. He was overwhelmed by the feeling of power, and his knees had buckled. He still recalls that it's still the reason he'd gone down on a man that he doesn't (to this day) know the name of.

Now Wesley is approaching forty, and he doesn't know where power has slipped off to.

But he doesn't have it.





If you give Bobby Drake a rose, it's guaranteed to never wilt. Johnny tried it once, placing a single rose without note on Bobby's bed. He'd sat back and watched as Bobby cradled the flower, surprised smile on his face. He bowed his head forward, exhaling a narrow stream of chilled air at the rose. Johnny found himself fixated (the book he'd been using as a distraction was long forgotten). He watched as crystalline drops of ice formed on the petals. And then Bobby blinded him with that fucking eager grin that sent Johnny's thoughts skittering.

Now it's Bobby's turn to find out just what Johnny is best at.






Pippin is shaking.

It's something he cannot stop, and he wishes with his heart that he didn't make those silly noises when he was scared. He wishes more than once that Merry could be here. While Gandalf has many a word of wisdom, he does not bear the simple comfort that Merry would know to give. Merry always knew what to do, even if he knew before it hit

Pippin. So he breathes.

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

And his hands shake.

Tomorrow, he will clasp a sword. He will fight for his Shire, and he will fight for Merry.

He hopes his hands will stop shaking before tomorrow.
lovely_ambition: (Default)
"I have a therapist," Josh announces as he hangs around in the doorway of Sam's office. He doesn't quite get Sam's attention. He does earn a quick look up from the papers Sam is scribbling on. Sam's wearing his glasses. Josh likes it when Sam wears his glasses. It reminds him of Clark Kent, if Clark Kent's powers included writing speeches that turned the President from an articulate laureate into a poet with his words. Josh calms his hands and leans against the doorway. Sam finishes writing something on a legal pad and opens his mouth -- no sound coming out, because really, what the hell do you say in reply to that?

Sam's got something though, because gosh darn it, Josh thought, Sam's got an answer for everything.

"I have a call girl," Sam replies with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and no change to his expression. "I suggest we switch for the night. See what happens."

"You're not funny," Josh accuses, shaking his head and trying to convey as much disgust as he can on his face. He slowly ambles into the room and sits down, kicking his feet up on Sam's desk only to be brushed away by a pushy hand. "Geez, anal much?"

"Yes," Sam retorts, turning to his laptop and typing quickly, not looking up until he finishes. "And I'm very funny. The Times called me witty. Are you about to argue with the Times, Joshua?"

Josh mock-cringes. "Ouch, full name. What have I done this time, mother? Or should I say CJ?"

"You are winning exactly zero points with me right now," Sam points out.

“Maybe I need to talk about you with my therapist,” Josh shoots back with a smirk, crossing his arms and bouncing his feet. “We’ve got all these underlying issues and all.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Sam asks tiredly.

“Work?” Josh scoffs dubiously. “After the President’s chili?”

“I think you mean Zoey’s chili,” Sam corrects him with a mild smile, crossing out a line on the page.

“Hell, don’t know why you’re working,” Josh comments, scratching the side of his nose.

“Because if the President shows up at the convention tomorrow with…”

“…with who? The Wildlife foundation?”

“With a few of the education guys,” Sam corrects him, yet again. “I mean, there’s money! There’s money in the budget that’s available to spend on further education and I don’t see why the hell we aren’t doing something about it. Hell, I don’t know why we aren’t doing everything about it.”

“It’ll get done,” Josh promises quietly, locking eyes with Sam and understanding just how much this means to him.

“It needs to,” Sam replies, just as quietly. He punches at a few keys with his fingers and leans back in his chair. He takes off his glasses and dangles them from one hand as he rubs his eyes with the other. To Josh’s eyes, he looks tired. “Why do you have a therapist, and why are you talking about me?”

“It was a joke,” Josh points out the obvious and forgetting to add in the subtle and complicated layers he himself knows he put into that previous sentiment. He laughs quietly as he bows his head down. When he looks up, he’s got Sam’s full attention. “For someone so loudly proclaimed as witty, you’re sadly lacking a sense of humor.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be a joke,” Sam decisively states, piling a few papers together in that obsessive-compulsive sort of way that Sam’s got going for him.

“You want me to talk to my therapist about you?” Josh slowly replies, his eyebrow making a slow journey higher and higher. “Cuz I gotta say, on the list of intelligent things you’ve said tonight, that’s not on it.”

“Now you’re mocking my intelligence,” Sam rolls his eyes, an amused smile touching the corner of his lips. “You know, you’re running out of things to insult.”

“I’m just getting started, Seaborn,” Josh warns him with a grin, sitting back in the chair.
lovely_ambition: (Default)
Barrett Bonden/Will Turner/Jack Sparrow (Master & Commander/Pirates of the Caribbean)
Quite R, on the way to NC-17



"He's mine," Jack snarls, but with a gamely grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes -- coated with much too much eyeliner. Will watches from his spot in his chair, all tied up.

"Don't see your name on him," Bonden abandons any and all pretense, and straddles ol' Bootstrap's similar-looking progeny.

"Mine!" Jack pouts a little more vocally now, grabbing Bonden's arm and feeling a firm muscle there. Jack pauses to give an approving look. He tugs a little, and finds himself unable to budge the sailor. "I had him first!" Jack declares, abandoning all maturity and can only watch as Bonden rips open Will's shirt, tearing the material. "I got that for him," Jack mutters to himself.

Bonden plays with the fringes of the cloth as he plunges in and conquers Will's mouth. There is no delicacy, only rough tongue inside of a willing orifice.

Will wishes he could play a little more, but that is left to Jack who finally gets in on the act in taking off the dirty white sheet Bonden is calling a shirt. The action reveals a tattoo roughly sketched on Bonden's upper right shoulder, which Jack licks, leaving the slightest hint of rum on the skin.

Will gives a little kick when Bonden scrapes his teeth along the inside of his lower lip, and he moans a little in approval as Jack undoes the clasp on the sailor's pants, giving a playful teasing look over Bonden's shoulder and a lick to the other half of his back for good measure.

Bonden's hands are rough from handling ropes and other parts of a ship -- tasks that both Will and Jack Sparrow know all too well. It is the subtlety of such small details that make this all the more pleasurable. The way the ropes are tied just right around Will's hands makes him sit in quiet impressment at the sailor's skills.

Not to mention the skills of the very willing, very talented tongue in his mouth.

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