because the answer to "do you need a hug" is ALWAYS yes

[angelgazing]

There should be a snazzy intro here, but let's face it guys, the point would be this: CUDDLING. Every one needs cuddling. People love cuddling. I love cuddling. I think Arthur probably secretly loves cuddling. And you know Eames is a clingy bastard. Because cuddling is awesome! And everyone should get some cuddles. So, allow me to present:

The Multi-Fandom Cuddling Meme

~The Rules~

Stolen Adapted from foxxcub's super awesome kissing meme

1. All fic/art must including cuddling of some kind
   
2. All pairings, fandoms, rating, and genres welcome!
   
3. There is not minimum or maximum word count.
   
4. Be kind to one another ♥♥♥
   

Comment and share the love!

Comments

[gyzym.livejournal.com]

JFDSKFHDSJKFHDSJKFHDJSKFLD

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

THINK OF ALL THE CUDDLING. ALLLLL THE CUDDLING THAT NEEDS TO BE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW.

[cthonical.livejournal.com]

I have tonsilitis right now and am languishing in pain and despair, so I am going to set up camp here with a bedsheet tent and a teddy bear and enjoy the fuck out of this. <3

[laria-gwyn.livejournal.com]

=( I'm sorry you're sick. *hugs* Hope you get better soon, bb.

[weatheredlaw.livejournal.com]

GUH. This is the best fucking idea in the whole world. Now I have to think of what to prompt, BUT I WILL.

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

YAY OMG.

Personally, personally, I want stealth cuddling. I want SNEAK ATTACK CUDDLING. Whatever, it's all joy. All of it. ♥♥

[dremiel.livejournal.com]

ARGHH! I am falling on my face right (umm, yeah it's not even ten...it's been a long couple of days) now but I will come back early in the morning with cuddling!

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

YAAAAY CUDDLING! \O/ I AM SO EXCIIIITED!

[99-mg-of-hate.livejournal.com]

OMG I need this so bad right now. Just spend the past 3 days working in retail and I have 2 final projects due in a week that are no where near being done. I want to cuddle someone too. =[ So I will live vicariously through these stories.

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

I will join you in the Retail Hate train, oh my god. Basically I need this for allll the same reasons. ♥♥♥

[chaoticallyclev.livejournal.com]

This fandom always has the best meme ideas. also, YOU ARE ALWAYS INVOLVED/HAVING THE BEST IDEAS.

CUDDLING PANDAS:

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/mileswu/1204278348/)

( I should be writing several essays, so this isn't art, I just felt some cuddling should be happening. Anyone inspired?)

[cthonical.livejournal.com]

I have no idea why but this immediately made me think of hammock cuddling. So it is adorable and inspiring lol. Also the little bear is kind of like WHUT HALP and the big bear is like SHHH YOU LOVE IT.

[dremiel.livejournal.com]

(http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a289/dremiel/?action=view&current=100.jpg)

[99-mg-of-hate.livejournal.com]

This is seriously one of my favorite pictures.

idewant to know where this came from - look i blame Nicole's care bear icon following me around ok

[moleskinned.livejournal.com]

Eames brings her a teddy bear from Mombasa.



Ariadne sets it beside her on her desk and takes it to every meeting. Kenya the Ninja helps her plan labyrinths and design dual-folding cityscapes, and she tells a beaming Eames that he's helped her double her workplace productivity.

"Plus," she adds, "unlike Arthur he doesn't nitpick."

Eames beams even more widely at that, while Arthur scowls.

Eames looks over at him. Then he says, "Ariadne, I have a theory," and takes Kenya the Ninja off her desk.

He cuddles it, then holds it speculatively up to his ear and listens to whatever Kenya the Ninja has to say. Arthur's scowl sharpens.

"Really?" says Eames to the bear. "You know, I was just thinking the same thing." He gives it a good, long hug, crushing the plush fur against his ridiculously massive chest. Ariadne takes the opportunity to appreciate the muscles in his forearms. Arthur takes the opportunity to glare in open disgust.

"Mmmm," says Eames, stroking the top of the bear's head. It kinda sounds pornographic.

Arthur rolls his eyes before turning away and muttering about needing to go and Google things before he vomits.

Eames hands the bear back. Ariadne obligingly takes him and pats him on the head. "Arthur, are you jealous?" Eames asks.

"What?" says Arthur, who's rolled his fancy ergonomic chair back over to his own work space and is now refusing to look up.

"I think you are," says Eames delightedly. "I think you're jealous of Kenya the Ninja."

"I think you'd look good in a straitjacket, but we can't all have our whims humored," says Arthur.

"Darling," says Eames, rolling over to Arthur's side, and then his voice shifts lower. "You know I'd humor any whim you dreamed up."

Arthur's hands still, one on his keyboard and one on his mouse. He doesn't look up, but for a moment Ariadne can read him plainer than if he'd just googled 'How to keep from losing your heart to hunky British tossers.'

"And you know," Eames says, leaning in, "I'll be more than happy to coddle you however you want."

And then Eames snakes his arms around Arthur's waist, tugs him close, and nuzzles his neck, and Arthur snaps rigid in his arms for all of half a moment before he relaxes and sinks into the hug, lifting his chin to give Eames a better angle to mouth kisses over his jawline, and Ariadne thinks, 'wow, um, wow,' and scrambles up and darts into the restroom to give them a private moment. She waits there, feeling awkward and more than a little discombobulated, until the faint sounds of rustling fabric and occasional hitched breaths have stopped and she gathers it's probably safe to go out.

When she comes back, Eames is still tucked up against Arthur, one broad hand splayed loosely on his thigh, head resting against Arthur's shoulder while they talk. Arthur is gesturing at the computer monitor, and but for the way his right hand is carding through Eames' hair while he talks, there's no difference in his demeanor whatsoever.

And then Ariadne realizes:

Kenya the Ninja is sitting on Arthur's other thigh, being thoroughly and lasciviously cuddled.

Re: idewant to know where this came from - look i blame Nicole's care bear icon following me around

[dremiel.livejournal.com]

Kenya is the NINJA OF LURVE!

momentary seizure of love [Inception, Arthur/Eames, 1/1]

[sometimesalways.livejournal.com]

The first time it happens, Arthur thinks he must be in the dreamscape. They’d just had one of the dirtiest fucks you could imagine, complete with Eames rimming Arthur till he screamed, then fucking him face down into the mattress, leaving bite marks on the back of his neck and shoulder blades. Eames had mumbled how Arthur was ‘so tight’ and that he was going to ‘shag you till you can’t walk properly, so everyone will know what you’ve been doing and they’ll know I was the one who did it, won’t they, luv?’ Eames had fucked him until he couldn’t breathe, until he’d clawed at the bed sheets with his fingers whilst coming against them.

So when Eames pulls out and kisses Arthur gently on the back of his neck, soothing the red marks left by his teeth, and murmuring something like akin to ‘gorgeous,’ all while pressed against Arthur’s back, he nearly reaches for his totem. Instead, he waits for Eames to go clean up because honestly, it’s what he himself is aching to do. Eames doesn’t. Rather, he ties off the condom and pulls Arthur back against his chest and away from the wet spot. And that’s how Arthur had ends up spooned against Eames, their hands clasped together while Eames mouths his jaw tenderly and whispers ‘hope I haven’t done you in, darling.. hmm, nope, still breathing,” and the whole thing is just too ridiculously surreal and carefree for Arthur to even wrap his mind around, so he just relaxes back and breathes, ‘Still here, Mr. Eames. Really, some modesty might do you some good.’

‘You know you love me just the way I am,’ Eames whispers, and Arthur tells himself the shiver has to do with the hot breath against his neck as opposed to anything else. Eames holds him tighter, one arm firm around his ribcage as the other dances patterns along his upper thigh. Eames hair tickles the side of Arthur’s neck and his mouth never stops kissing and licking, as though he still can’t get his fill. Arthur thinks of the previous weeks that all consisted of leaving right after sex. He realizes he was the one out the door.

This is the first night that Arthur makes a conscious decision to stay. He falls asleep with Eames smile against his cheek and strong arms around his waist. In the weeks to come, he’ll stay every time and Eames will gather him into his arms each time, sighing contently. On one nondescript evening, he’ll pull Eames into a tight embrace first and will feel his chest fill with what can only be described as one particular emotion.

Re: momentary seizure of love [Inception, Arthur/Eames, 1/1]

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

AWWWW OH MY GOD THE CUDDLING. ♥♥♥ And just... Ah, Eames wanting to spooon!

THANK YOU FOR WRITING THIS!

h/c cuddling omg

[foxxcub.livejournal.com]

Arthur comes to with a hazy awareness of being in a bed, sheets smooth against his bare legs. The pillow smells strange, though, which means he must be dreaming.

He shifts sluggishly beneath the blankets, only to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Arthur hisses, pressing his face into the foreign pillow until the hot surge of pain fades. He reaches a hand up, feels gauze and bandages and tape over his left pectoral muscle.

A dream wouldn't involve him being wounded and tucked into bed.

Slowly, the details start to come back to him: gunfire outside his hotel, a car chase, and the realization that he'd been shot.

"Are you awake?" a familiar voice asks, soft breath against the back of Arthur's neck, and suddenly Arthur is aware of the solid warmth pressed along his back, a broad hand fitted over the dip of his waist.

"Where am I?" Arthur asks, voice weak with exhaustion and lack of use. His throat feels terribly dry.

Eames makes a small humming sound, hand flexing gently over Arthur's hip. "Safe," he says. There's no humor in that single word, only earnestness.

Arthur tries to turn over to face him, but the movement only makes the pain in his chest unbearable. "I'm in your bed, aren't I?"

"Lucky for me I laundered the sheets last week." Arthur feels a light caress over the base of his skull, like Eames is nuzzling him with the nip of his nose. "Please don't move like that, you'll tear your stitches."

"Stitches? I was shot, what--"

"Yes, you were bloody shot, and I had the pleasure of watching you nearly bleed out before my eyes." The words are slightly unsteady, high at the end. Arthur would almost call it fear.

"So you took me back here."

"Your hotel room wasn't safe. Seeing as how this is London, I knew just the place to hide you away."

"Eames, they'll find you--"

"Fuck off, I've lived here nearly seven years and have never been traced. Give me a little more credit, love." Soft lips skim over the bare skin of Arthur's shoulder. It's so very strange, being held by Eames like this, in his own bed. They've so rarely touched in the real world.

"Fine," Arthur breathes, "but why are you--here? With me?"

He hears Eames chuckle. "Ah, well, it's an interesting story, really. When brought you back here, you were rather delirious. My doctor friend patched you up, but there wasn't much he could do to calm your fever, or your constant fear that I was going to abandon you. You...uh, you begged me not to leave the bed, that you needed to be in constant contact with me."

Arthur felt his cheeks grow hot. He remembered something about desperation and paranoia mixed with blurry images of Eames cupping his cheeks and shushing him quietly, but it all feels like a dream.

"I appreciate you humoring me," Arthur finally whispers.

Eames places a chaste kiss on the edge of Arthur's jaw. "I would've stayed regardless," he whispers back.

Re: h/c cuddling omg

[cthonical.livejournal.com]

There is a distressing dearth of stories involving bamfy-getting-shot-home-stitching-etc-etc-etc h/c in this fandom. So this is just <3<3.

White Collar, Alex + Kate, h/c, "Wake Me When We're Almost Halfway"

[asimaiyat.livejournal.com]

Alex quietly rounded the corner into the alley, to find Kate slumped against the side of the building, dressed in black, forehead just barely held up by the palm of her hand as her hair fell forward to hide her face.

"Hey, you need anything? A little bird told me you might run into some trouble tonight."

Kate tilted her head, the smallest possible movement in Alex's direction. Through the curtain of dark hair, Alex thought she saw a raised eyebrow. "Was it a little balding bird? Because I told him not to --"

"Shh." In a moment Alex was at Kate's side, leaning against the building next to her. "Mozzie was just worried about you. And so was I! Honey, this new generation of security systems is no joke." Probably mostly because she and Mozzie had split a bottle of Cognac before she headed out to check on Kate, she reached out one hand to tilt Kate's chin up and look her in the eye. Kate met her gaze with a little wariness, a slight hesitation, but it was clear that she hadn't been crying or anything, just frustrated. There was a deep red crease between her eyebrows. Alex let go of her chin and wrapped one arm around her shoulders.

"Stupid goddamn... laser... things." Kate pouted. "Knew it was a lost cause as soon as I got in the front door. Just my luck, huh?"

"Shh. You're okay, that's what matters."

Kate sighed, a breathy little sound that stood in contrast to the deeper voice she tended to affect when she spoke. Then, maybe in spite of herself, she slowly lowered her head to rest on Alex's shoulder.

"There you go. Hey, it's just a dumb old book, anyway, right?"

"It was... aw, dammit. It was going to be Neal's birthday present."

There was that little sigh again, just short of a sob. Hearing in Kate's voice how young and small she was underneath it all, how vulnerable she could still be, brought out Alex's... she didn't want to say her maternal side, but definitely the side of her that didn't bristle when Kate said she was like an older sister. She let the hand that had been resting on Kate's shoulder brush through her hair in a slow, reassuring gesture.

"Don't even worry about it. We'll go out tomorrow and find him something even better, okay?" Alex rolled her eyes at herself a little even as she said it, already knowing she'd regret this in the morning: "And hey, if it has to be perfect, you can even pick something out of my stash."

Kate looked up from where she'd nuzzled her way into Alex's cashmere scarf, eyes startlingly wide. "... really?"

"Sure, why not." Alex ruffled her hair. "You're a good enough kid, and hey, I've done stupid things for Neal, too."

With no warning whatsoever, Kate threw her arms around Alex's waist, briefly pinning her to the wall of the building before she loosened her grip.

"Hey! Okay, enough is enough, I'm not that drunk. Come on home, sweetie, Mozzie's got a bottle of Madeira just waiting for you to help us drink it."

Kate muttered something into Alex's scarf that sounded vaguely like "don't wanna." Alex placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the wall and back towards the entrance to the alley.

"Come on, little sister, don't you remember what Scarlett O'Hara taught you?"

"You're kinda tipsy, aren't you?" Kate replied, wrapping an arm around Alex's waist as they walked home. "But okay, fair enough. Tomorrow's another day."

Re: White Collar, Alex + Kate, h/c, "Wake Me When We're Almost Halfway"

[gyzym.livejournal.com]

EEEEEEE!!!!

THE FACT THAT I AM WRITING FUCKING PSYCH FIC IS ALL YOUR FAULT [1/2]

[gyzym.livejournal.com]

"Aww, Lassie," Shawn says, kicking his feet up onto his desk, "I knew you'd miss me."

"Don't kid yourself, Spencer," Lassiter barks. He shuts the door behind him, though, and glances around warily. "Guster here?"

"Yes," says Shawn, "he's practicing the lost art of hiding under his desk like a sissy girl. Because of, you know, the extreme terror you inspire in him."

"I can hear you, Shawn!" comes from the back room, followed immediately by Guster's face. He looks annoyed, until he catches sight of Lassiter, standing by the door.

"Oh," he says, "Lassie. I, uh, I didn't know you were back."

"Got in a few hours ago," Lassiter lies. In truth, he'd gotten in about six seconds ago, when he'd pulled into the parking lot of this ridiculous sham of an agency, but it wouldn't do to let Shawn know that.

"Right," Guster says. He and Shawn make that face at each other, that eyebrows-up face they make, the one that means no fucking way. Lassiter grinds his teeth and reminds himself that Shawn looks very good naked, and that leaving the conference early for sex was one of those decisions that didn't have to mean anything.

Because he can't be in love with this imbecile. He can't be. It's not possible.

"I'm sensing that you want to be alone with me," Shawn says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I'm sensing a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach," Guster snaps. "It's--wait, it's--oh, it's nausea."

"Friends don't let friends mock their relationships, Gus," Shawn says easily.

"That doesn't even make sense," Guster informs him sternly. "That's not even how that argument is supposed to work, you could at least--"

"Less talking, more leaving--"

"I work here too! This isn't a college dorm room, you can't put a rubber band on the door, Shawn--"

"No, of course not, I would never be so tasteless, I would use a sock--"

"How is that more tasteful than--"

"Guster!" Lassiter growls, having reached the end of his rope. Guster turns to give him an unimpressed look, but over his shoulder Shawn is mouthing Terrified of you, so that's alright. Lassiter is actually having some trouble fighting back a smile.

"I liked it better when you two weren't sleeping together," Guster mutters, gathering his things. "A lot better."

"Don't be jealous, baby," Shawn croons. "You know you'll always be my one and only."

Lassiter makes a noise, entirely involuntarily. Shawn glances up, surprised, and raises his eyebrows.

"What," he asks, "too much?" and Lassiter doesn't even know how to begin answering that question.

THE FACT THAT I AM WRITING FUCKING PSYCH FIC IS ALL YOUR FAULT [2/2]

[gyzym.livejournal.com]

"Oh, god," Guster says, "seriously, I did not need to get in the middle of your--your weird--whatever you are--"

"Gus," Shawn says. He's still looking at Lassiter, eyebrows at his hairline, but now it's with that…focus. Lassiter hates when Shawn looks at him like that; inevitably, he ends up divining shit no one should ever know.

"Right," Gus says, "I'm out, then," and he slams the door behind him in his haste to escape.

"You actually missed me," Shawn says, still staring.

"I did nothing of the--"

"You're six hours early," Shawn says, stepping towards him. His eyes are wide, curious, more than a little shocked. "You didn't stop anywhere, you came straight here--if the conference had let out early you would have called, which means you skipped out before it was over. Lassie."

"I didn't miss you, Spencer," Lassiter snaps. "The conference was boring--"

"And you missed me--"

"And the presenter I wanted to see cancelled at the last minute--"

"And you missed me--"

"And it seemed silly to stay--"

"Because of how much you missed me--"

"Damn it, Spencer," Lassiter growls. He steps forward and kisses him, mostly just to shut him up.

Shawn leans into the kiss, because that's what Shawn is like--always hungry, always pushing, never, ever satisfied. He slides a hand up under the leather of Lassiter's shoulder holster, pressing the pads of his fingers down to shove him toward the wall.

Lassiter has never made a habit of taking Shawn's shit, though. He grabs Shawn by the wrist, twisting his other hand in the back of Shawn's shirt, and holds him still.

"I didn't miss you," he says, when Shawn breaks away, breathing heavily. Shawn just cocks his head, silent for once, smiling at him like he's not considering doing anything else.

"Did I say that?" he asks. And then, before Lassiter can respond, he's wrapping his free arm around his shoulders, resting his face in the crook of Lassiter's neck. "I don't remember saying that."

"Your memory is upsettingly selective," Lassiter sighs. Hesitantly, he lowers his head a little, lets his chin rest against the top of Shawn's head. Almost of its own accord, he finds the hand that was tangled in Shawn's shirt has drifted up to rest between his shoulder blades. Shawn's back is shaking, and he's making small sounds that Lassiter is more than experienced enough to know are the result of muffled laughter, but the fact that's he's trying to restrain himself is actually a courtesy.

"You don't have any proof," Lassiter mutters, finally, mostly out of habit.

"Welcome back, Lassie," Shawn says, tightening his grip a little, and maybe it's not so bad getting caught.

Star Trek XI, "a still more glorious dawn awaits", Kirk/McCoy, NC-17

[canis-takahari.livejournal.com]

UM HI stumbled across here in my travels and couldn't resist cuddles OH GOD *nervous*

***

The thing about McCoy that Jim is pretty sure very few people actually know is that he is a clingy fucking bastard.

It’s a discovery he makes in the muddy, pre-dawn stickiness of the drunken morning after, in the scant five seconds of content stillness between the sudden divergent thoughts of oh god my fucking head what the fucking fuck shit owand those are arms, there’s someone in bed with me. Jim has a grandiose tendency to sprawl, which means the regulation Academy beds are, on a good day, too small, and he often wakes up half laid out on the floor, arms and legs akimbo; he instead wakes up crowded and compressed against the wall with his face mashed into his pillow and a heavy set of shoulders and arms pinning him around the waist.

He waits patiently for the eventual mental starburst of epiphany, and, ten breaths later, he’s hit with an image of what McCoy looks like from an angle that would place Jim on his knees between McCoy’s long, lean legs.

That filthy snapshot is evidently all that’s required to release the floodgates of what amounts to Jim’s own private super-awesome porno, and he’s assaulted by a flurry of sense memories; the taste of McCoy on his tongue, heavy and soap-clean, the warmth of his skin and the salty tang of his come, the grasping hot clench of McCoy’s body around Jim’s cock as Jim rocked slow into him, the echoing writhe of McCoy’s hips in time with Jim’s and the rough slide of his clutching fingers.

“Bones,” mutters Jim, squirming awkwardly.

McCoy’s arms tighten and he mumbles unintelligibly. His head is resting on the small of Jim’s back, his body folded up somewhere at the end of the mattress. “Bones.” He kicks out with one foot and hits something soft and fleshy. McCoy grunts, shifting, and the mattress vibrates as he fully detaches himself to blindly crawl up along Jim’s body, nosing towards him like a heat-seeking missile before flopping down half atop Jim.

“I am still drunk,” Jim announces, wrapping an arm around McCoy and pulling him bodily into the curve of his chest. “I am absolutely drunk and hallucinating a universe in which Leonard McCoy loves to cuddle.”

McCoy snuffles, his expression slack and unworried like it never is in wakefulness, dark hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes. Jim softens, brushing his thumb over the plush swell of McCoy’s lower lip.

This just makes McCoy shove closer, hitching one leg over Jim’s hip and burrowing into his chest. McCoy head disappears from view to tuck comfortably under Jim’s chin.

“Holy shit,” mutters Jim, threading his fingers through McCoy’s bird’s nest of bedhead and tilting his face down to nose at the soft strands. “You’re adorable.”

“Keep talkin’ like that,” slurs McCoy, sounding even more drunk than Jim still feels, “and I will punch you in the goddamn mouth.”

“And ruin the afterglow?”

McCoy growls and worms his hand down between Jim’s legs to squeeze his cock warningly. Jim totally does not squeak. “Right now, all you’ve got going for you is that you’re a warm body, Jim.”

“I’m shocked and appalled and hurt and shocked. You don’t mean that.”

“Where’s your off button?”

“Right under my nose and above my chin.”

To his surprise, a fraction of a section later, McCoy is kissing him, large hands cupping Jim’s face as he presses their mouths together, firm and sweet. Jim is so struck dumb—they didn’t kiss last night, Jim would remember—that he’s silent for a good two minutes, time enough for McCoy to turn his face back into Jim’s chest and burrow in, arms wrapped snug around his waist.

Jim’s readying something smart and obnoxious to say, but then McCoy’s lips sweep his collarbone in a soft kiss and it’s like he’s ten years old again and Sam pushed him out of the treehouse and his breath got kicked right out of him. His heart does a funny little arrhythmic thump against his sternum and he melts like a popsicle on a sunny day.

With as much dignity as he can muster, Jim kisses the top of McCoy’s head, squeezes him tight, and closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

Re: Star Trek XI, "a still more glorious dawn awaits", Kirk/McCoy, NC-17

[gollumgollum.livejournal.com]

Jim’s own private super-awesome porno

YES. <3 <3 <3

Spamming with animals

[chaoticallyclev.livejournal.com]

...now I feel like I can say "I blame angelgazing" too, since I can't stop looking through animal cuddles pictures.

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/joanna8555/4588227992/)

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/sparrowswench/3873599195/)

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/eileen_mcfall/4110763444/)

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/john_brody/3399158477/)

ALL SNUGGLES. ALL THE TIME.

Re: Spamming with animals

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

What is with everyone in this fandom blaming me for ALL THE THINGS? I AM SO INNOCENT. SOOO INNOCENT.

ALSO OMG PUPPIES. *coos*

Arthur/Eames, with suturing h/c for butterflythread

[gollumgollum.livejournal.com]

It must be the head injury, Arthur thinks.

It must be the head injury that comes from taking a bottle to the cranium that makes him think that Eames looks at all tender or worried or anything other than smug and amused as he cleans the gash running across Arthur's forehead. "Hold still," Eames murmurs as Arthur flinches, the iodine stinging as it hits the wound. They don't have anything to numb Arthur with, but Eames has promised to be quick and Arthur thinks he doesn't really have a choice--butterfly strips aren't really going to cut it with a wound like this.

"Who gets hit in the head with a fucking bottle," he mutters sourly, and Eames smiles.

"To be fair, you were a bit distracted at the time," he replies, not unkindly, as he pulls a hooked needle free with his forceps, thin suture thread trailing behind it.

"And she was totally crazy," Arthur says.

"And she was totally crazy," Eames agrees, then meets his eyes. "Ready?"

Arthur scowls. "Get on with it."

Eames does, hooking the needle under his flesh. Arthur hisses; it hurts quite a bit, all of his nerve endings flaring back to life as Eames works the needle into the flesh on the other side of the cut and pulls it through. He loops the thread around the forceps twice, in a smooth, practiced motion, then there's an uncomfortable pulling sensation as he tightens the knot. "One down."

"Less talking, more stitching," Arthur grumbles, but Eames of course doesn't listen to him, telling Arthur some ridiculous and nigh-impossible story about the last time he'd sutured anyone. It involves copious amounts of alcohol, Hungarian strippers and the Kremlin, and by the end Arthur has forgotten that he's supposed to be skeptical of this story and is instead waiting to hear what happens next.

"That's it?" he asks when Eames trails off, feeling a bit like the kid in The Princess Bride.

"Sutures are done," Eames replies, snipping the last tail off of the stitches.

Arthur stands and pushes past Eames to look in the mirror, frowning at his reflection as Eames pulls off his gloves. Eames has done a nice job, he admits grudgingly, reaching up with one hand to prod at the sewn up laceration.

"Ah ah ah," Eames tsks, catching Arthur's wrists. "No touching."

"You never let me have any fun," Arthur mutters, and Eames blinks, caught completely off guard by--

"Arthur, was that a joke?"

"They happen." His headache isn't really getting better, despite the Vicodin Eames had pressed into his palm when they'd first come in, and now his forehead feels like someone's pushing on it, right over his wound. It's going to scar, all wounds do, but it's right in the hairline and he thinks Eames has probably done a good enough job that it won't be too bad.

"You're welcome," Eames says, amused as Arthur gives himself one last look in the mirror before turning around, and then Eames is crowding him, catching him around the waist as Arthur sways. "That's it, come with me, darling, it's time for Arthur to stop being vertical."

Eames herds him to the couch, then sits next to him when Arthur refuses to lay down. "You never finished your story," Arthur says, sounding petulant, but Eames smiles indulgently anyway.

"There we were with literally thousands of dollars worth of caviar and nowhere to go, and Olga says..."

Arthur hums quietly as Eames's fingers slip through his hair, soothing his headache. Before he knows it he's slumped against Eames, his feet up on the couch, wrapped in the other man's arms. Even more surprising is the fact that he's comfortable, head nestled against Eames's chest, the forger's warm baritone rumbling softly against his ear as his fingers play over Arthur's scalp. He's warm and he's comfortable and he's snuggled up against Eames, and right now he can't think of anything better.

Yeah. Definitely the head injury.

Re: Arthur/Eames, with suturing h/c for butterflythread

[gyzym.livejournal.com]

Arthur/Eames, lol who needs titles?

[seeingrightly.livejournal.com]

When Arthur wakes up it’s warm. He keeps his eyes closed, shifting back slightly into the solid wall of heat behind him, enveloped.

But something isn’t right. His suit is still on, even the waistcoat, which isn’t that abnormal, but his shoes are still pinching his toes and there’s a familiar pressure at his wrist.

Rough palms grab his hand, sliding the IV gently out of his vein.

“Arthur?” A hot puff of breath brushes his ear and his eyes snap open.

He’s lying on his side, curled up practically in the fetal position, staring at the dull gray walls of the mark’s apartment. The pillows smell like flowery shampoo, like the hair he’d pressed his face to, eyes squeezed shut, for a brief moment.

Eames had played the mark’s mistress. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and the mark had snapped anyway, wrapped his hands around her throat – around Eames’ throat, and Arthur had sprung into action without thinking, breaking Eames’ – the forge’s neck. And the mark had turned on Arthur.

There’s still a dull ache in his stomach from where the steel-toed boot had connected over and over, too low to crack a rib and puncture a lung, but hard enough to rupture organs and cause internal bleeding. He breathes in the shampoo, the scent that had been under his nose when he wound his fingers through the forge’s hair and twisted.

The mark is lying on the floor, still under, still wearing those fucking boots.

“Arthur?” Eames whispers, one hand hovering at Arthur’s hipbone as he leans over, curled too close from where he’d been under, only moments ago for Eames but maybe an hour by Arthur’s count.

“Yeah,” he rasps, blinking the gray, faded paint in and out of focus.

“Oh,” Eames breathes, pressing his face to Arthur’s neck, wrapping his arm around his chest. He inhales deeply, exhales with a kiss to Arthur’s hot skin.

“We should go before he wakes up,” Arthur says, but he presses back further, wrapping his hand around Eames’.

There’s still fifteen minutes left on the timer, and they lie there entangled for ten, breathing.

Re: Arthur/Eames, lol who needs titles?

[gollumgollum.livejournal.com]

Awww, boys. <3

Soon [Inception, Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Ariadne frienship] Part 1.

[(Anonymous)]

Note: First time posting, but I couldn't resist! (:

"He's going to be okay."

They were empty words, spoken in the hushed silence of the hospital's corridor. Just lost in the white space, floating with all the other meaningless nuances people doll out like the suckers at the front counter. She had been saying those words or something like them since the nurses and doctors had forced him back into the waiting room, her one hand poised as if she's not sure whether or not she wants to touch him or not (but most likely trying to figure out if he'll snap her fingers or her neck if she does). It's not that he can blame her. He's not the picture of calm at that moment, white-knuckled grip matching the terrible plastic chair, his back ram-rod straight, his feet tapping a beat he isn't aware of, a heartbeat that he hopes matches one just down the hall, through the double doors, into the OR where -- where --

"Really, Arthur," Ariadne's trying again, this time her hand falling ever so slightly to his elbow, fingers digging into the curve of it, thumb gently stroking at the side. "They said that -- that we were lucky, you know? Got him here so fast -- "

"I was driving," he counters, as if that's reason enough for that. She listens to her swallow her pride, unable to feel any guilt in his stomach. Not when it's overflowing with a fear he refuses to admit to. But he lets her keep her arm there, and that's enough to let her continue.

" -- and the belt, that helped, too, they said. He would have -- " she pauses, unable to really continue the thought, unable to actually say the words "bled out" aloud. She swallows them down with her pride, thumb still stroking softly at Arthur's arm, voice still a gentle whisper in his ear. "But he won't now. He won't, Arthur."

"He can't, Ariadne," he replies, his voice as broken as Eames' arm, tone as shattered as his ribs, "He can't." She can hear it, every agonized scream Eames had let out in the backseat of the car as Arthur fastened his belt tightly around his thigh, hand jammed over the whole to staunch the bleeding even more; she can hear every last ounce of pain that Eames must have felt before he had passed out, alive and raw in Arthur's voice. "... I'll fucking kill him myself, Ariadne, he just can't."

She stops talking, then, just continues to swipe her thumb back and forth in the crook of his elbow, watching Arthur watch the doors separating them from Eames, tortured and brutally beaten. Arthur knows the names of every single person who had done this to him, and he intends to return the favor in kind.

Once he knows that Eames is alive.

Heaven help those fuckers if he dies.

Re: Soon [Inception, Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Ariadne friendship] Part 2/2.

[(Anonymous)]

She doesn't know how long they sit there; it's funny how dreams sometimes corrupt one's sense of time. When seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days. She thinks it's Wednesday when the doctor finally pushes through the door; she remembers they brought Eames to the hospital on Tuesday, but she can't remember. She can't think of anything as she lets herself be pushed away. She numbly watches as Arthur stiffly pushes himself from the chair and meets the man halfway. She gingerly pushes herself to her feet, cautiously walking forward like one might approach a wounded animal. She's prepared for anything, she thinks.

That is until Arthur dissolves into the most heartbreaking sobs.

She moves before she can even think to move, catching his body against her own. He's still larger than her; he's still hysterical, and so they fall. They slide down the wall together, Arthur's face in her neck, her fingers in her hair. He's clutching her shirt so tightly she's afraid he's going to tear it. The wetness on her neck is foreign and unfamiliar and unpleasant and it breaks her fucking heart, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," she whispers because she doesn't know what else to say. She whispers because she's afraid to ask the question; she's afraid she doesn't want to know the answer.

"He made it, Ari," Arthur breathes into her neck between another hysterical sob, sixteen hours of surgery later, and Eames is okay.

He clutches her tightly to him, exhausted with lack of sleep and relief, sagging against her as he rides out the last few relieved sobs that hiccup past his lips, and she holds him back just as fiercely, whispering promises to remain until Eames can hold Arthur like this again.

"Soon."

[seeingrightly.livejournal.com]

Oh my God, just please don't ever let me go
Yeah, sometimes we're high and sometimes we're low
Put up with me then I'll make you see
That things are better when you're with me

- Passion Pit's "Cuddle Fuddle"

found this by accident (no really); sexy cuddling also acceptable y/y?

[seeingrightly.livejournal.com]

(http://s907.photobucket.com/albums/ac275/seeingrightly/?action=view&current=mcuddle.jpg)

Re: found this by accident (no really); sexy cuddling also acceptable y/y?

[chaoticallyclev.livejournal.com]

HAPPY SEXY CUDDLE TIMES! (haha, YES! Somebody else is posting pictures!) ♥__♥

OT3 H/C?

[laria-gwyn.livejournal.com]

Arthur wakes to high pitched screams. It takes three seconds of scanning the room for threats, Glock in hand, before he’s fully awake and aware of his surroundings. He quickly turns on the floor lamp next to the king-sized bed, knowing the small Pooh Bear-shaped night light in the corner won’t be nearly bright enough to comfort Ariadne. Eames is also awake and already stroking Ariadne’s hair and whispering in her ear, “Shh, love, it’s alright, you’re awake. We’re right here, everything’s okay.” She’s stopped screaming but her choked whimpering and the tears still streaming down her face fill Arthur with a rage hot enough to burn down entire continents. He ruthlessly quashes his anger, shoving it behind an iron door in his head for later.

He puts the gun back on the bedside table and moves closer to the middle of the bed where Ariadne’s trembling body is sandwiched between him and Eames. Her eyes are wide and glassy and she’s clutching her totem so tightly that Arthur can see a few drops of fresh blood staining the bandage he’d wrapped around her small hand to prevent the bishop’s sharp edges from digging into her palm.

“Oh God, oh God, my hands…” Her voice is shaky and terrified, hoarse from screaming, and Arthur bites back a curse. He should have made it last longer; the sadistic bastard who’d tortured her on their last job had died far too quickly.

“Ari, it’s okay, look, your hands are fine, see?” Arthur gently lifts her right hand up to her eye level and carefully threads their fingers together, watches her eyes take in each slender, unblemished finger. “Nothing missing. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”

She’s still shaking but her breathing is no longer completely erratic so Arthur uses his free hand to cup her jaw and rub his thumb over her cheek while Eames continues whispering comforting words into her hair and wipes away her tears.

They lay like that for ten minutes, barely touching, just holding her hand and whispering to her, letting her test her reality over and over, until the tremors subside and her body relaxes a fraction. Without releasing her grip on her totem, she reaches for them both, one hand toward Eames and one toward Arthur, and they both scoot closer.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” she whispers.

Eames smiles brightly at her and leans down to kiss her cheek. “I’ve always said that sleep was overrated.”

“Liar,” she says and her lips curve slightly. “You’d still be in bed while the four horsemen were galloping over the horizon.”

Arthur meets Eames’ eyes and sees his own rising joy reflected in the other man’s expression. This is the closest she’s come to smiling in three weeks.

Eames shifts so that Ariadne’s head is tucked neatly under his chin and curls one muscular, inked arm under her shoulders, pulling her close. “Maybe I just think insomniacs are sexy.”

“That’s because you’ve got a hard-on for Edward Norton in Fight Club,” says Arthur. He kisses Ariadne’s shoulder and moves closer, laying his arm over her waist and tangling his legs with hers.

Eames hums in agreement. “I have excellent taste.”

“Whatever,” Ariadne says. “You think Hugh Grant is cute.”

“I find his acting very convincing.”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “It’s amazing how well he camouflages his womanizing ways with his charming accent in all those pointless romantic comedies.”

“Bridget Jones’s Diary is a classic, Arthur!”

The three of them debate the merits of various actors and movies until dawn. With warm, golden sunlight chasing away the shadows from their bedroom, Ariadne finally relaxes enough to sleep peacefully between Arthur and Eames, their limbs still tangled together.

Re: OT3 H/C?

[aura55.livejournal.com]

OMG! A cuddle!pile... I want a happy sequel! =D

Dammit Gollum you have put me on a such an injury kick my god XD 1/2 maybe??

[cthonical.livejournal.com]

Eames kicks the door closed behind him with a loud crash, swearing at the effort it takes to keep Arthur on his feet for the last three steps to the bed. There's no tact to the way they both go down on the double bed, Eames's arm still looped over Arthur's shoulders, and they lie like that in the dark for a long minute.

Arthur's breathing is low and pained. His blood is still slick under Eames's fingers, and Eames knows he needs to move move move. The torn curtain had been a shit bit of first aid to begin with, not that there had been time for much else, and even as they lie there leaning into each other just enough for it to mean something Eames knows the bullet wound in Arthur's thigh is probably pumping more blood onto the cheap comforter than he can afford to lose.

But for all they've fucked, in hotel rooms and the back seats of cars and grimy motels just like this one, they've never just laid with each other before.

Of course it'd have to happen like this.

He takes one last second to curl his hand around Arthur's shoulder, squeeze hard enough for him to feel it through the fuzz of pain and blood loss. Then he wriggles free and gets up to turn on the light. Maybe it won't be so bad.

The heavy smell of blood in the air mocks his optimism. He smears blood across the light switch as he flicks it, blinking a little in the sudden glare.

"Shit," he mutters, leaning against the chipped panelling. Arthur hadn't said anything since they'd made it to the car. That should have been his first clue. Even last time he'd got shot he'd been bitching and swearing the whole fucking time.

He's already wasted enough time being maudlin, so he rolls up his bloodied sleeves and raids the tiny bathroom for towels before returning to the bed.

Arthur blinks sleepily when Eames kneels over him. Blood has already dried in black clumps on his eyelashes. "Eames..."

"Shut up," Eames says, but there's no bite behind it as he unties the blood soaked scrap of curtain as carefully as he can. And he's seen enough gunshot wounds to know this is bad, oh so very bad, but he can't let himself believe it's going to be anything but okay in the end.

"That," Arthur continues, every syllable stuttering on the sharp pant of his breath, "was not a bandage knot."

Despite everything, despite Arthur's blood clotting on his hands and on the bedspread, Eames huffs out a laugh.

Yeah. They're going to be okay.

Re: Dammit Gollum you have put me on a such an injury kick my god XD 1/2 maybe??

[kellifer-fic.livejournal.com]

Eeeee! Arthur is critiquing knots while bleeding!

[aredblush.livejournal.com]

Damn RL happening right now >:( I'm going out now, but rest assured there'll be some major cuddling to be posted tonight! *shakes fist*

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

I am considering taking a nap so the wait will go quicker. ♥

for Nell's ghost!Eames/Hufflepuff!Arthur AU :D

[onthecount.livejournal.com]

Re: for Nell's ghost!Eames/Hufflepuff!Arthur AU :D

[cthonical.livejournal.com]

There aren't words OR gifs for how much this cheered me up. Really. Seriously. Tonsillitis ain't got nothing on the awesome warm fuzzies you have given me. <3<3<3<3<3 just. fff. here have some keyboard mashing that's probably the closest I'll get to expressing my feelings right now akhjskadkjadkjkadjkld. <3

ARTHUR/EAMES (OMG I AM KIND OF BLUSHING AT HOW GOOEY THIS IS...)

[jeannedecarnin.livejournal.com]

Okay, so, this is kind of a riff off something I wrote, with serious amounts of cuddling added... o_O

Eames has to take off his gloves to fit his key in the lock, his fingers trembling and the cold burning on his chapped knuckles, his breath tumbling from his lips in a soft white cloud. He lifts his suitcase inside and shuts the front door, then he stands in the warmth of the hallway, rubbing his hands, his eyes slipping shut for a moment, inhaling the musty-sweet scent of old wallpaper, second-hand books, a faint, pleasant overlay of tobacco smoke.

He takes off his coat and hangs it up, then he climbs the stairs to the bedroom, running his palm over the smooth worn wood of the banister, feeling as he always does; as he has since Arthur first arrived; as if he’s walking through a dream he might wake from. Arthur’s curled up asleep on the bed, on top of the blankets, in a slanted rectangle of afternoon sun, naked apart from an old grey cotton T-shirt Eames has owned for years, loose threads coming away from the hem. The lush curve of his arse, whiter than milk, and the delicate, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs. Eames sits on the bed and mouths a kiss to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his dark curls, and Arthur, says, rather groggily: ‘You’re back early,’

and shifts in the sheets, sleepy arms reaching out to pull Eames towards him. They lie facing each other on top of the blankets, in a trembling rectangle of winter sun, kissing, Arthur’s pale fingers slipping into Eames’ hair, his lids half-closed and his mouth needy and soft and welcoming. The scratchy wool of Eames’ trousers on the insides of his thighs and Eames’ sweater with its faint lingering scent of cold and the warm tangle of their bodies in the sunlight.

‘Darling,’ Eames murmurs, ‘you haven’t dragged this T-shirt out of the laundry basket, have you?’

And Arthur mumbles: ‘It still smells of you,’ and tries to hide his face in Eames’ shoulder, his forehead creasing slightly in confusion and a deep pink blush seeping across his cheeks: the lovely shyness and hesitation with which he explores the shape of his own heart.

Re: ARTHUR/EAMES (OMG I AM KIND OF BLUSHING AT HOW GOOEY THIS IS...)

[chaoticallyclev.livejournal.com]

THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS MORE CUDDLES. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
(which is to say, I still adore this, added cuddles or no.)

Arthur/Eames

[kellifer-fic.livejournal.com]

Oh man, RL suckage and then I come home to a cuddling meme. I'm going to immerse myself after I write this little thing...

--

Arthur goes to sleep alone and wakes up under what feels like about fifteen blankets. When he makes a muffled noise of protest, the blankets obligingly grunt and roll aside so Arthur can breathe.

"What did I say about breaking into my apartment?" Arthur grumbles blearily. He's had what amounts to approximately forty minutes sleep in a week and he had finally found himself with a night off. His current coworkers had gone out drinking to celebrate the reprieve but Arthur had heard the siren song of Egyptian cotton and a pillowtop mattress.

"It's the only address I could remember," Eames says from somewhere down and to the left. He's a furnace all along Arthur's side and Arthur feels wet, open-mouthed breaths against his shoulder. "The bloke asked and I had a brain freeze."

"Or you were too drunk to remember where you lived when you got in the cab," Arthur says, shaking his shoulder a little to dislodge Eames' mouth because there's a definite wet patch forming in his sleep shirt and not the fun kind.

"Or I was too drunk to remember where I lived," Eames says agreeably. "S'not my fault. I've had six places in about four months. You, on the other hand are delightfully consistent."

"I've been able to keep this place because no one knows about it," Arthur says and looks down his body at where Eames has snuck a hand across his stomach. "Or at least they shouldn't."

"Can't keep anything secret from me, love," Eames says as his hand curls at Arthur's hip and tugs a little, drawing Arthur closer to him.

"I'm discovering that... just what do you think you're doing?" Arthur finally breaks and asks.

"Trying to make you the little spoon?" Eames says, finally unearthing his head and grinning in the darkness. He tugs at Arthur again and Arthur is dragged half onto his side and mostly against Eames' chest. He wriggles but Eames just uses his movement to insinuate a hand under Arthur's other side and completely incase him in arms. "Success," he sighs.

"You can't just break into my secret apartment and make me cuddle you," Arthur grumbles, but his protest is lost in a wide yawn and as he slides into unconsciousness, the last thing he hears is Eames chuckling and saying, "As it turns out, I can."

Re: Arthur/Eames

[cobweb-diamond.livejournal.com]

"You can't just break into my secret apartment and make me cuddle you," -- I THINK YOU JUST SUMMARISED ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND GOOD ABOUT THIS PAIRING. <333333333