because a great hug has a little cling to it (et erit cuddles!)

[angelgazing]

Do you remember, once upon a time, when LJ let fans do their thing, and we didn't have to worry that six companies where so focused on making an outdated model work instead of bringing themselves to the new century that they were going to, what's the quote, slap at gnats with a wrecking ball? When censorship was something that would never be considered? Back when there was a cuddling meme?

Delicious ate itself. The FBI took MegaUpload away. The internet imploded. SOPA is dead on the floor. It's been an emotional roller coaster kind of a time for the fannish among us. Obviously it's time for this. Obviously.

The Multi-Fandom Cuddling Meme 2: Cuddle Harder

Quick! Before they try to take this away from us too!

♥ Any fandom
♥ Any pairing
♥ Any rating
♥ Any word count
♥ ALL THE CUDDLING

DW only, because LJ has made itself worthless for this use.
Stay excellent, fandom. It's what makes this whole mess worth it.
Remember that I love you.

Comments

[jibrailis]

I WILL WRITE SOME CUDDLING.

POSSIBLY SOME GRIMM CUDDLING? IDK.

SEE THIS SPACE TOMORROW.

[angelgazing]

I AM SO EXCITE, NANCE. I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU.

[phenylic]

DID SOMEONE SAY CUDDLES

[angelgazing]

EEEE HE. IS. UNDER. HIS. EAR.

♥♥♥

[chaoticallyclev]

HI NIC, SEE, I TOLD YOU I MADE A BANNER. I JUST FORGOT HOW TO HTML A BOX. BUT HERE:
Banner!

and the code for it!
<a href="http://angelgazing.dreamwidth.org/281441.html"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7029/6729453581_e9ae06b7be_z.jpg" width="549" height="447" alt="all the cuddles"></a>

[angelgazing]

OMG BB LION. *_____*

[sleepismyfriend]

I MAY HAVE TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS.

<3
DW NEWB, sleepismyfriend

P.S. *points above* WHO CAN'T EVEN PUT HER OWN NAME IN THE COMMENT, THAT IS HOW MUCH OF A NEWB SHE IS.

[angelgazing]

YES. YES, PARTICIPATION IS KEY.

... Also, I ... don't know... how to do that with the username. *blinks*

CUDDLES. ALL THE CUDDLES. I WANT THEM.

In a move that is mostly cheating...

[chaoticallyclev]

...because I wrote this for Nas way back in October because of an animalstalkinginallcaps pic, uh. here! Faily TSn ficlet!

Mark knows (and stubbornly ignores) that this says a lot of terrible things about his psyche. He was temporarily a psych major. He knows all about conflict-avoidant behavior and shit. (He also knows that he stopped being a psych major because he got sick of the sideways glances people gave him whenever they really got into talking about disorders, like his brand of antisocial was really comparable. Even if he can be a little deceptive and callous, but that's just called being a dick. Mark also knows this. He got called one enough after FaceMash. He can accept it, even if he doesn't like it.) This says some not-great things about him and a normal person would probably feel bad about it. Chris, at least would definitely glare at him, but Chris isn't here, which is good. Because this would be too awkward even for Mark, who kind of figures his basic state facilitates somewhere around awkward to begin with.

But even as he curls tighter against Eduardo's side, nuzzles into the soft skin where neck meets shoulder, and whispers, "Wardo?", only to receive an unintelligible mumble as Eduardo snores away, he can't stop himself from whispering out the real question he's been biting down all week, "Will you be my boyfriend?"

His jaw snaps shut after he says it, like if he closes his mouth quick enough, the words will get trapped too, but they don't. And he kind of bites his tongue instead. Minus another 50 smooth points for Zuckerberg.

"Mhhnh... hnn." Eduardo lets out another quiet breath.

Mark exhales quietly. Whatever. it totally counts. Wardo is his boyfriend now. Mark asked; Eduardo agreed -- technically. He didn't object, at least -- it's official.

Mark has a boyfriend now. He tests the thought out in his head, if they had to be introduced to someone or something, like "Hi, this is my boyfriend, Wardo. Who I sleep with. So please stop looking at him like that." He likes it; it would significantly cut down on the amount of glaring he would have to do at people who just didn't get that the lack of a personal space bubble between Mark and Eduardo was not an invitation to also invade Eduardo's personal space. It was Mark's space. People should get that quicker. Maybe if he could get Eduardo to wear one of his hoodies--

Eduardo's hand slid up Mark's back to tangle in his hair. "Mmph, I'cn hear you thinkin'. Sshh. Go to sleep now, boyfriend says."

Mark smiles for a second at how sleep-muddled he sounds, and then stiffens. Wait. "You heard that?"

"Mm, yup. Boyfriends now. No take backs." And if Eduardo kind of sounds like he's five, and if Mark presses a kiss against his neck anyway, well, who cares? Boyfriends get to do that kind of stuff.

---

And that's how Mark and Eduardo become totally awesome boyfriends who snuggle and are happy all the time, even though Mark tried to sleep-trick Eduardo out of an actual conversation, but it was okay, because Eduardo thought they already had the boyfriend conversation over pizza last week, when he kissed the stray bit of marinara sauce off of the corner of Mark's mouth in public and everything. Sometimes Mark can be a little slow about these things, but Eduardo doesn't mind

Re: In a move that is mostly cheating...

[bohemeyourself]

Awwwwwww, so sweet! :D

Brief Post-Sex Cuddling, Monroe/Nick

[cthonical]

so my words are still broken ksdajfshkj but I couldn't do nothing so. uh. here :| some totally cheesy cliche cuddles

One thing the books skipped over was "what to expect when you sleep with your new Blutbad boyfriend". On the long list of things Nick had anticipated, Monroe being a cuddler was not one of them.

"Get over here," Monroe murmurs, voice still rough with just the right mix of sex and violence to make Nick's pulse spike again.

"Huh?" Nick says, turning his head and opening one eye.

"Here."

Big, warm hands slide over his shoulders before grabbing hold and tugging him up, and Nick's too loose and dazed from coming less than two minutes ago to protest against being tucked under Monroe's arm. Not that he'd want to. Monroe's heartbeat is a soothing rhythm, and Nick rests his knee comfortably over Monroe's thigh.

"You okay?"

Nick shifts, rubbing his cheek against the curve of Monroe's chest. "'m good. Really good."

Monroe noses gently at the top of Nick's head. "You smell like sex," he says, a little pleased and a lot fond.

Maybe Nick responds. He's not sure. He's far too comfortable, and sleep is far too tempting.

Re: Brief Post-Sex Cuddling, Monroe/Nick

[anatsuno]

awww. non-broken wordcuddles! Adorable. <3

[foxxcub]

Omgggg, all the bb!Avengers cuddles, plz.

[aka_rat]

BB!Bruce needs cuddles to change back after he hulks out.



(Natasha, that's choking, not cuddling... >_<)

(Oops just realized I forgot Thor... but he's busy cuddling Loki somewhere else anyway.)

[theleaveswant]

I want to play but I'm stumped on where to start. Prompts/requests?

[angelgazing]

Snow days! Cuddling for warmth! Back rubs that turn into NAP TIMES! Fake dating cuddles to annoy an ex!

I... can't think of more because my brain is broken. BUT STILL.

prompt!

[hermette]

Bradley and Colin get turned into koalas.



:D?

Re: prompt!

[rane_ab]

Ahaha! :D But which of them is the baby? Are they at the koala resort thingy in Australia?

For some reason, I keep imagining the big koala is an actual random koala, and the little one is Bradley staring into space and lying back and thinking of England before Colin comes to save him. Or the little one is Colin going "Oh, God, I can handle clingy fankoalas, I can handle clingy fankoalas, I CAN - "

Arthur/Eames/Ariadne (friendship...more than friendship...whatever you want it to be!)

[delires]

For the prompt: Eames/Arthur(/Ariadne) or Ariadne/Yusuf =)) prompt: sunshine in the palms of my hands

Eames swipes a thumb across his split lip, catching the fresh trail of blood.

The sun is starting to rise in the distance, but the wind is still sharp and cold. Arthur props one boot up against a rock, with a scrape of leather. His breath comes in delicate little clouds. He is shaking out his aching knuckles.

“At least this is something you can use to build a character,” he says and looks at Eames with a curl of his lip, “A character who loses.”

Eames spits out some of the blood which is collecting in his mouth. “Fuck off, Arthur,” he says, and means it very much.

The sun is a weight climbing atop their shoulders. A tremor runs through the ground. Their fight has made everything unstable. There comes the crunch of small feet on gritty earth and then Ariadne appears behind them, her hair reddened by the sunlight.

“Are you finished being dickheads now?” She is glaring at them both, but there is a quiver in her voice that she can’t control. Seeing allies lay into one another like that over a minor logistical dispute is not something she is used to.

Eames turns his hands over and stares at the palms. The light spreads slowly across them, turning his skin to gold. Crouching beside him, Ariadne picks up a stone and throws it away again. “You’ll hug and make up,” she says with authority.

It is good advice. Eames puts an arm around her as well as around Arthur. He gets away with this because it is a dream

They sit there on the edge of the cliff, watching the sun grow huge in the sky and wait together for the clock to count them out.

Re: Arthur/Eames/Ariadne (friendship...more than friendship...whatever you want it to be!)

[jibrailis]

HELEN WORKS HER MAGIC. YET AGAIN.

Far From Armageddon (Parks & Rec, Ann/Leslie, G)

[gloss]

best meme idea EVER!

It's not the end of the world. It's not even Snowmageddon or Tornadocalypse or anything like that.

It's just a gloomy February Friday, full of slush and glowering clouds and wind to crack your knuckles that has turned, inexorably and achingly, into a dark and even colder night.

"Come over," Ann said when she called Leslie's cell and learned Leslie was still in the office updating her campaign finance spreadsheets while writing thank-you notes for the Winter Fun Fest at Ramsett Park and tweeting safety tips for snowshoeing and winter kayaking in city parks. "We can get pizza and watch movies and hang out."

"Annnnnnn," Leslie whined. "I caaaaaaaan't."

Ann knew she was halfway to crumbling. "Come on, Leslie."

"I--"

"I Tivo'd that movie on Lifetime you wanted to see."

Leslie's breath caught. "Lone Star Standout: The Towering Legacy and Intimate Loves of Barbara Charline Jordan?" She gulped. "Really?"

"Really," Ann replied, but Leslie had already hung up.

She rapped on Ann's door ten minutes later, so hard that the screen door rattled.

*

Ann is fairly sure that Leslie sleeps, at most, forty minutes a night. "Sleep's for the dead," Leslie insists. "It's what happens when you run out of things to accomplish and problems to solve and projects to tackle."

But she snuggles like a world champion. Ann has her theories about why; they center on Marlene Knope's aloofness, which left Leslie eager not only for female validation but also starved for touch. Right now, she's curled up under the afghan in a sloppy S, head resting against Ann's shoulder.

They've nearly polished off a large pizza, two bags of microwave popcorn, and Leslie's back-up supply of Twizzlers, and the movie is heading into its dénouement, when the first snore sounds. Ann's stretched out with her head back against the pillows and legs akimbo; the dead weight of Leslie against her is warm and steady. The snore startles her awake, snaps her to attention, but Leslie doesn't do much more than shift closer. She buries her face into Ann's arm, snuffling a little, and sort of *oozes* forward, until her arm is draped across Ann's waist.

The afghan's slipped off Leslie's back, so Ann retucks it around them and wiggles back into the embrace. Not for the first time, she wishes she'd let Andy order The Clapper so she could turn off the lights and TV without moving. Rather than getting up, she tugs the blanket over her chin and burrows downward, snaking her arm behind Leslie, until the granny square is over her eyes, her cheek is smushed against Leslie's skull, and Leslie's white-blonde hair, smelling like Pixie Sticks and winter air, is tickling her lips.

When she breathes out, Leslie murmurs something about an ordinance and squirms closer; when she inhales, Leslie sighs happily and mutters, "Madam President..."

It's not the end of the world; it's nothing big. It's just another Friday night in Pawnee.

Re: Far From Armageddon (Parks & Rec, Ann/Leslie, G)

[ninamazing]

!!!!!!

SO MUCH LOVE AND SO MUCH FLAIL. I DON'T THINK YOU CAN EVEN UNDERSTAND. WELL, UNLESS I SAY THIS IS LITERALLY THE BEST CUDDLEFIC I COULD POSSIBLY HAVE HOPED FOR. ;) ♥

Nick/Monroe, failure to follow proper cuddling protocol

[jibrailis]

Nick doesn't know what the temperature is in the Snow Queen's lair, but he'll hazard a guess: it's fucking cold. Monroe is crouched beside him, clear evidence that all the home-knit organic yarn sweaters in the world won't save him against the icy might of the Snow Queen's fortress, where the walls are crystallized with snow, and the floor burns their feet even through the soles of their shoes. Nick sighs, seeing his breath puff out like a mystery, and he sidles closer to Monroe, whose eyes flick in near-alarm, because he is a paranoid bastard who is still half-convinced that Nick, as a Grimm, will eat him for lunch.

"We should share body heat," Nick says. "That might be the only way we'll make it out of here."

"Dude, that's gay," Monroe says.

Nick gives him a flat look. "Gayer than what we did yesterday? Gayer than what we did the week before that? Gayer than you on the bed, being all--"

"That, my friend, is base animal instinct," Monroe declares. "Cuddling though? Cuddling will make us 2.8% more homosexual. Trust me on this."

"I can't feel my fingers anymore," Nick hisses. "Get over here."

Monroe shuffles over, but instead of saving their lives, he leans forward and sniffs Nick.

"Put your arms around me," Nick orders.

"How do you want it?" Monroe asks. "Do you want like, Conan the Barbarian stranghold? Or do you want My Little Pony sweet, tender, fluffiness? You have to clarify."

"Left arm hooks around my torso, right arm follows," Nick says, teeth chattering harder.

"What should I do with my fingers then?"

"Your fingers?" Nick asks.

"Do you want me to clench down? That might hurt, just gonna say. Do you want me to drum them so you can keep time? Or do you want them to just lie there, like sausages." Monroe looks wistful. "I really want some sausages right now, as bloody as they get."

"I will bloody you if you don't start cuddling me," Nick says between numb lips. "You will be 2.8% more dead."

"Should we cuddle from the front or the back?" Monroe continues.

Nick uses the last of his non-frozen mobility to grab a stick on the ice and jab it into the snow. "Exhibit A!" he says loudly, drawing two stick figures, and then a series of arrows. "Arm goes here, arm goes there, chin goes there, do you understand now?"

Monroe studies the diagram. "All right," he says. "I think I'm up to the task."

"I hate you," Nick informs him, and Monroe huffs in soft laughter as his arms go around Nick and his cold, scratchy chin presses at the juncture between Nick's neck and his shoulder. Nick automatically feels warmer, and he leans back against Monroe, absorbing as much of his blutbad heat as he can get -- and Monroe might be freezing like he is, but it's not nearly the same as Nick,and if Nick concentrates, his Grimm senses can almost smell the hot blood in Monroe's veins. It comforts him, and he strokes Monroe's forearm absently with a gloved hand.

"I think those numbers are wrong," he says. "Statistical errors, faulty data."

"Yeah," Monroe says, and Nick can feel his smile, "maybe."

Re: Nick/Monroe, failure to follow proper cuddling protocol

[chaoticallyclev]

Oh my gosh, this is so amaziiiiing! NICK DRAWS DIAGRAMS. IN THE SNOW. WITH AN ICICLE. perfection ♥

This is a cuddlingwithPeeta! booth

[aredblush]

:D?

Re: This is a cuddlingwithPeeta! booth

[chaoticallyclev]

NAAAAAS. PEEEEEETA. CUDDLES. WITH FLOUR AND SUGAR BAGS. I JUST. I CAN'T A:JSDLJAHDLKAJH ♥!

bb!Thor & bb/Loki, naptime

[aredblush]

Because bbavengers cuddles are the best

Re: bb!Thor & bb/Loki, naptime

[jibrailis]

dfsa;ljaj;f ADORABLE, Thor is covering Loki up! *makes screechy noises only audible to sonar*

Cold in your arms (Captain America Comics. Bucky/Natasha. G)

[silveronthetree]

There is nothing to see but the glow of a streetlamp casting shadows on an empty street, but Natasha can't tear herself away from the window. Every cell of her body is exhausted and she knows she should sleep but she leans her shoulder against the cold window pane, letting the chill travel through her arm. It's a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment, full of heat pumped out by the radiator.

A change in the movement of the air against her skin alerts her to his presence. James is silent on bare feet and his entrance would be undetectable to anyone without her level of training and hard-won experience. She can sense him moving closer but it's still a jolt when his warm left hand makes contact with her shoulder – the light touch a familiar but unnecessary warning of his presence -- before she's enfolded in his arms. She leans back into him and closes her eyes. He smells of the utilitarian soap that he won't give up and the faintest hint of gunpowder and beer.

"Hard day?" he asks, his breath ruffling her hair.

"No more than usual." She turns her head to kiss his cheek. His chest is warm through the thin silk of her camisole and he's holding her tight, squeezing her arms against her sides. She could escape at any moment but she doesn't want to. They stand like that in silence until James presses a kiss to her hair and Natasha starts to stroke the warm synthetic flesh of his forearm. "I miss it sometimes."

"Hmm?"

"The metal." She feels him flinch, almost imperceptibly. "I know, I know," she soothes and turns to face him. She remembers all her jokes about his cold hands. Just jokes, but enough of them that Fury commented on it when he gave James his newest arm. "But sometimes when you hold me now, I'm so warm that I forget it's you." He tenses against her until her next words. "And until I remember, I ache for my darling boy."

"It's still me." James reassures her and his arms tighten around her and it is almost too much. Then he grins. "You should've said something earlier; it's easily fixed." He lets go of her with his right arm and reaches across to fiddle with something on his shoulder. It feels as if all the life has gone out of his arm as the warmth recedes from his fingers. Oh!

"It isn't quite the same but I think it'll do the trick." James slides his hand up her arm and pulls her back into his arms. She can feel the cool metal on one side of her body and the warmth of real flesh on the other and she tilts up her face to kiss him.

Re: Cold in your arms (Captain America Comics. Bucky/Natasha. G)

[gloss]

I love this, and not simply because I kink on the robo arm something fierce. It's a gorgeous piece and so very them.

♥

NOT FANDOM BUT TOTALLY TOPICAL :D

[delires]

Epic Hug in St Pancras Breaks World Record!

Re: NOT FANDOM BUT TOTALLY TOPICAL :D

[aredblush]

Aaah, I love that statue! I took ten billions pictures of it when I last visited London! <333

Life on Mars Sam/Gene Cuddle Fic. Yes, there is actual cuddling

[blueteak]

Gene heard the cot’s springs squeaking before he opened the door. Needless to say, he was not in any way surprised to find Sam battling the sheets as though they were keeping him from his destiny, his face flushed, eyes glazed, and hair messy in a way it usually only got after he had been with Gene.

Gene grinned, settling himself on the already protesting cot, and reached over to smooth back some of Sam’s hair, a touch far more tender than the one he hoped he’d soon be giving Sam in a more intimate place.

Sam flinched back, glazed eyes turning sharp, frightened.

Gene frowned. Sam had never, ever, been afraid of him. He flinched before he got smacked, yes, but he leaned into blows more often than not and fought back even when he was outmatched. And this had been as far from inflicting a smack as Gene went.

Gene’s body had apparently re-evaluated Sam’s flushed skin and glazed eyes before his mind caught up. He found himself making soothing shushing sounds and slow, careful movements; he was relieved and strangely touched when the fright left Sam’s feverish eyes and turned to hopeful trust when Gene brought his hand to rest on Sam’s burning forehead.

Gene watched as Sam struggled to keep his drooping eyelids from closing, that sleepy hazel gaze holding him, resisting rest to be with Gene, who was doing all he could to make rest comfortable. Gene began massaging Sam’s forehead gently, encouraging him to close those eyes and sleep. It worked better than an order.

As soon as Sam was asleep, Gene got up and found paracetamol and juice for him to have when he woke. It seemed as though Sam had a simple fever for once, not a sicky caused by druggies, tarts, or druggie tarts slipping him acid.

He was grateful that they both had the day off, even though it looked like kissing could be asking for trouble and the only reason to pound the mattress would be to get the sick off it if it came to that.

After Gene had looked through all of Sam’s cupboards for anything edible and was about to give in and actually read some of the paperwork Sam had brought home, Sam rescued him by cracking open an eye.

Gene was at his side and pouring juice and paracetamol down him so fast he may as well have been wearing a nurse’s uniform. Sam didn’t seem to want to be in any more pain than he already was, so he refrained from commenting on how solicitous Gene was being. He just swallowed, shivered, and looked at Gene like he was the only source of warmth in the world.

It was easy to take care of Sam when he was like this, when whatever it was that was making him unwell didn’t make him want to fight.

At a look from Sam, Gene found himself getting under the covers without the promise of sex at 11 a.m. He opened his arms and Sam curled into him, unselfconscious. Gene learned that he already knew Sam well enough to soothe him in sickness.

He’d known for quite some time how to give Sam pain when he needed it, as well as how to give him unalloyed pleasure. He was surprised by how happy it made him to know he was doing this right, making the correct circular motions on Sam’s back with just the right pressure, keeping him warm where he needed it and cool where he didn’t. While it was not how he’d envisioned spending the day off in bed with Sam, it wasn’t all bad either.

Re: Life on Mars Sam/Gene Cuddle Fic. Yes, there is actual cuddling

[petra]

Sometimes you just need the sweet, sweet sting of h/c. Thank you for this, for the druggie tarts line, which is excellent, and for the way it makes me beam.

Merthur snowstorm cuddle (canon)

[asya_ana]

“Time to get up, sire! Rise and shine,” Merlin called out in his most annoyingly cheery tone, pulling back the curtains in a single unapologetic movement.

Arthur wanted to clobber him.

“Kind of a mess out there today, sire. You wouldn’t believe the way it is snowing. I haven’t seen it snow like this in...maybe ever!”

“Merlin, what are you going on about? It never snows in Camelot.” Arthur slid his bare feet back and forth under the warm blanket and felt himself losing awareness of the outside world once again.

“But it is!” Merlin confirmed, prancing over to the bedside and leaning over Arthur’s shirtless form. “It’s definitely snowing. And so there’s a lot to get done!” Arthur cracked an eye open and saw Merlin counting off on his fingers. “We’ve to bring in the firewood, clear the main road in case of emergencies, make sure Gaius is stocked with his supplies…”

“Merlin,” Arthur growled, “let me assure you that if it is snowing as heavily as you say, then there is very little for me to do. Let my advisors handle the emergency preparation. I am staying in bed.”

“But, sire! You’re the King; you can’t just…”

“Listen, you,” Arthur said, revealing his shirtless form as he leaned up on one elbow, “I’m the King, and I decide what I should do, and right now I decide to stay in bed. Preferably,” he went on with a mischievous look, “preferably with you, Merlin.”

“Do you really think this is a good time?” asked Merlin, whispering even though there was no one around to hear them.

“You come here right now,” Arthur ordered, reaching up and grabbing Merlin’s wrist, tugging him into the bed in one quick motion.

“Well I suppose it is a bit cold in here,” Merlin allowed, squiggling into the warm spot where Arthur had drawn back the blankets. “And it can’t hurt just this once, considering the weather and all, to spend the morning cuddling with you.”

“Mmm, that’s better, see? I told you, Merlin, never to question your King,” answered Arthur, drawing Merlin against him and nuzzling his cheek. “Oh, you really are cold. We’re going to have to fix that.”

“Please,” Merlin murmured happily, shifting over to his side and scooting back against Arthur’s broad chest.

Arthur squeezed Merlin tight and wrapped a leg over his favorite servant. And his best friend.

“And my greatest love,” Arthur whispered into Merlin’s ear.

“What?” Merlin asked, becoming sleepy from the heat of the embrace.

“You,” Arthur repeated, “you are my greatest love.” And he joined Merlin in contented slumber.

Re: prompt!

[magnolia822]

How cute was this! My greatest love! Sigh, how I wish it would snow in Camelot.

Bradley and Colin get Turned into koalas. And love it. (RPF)

[magnolia822]

This is in response to Hermette's prompt. And here is a video of Koala noises on Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJ1C9QjmzrA

I've never posted on DW before. Here goes!

When they’d decided to pay a visit to London Zoo to see the new koala exhibit (Oh, please, Bradley, Colin had said, widening his eyes in his most disarming doe-like manner, and Bradley couldn’t have resisted even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t, because making Colin happy often resulted in extremely gratifying, messy, and wonderful sex), Bradley hadn’t expected things to turn out this way.

He’d expected to pay their entry (which he did), predicted Colin would grab his sleeve and pull and point at the animals like an excited child (which he had), even anticipated beginning to enjoy himself at some point (at the monkey house. Bradley loved monkeys.) But the thing he couldn’t have ever foreseen even in his wildest dreams (of which there were many), was winding up a koala clinging desperately to the trunk of a tree with Colin (a much smaller, cuter, more cuddly koala) clinging to his back.

He couldn’t have predicted that Colin actually was magic. How many times had he joked about it on the set of Merlin—Oh, Colin so dedicated to his role, he’s actually physically learned magic, Ha, ha, ha—it had become a running gag with the whole cast and crew. No, he couldn’t have predicted that Colin loved koalas so much, so enthusiastically, that seeing an entire community of them would make his dormant magic go haywire and turn both he and a very surprised, very alarmed Bradley into furry grey marsupials themselves.

Which they were, Bradley was sure, unless the lamb kebab he’d eaten at lunch (as Colin had watched, nose scrunched in distaste) had been drugged with hallucinogens.

Bradley felt small as he warily eyed the other koalas circling round, inspecting the newest arrivals with mystified koala expressions that, to Bradley’s mind, bordered on aggressive. At his back, koala-Colin made a very alarming, not at all cute and fuzzy noise, which Bradley, strangely enough, could understand.

What happened, Bradley?

What happened? Bradley replied, startled at the same bizarre sound that emitted from his mouth. You mean you don’t know?

I have no idea, screeched koala-Colin. I mean I felt something, something like magic, yeah? But I’ve never felt it before.

Bloody hell, Cols, so you mean you don’t know how to turn us back?

Colin dug his claws in—sharp little buggers—and whimpered. A large male koala appeared to be taking an interest in them, in Colin specifically, eyeing them with something a lot like koala lust in his eyes. Bradley growled and the interloper retreated a few paces, but still remained too close for Bradley’s liking. No one was touching his Colin, koala or otherwise. Cheeky.

Well, we can’t stay like this, Bradley said in koala-language. Jesus, we have to be back to Wales tomorrow.

I know that, Bradley, obviously. Colin could even muster a snarky tone when he was a tiny grey marsupial. Impressive. But I don’t know how.

Now a note of desperation had crept into Colin’s grunts and growls, which, of course, stimulated Bradley’s protective side. Even though Colin was clinging to his back, he was too far away. Bradley made a noise that he hoped conveyed his point. It seemed to do the trick because just seconds later he found himself being hugged from the front by a—wow, extremely soft, tiny koala—with the widest, prettiest eyes he’d ever seen. Colin made a content noise and snuggled closer.

This is actually nice, said Bradley. If you get past the bit about it being completely mad.

Colin’s koala-laugh was infectious. It’s not terrible.

Maybe if you just relax, Bradley said. You’ll figure out how to turn us back. He was beginning to feel a bit sleepy himself but resisted the urge to close his eyes, afraid that if he drifted off his rival would carry Colin off and commit koala defilement. But it was so extremely comfortable, so much warmer than he’d ever been before. He licked Colin’s head, but Colin was already asleep.

It would be lovely just to stay like this, wouldn’t it, it wouldn’t be so bad in the end,Bradley thought as he drifted off, wondering what koalas dreamed about.

When Bradley awoke hours later entangled in Colin’s very human arms and legs, an amazed zoo attendant peering down at them (surely wondering why the stars of one of the BBC’s most popular shows were cuddling in the koala enclosure), he almost thought it had been a dream. But that wouldn’t explain away the koala fur in his mouth, or the way the alpha male koala was still watching Colin with an expression that could only be termed . . . regret.

Re: Bradley and Colin get Turned into koalas. And love it. (RPF)

[otta_ff]

Eeep! Snuggly koala Brolin is the best. thing. ever! And koala!Bradley protected his koala!Colin from a lusty interloper! *giggles and flails wildly* ♥

GLEE: Kurt/Blaine &hearts;

[delires]

Written for the prompt: Kurt/Blaine the night before graduation ........which, okay, this actually isn't, because I REMEMBERED NICHOLE'S PROMPT WRONG. All the fails. D:


The night before Kurt leaves for college is strange mostly because it feels just like any other night. They eat dinner with the Hummel-Hudson clan, watch a movie which is sure to be shit (but who can resist Jude Law?), then stay awake for hours tangled up in Kurt’s lush bedcovers.

“Listen.” Kurt presses his lips together as he prepares his words. “If you get really drunk while I’m gone ─which I know you will because you do every time you so much as see a beer─ and thus impaired, happen to kiss someone else─”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, because these thoughts need to be immediately dashed.

“─then for the love of Gaga, do not tell me.” Blaine drags himself up from his slump against the pillows and looks over in time to see Kurt’s hands fly up in alarm. “No. Wait. That will breed secrecy and resentment.”

“Kurt.”

“So, do tell me, but do it gently. And if you can maybe frame it in such a way that I come across as a sort of elegant martyr figure─”

“I’m not going to kiss anyone else,” Blaine interrupts. “You have nothing to worry about.”

The lamplight makes Kurt’s long eyelashes translucent. He blinks and then says, “You know as well as I do that there is always plenty to worry about. I can’t even borrow a bow-tie from you without you texting me throughout the day to check up that I’m keeping it safe.”

“That’s because of that one traumatic time with Wes─” Blaine blurts before he can swallow down the bad memories. Then he takes a breath and lays a hand on Kurt’s arm. “But you understand about silk, I know that. Just one of the reasons why I have no desire to so much as touch anyone else. Ever.”

“Good,” Kurt says perfectly sweetly, “Because joking aside, I would murder you as you slept.”

“It would be like a Tarantino movie,” Blaine says, with a grin.

“With better dancing.”

“And fewer jumpsuits.”

“On that note...” Kurt lifts the sheets covering his lap and peers underneath, “I’m ready again. Are you?”

Blaine has been so been busy staring at the light caught in Kurt’s eyelashes, trying to commit the sight to memory, that he’s forgotten why they are still awake. He puts his hand under the covers, almost guilty. “Already?” he says. “Wow. You’ll have to give me a second.”

“Blaine!” Kurt snaps his fingers. “Look alive. We have to go as many times as we can tonight. Who knows when we’ll next see each other? We’re going to be living like nuns from now on.”

The finger snaps mean business. Blaine’s hand stills. He looks at Kurt in amusement. “Who would have thought that of the two of us you’d turn out to be the sex pest.”

The corners of Kurt’s mouth twitch in the first signs of a pout. “I’m serious.”

“Well, then, I might need your help here.” Blaine leans closer. For a second the pout stays in place, but then Kurt sighs and reaches beneath the sheets, trying to control a smile.

“This is such a ploy,” he says. Blaine kisses him as he feels Kurt’s fingers wrap around him.

“You’ll miss my ploys.”

“Don’t.” Kurt shakes his head. He makes the next kiss deeper, tilting his chin. When they break apart again he says. “Just picture me in a tight yellow jumpsuit.”

“With a sword,” Blaine adds, breathless now.

“If that’s your thing, I won’t judge.”

Kurt’s fingers squeeze and Blaine’s hips lift from the mattress. With impeccable dancer’s coordination he uses that momentum to tumble them both over into a more appealing position.

*

Later, they lie in the darkness with their legs and arms all caught up in one another’s.

With his lips touching Blaine’s collarbone, Kurt says, “I’m scared of leaving.”

Blaine kisses an eyebrow, the nearest thing he can reach. “Stop it,” he whispers, “You’ll be fabulous.”

*

No child of a mechanic would embark on a long drive without first making the vital checks: coolant level, oil, tyre pressure. Together they stand in front of Kurt’s car, the hood still propped open. Staring down at the engine, Kurt says, “I thought about sabotaging it so I’d have to stay.”

Blaine slips his hand into his pocket and feels the folded sheet of paper safe inside. “Not too late for that.”

Kurt gives him a look which tells him to stop trying to be a funny man. “I am not touching an engine without coveralls, Blaine Anderson. Besides, there’s no damage I could do which Dad wouldn’t be able to fix sooner than you can say Ben Sherman.”

As he closes the hood, Kurt stares back up at the house. He has already said goodbye to his family inside without shedding a tear. It’s a different matter out here, with only Blaine to see.

“I’ll come over to watch games,” Blaine says, and when Kurt looks at him he adds, “I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

Then they are hugging and the feeling of abnormality finally comes crashing down on Blaine, so sudden that it makes him nauseous.

“I love you,” he says, and feels Kurt’s arms tighten around him.

“I love you too.”

He keeps the ticket hidden until Kurt has climbed into the car and turned the ignition. Only then does he unfold the paper and knock on the driver’s side window. When Kurt looks up, he presses the ticket to the glass.

Kurt rolls down the window. “What’s that?” His eyelashes are spiky wet with tears. Blaine rests his arm against the open window and leans through.

“It’s a plane ticket. I’m coming to visit you in two weeks.” He grins. “So you won’t be living like a nun for long.”

Re: GLEE: Kurt/Blaine &hearts;

[aredblush]

Nngh, this is so nice and adorable. I don't even follow Glee anymore but these two are just so darn delightful <3 And you're so amazing at writing them <333

I am a fail-boat of cruise-ship dimensions.

[night_reveals]

I tried to write cuddling. What I ended up with was a revenge-fantasy versus the American government.

ARTHUR AND EAMES, DELIVER ME FROM MY GOVERNMENT'S ATTEMPTS AT CENSORSHIP AND GENERAL EVIL KTHXBAI. Also, I really couldn't post here in good conscience. I mean, there is literally three or four lines of cuddle. :/

CATCH A TIGER BY ITS TOE (HOW ARTHUR AND EAMES SAVED THE WORLD) -- "The internet is pissed." -- Inception: Arthur/Eames -- PG13 -- contains politics

I would stop writing such self-indulgent tripe, but then what would I ever get done?

Arthur/Eames, in which dreamspace is ridiculous (1/?)

[the_ragnarok]

The architects keep getting younger and younger these days. Eames eyes the latest sample with mistrust – pimpled and sour-faced, surely no older than fifteen.

"I'm twenty," mumbles the Boy Wonder, known to his colleagues and presumable friends as Darren.

"Did I ask?" Eames says with a mild raise of eyebrow. He turns to their extractor – no, practical therapist.

Eames is doing his best impression of a law-abiding citizen these days, and accepts only the most legitimate of jobs. It's not a rare process in the steadily gentrifying field that is dreamsharing. Said practical therapist, Lynn, used to be a fairly fearsome extractor; now she's composing teams to diagnose kids with suspected social disorders. Sic transit gloria mundi, etc. etc.

Lynn rolls her eyes at him, so Eames subsides. He is, after all, taking this job based on Lynn's old reputation alone.

"Oh, God," Arthur says from his seat in the corner. "I don't know if this conversation is making me feel old or just relieved." Eames can't help but grin at him. All right, perhaps he's not on the job only because of Lynn.

Lynn reties her silver hair with a purple scrunchie. "Don't worry, old dog," she tells Arthur. "You'll always be a puppy to me."

"Are people always this inappropriate?" Darren says, apparently in despair.

Arthur hums and shrugs, looking not unsympathetic."You get used to it." He gets up and goes to punch Eames in the shoulder. "Don't let Eames give you any grief."

Eames feigns a hurt look in Arthur's direction. "I would never." Arthur snorts, but he pats Eames' back before withdrawing from the room.

~~

He finds himself looking in Arthur's direction as often as not. If Eames ever had any shame about his Arthur-watching habits (and why should he? The man's a bloody work of art), it's dwindled to nothing with age and familiarity.

Arthur still doesn't look his age, after all these years, but he does look adult, which is a marked change from the time when Eames first met him. It's not just the faint lines permanently settled in his forehead – all Arthur's fault, those, Eames did warn him not to scowl this much – but other things: the way he rolls up his sleeves and whistles as he works, the tone of his voice gone from sharp and curt to almost amused.

In fact, Arthur has mellowed considerably since the time Eames first met him. It's odd to realize, and Eames finds himself blinking, taking Arthur in all over again.

"What's our out?” Arthur's asking Darren, running a critical eye over the latest draft of the single-level maze.

"We're extracting from a first-grader,” Darren says. “Do you really--”

Arthur puts the specs down with a decisive turn of wrist. “Always have another way out.” He looks over his shoulder and lowers his voice, conspiratorial. “And don't call this an extraction where Lynn can hear you, or she'll have your innards for lingerie.”

Faintly, Darren says, "I'll remember that.”

"Make sure you do.” Arthur smiles at him, and it's...

Not brief and impersonal as Eames remembers from their early days, not the knife's-edge teeth baring that Arthur used to save for troublesome clients. Arthur looks amused. Holy hell, Arthur looks downright approachable, which is so unbearably adorable Eames might just faint.

When Arthur walks back to his workstation, passing Eames along the way, Eames flutters his eyelashes and sighs audibly. Arthur throws an eraser at him. Eames ducks, grinning; ten years ago, that would've been a knife.

Re: Arthur/Eames, in which dreamspace is ridiculous (2/?)

[the_ragnarok]

It's not a very tightly-structured job, which Eames is absolutely fine with. He thrives on improvisation, after all, provided his foundations are solid. “And in such esteemed company,” he says, saluting Arthur with his takeout container, “what could be more solid?”

Arthur tilts his head and pretends to think. “Adamantium,” he says. Eames raises his eyebrows and is about to raise the stakes as well when Darren raps the desk with a ruler.

"Hey.” He manages to sound only a little petulant, good on him. “So, uh, plan?”

"The indicators we're looking for are in the file,” Lynn says. “The somnacin blend we're using is going to make us all look like we're Kriss' age, except Eames, who is going to be Kriss' favorite toy. Get us the inside information.” She nudges Eames. “Basically, just observe the kid and the dreamscape, fill out the forms the doctor gives us, and report anything unusual.”

"Yeah, that's actually all in the file as well.” Darren shifts. “What I meant was, how do I know what's normal? I've never,” he darts a cautious look at Arthur, then at Lynn, “done dream-therapy on a kid.”

"Neither did any of us,” Eames says, taking sufficient pity to refrain from mentioning that Darren hasn't extracted from anyone at all. “Play it by ear. If you're not certain, ask. Common sense should do it.”

~~

"Um,” Darren says into the silence that descends once they're all in Kriss' dream. “So, is this... supposed to happen?”

Eames investigates the purple tentacle he's got in place of a hand. “In my case, yes.” The stretchy octopus is, after all, Kriss' favorite toy. “In yours, however...”

If Eames is honest, he'll admit he was quite looking forward to seeing his team mates as children. Not to name any names in particular, he had a notion at least one of them would be completely adorable.

Sadly, this does not appear to be happening. Darren, for one thing, looks quite like himself, if he were a LEGO-person. Painted-on hair and yellowness aside, there's not much of a difference.

"This might not be so bad,” Lynn says, frowning down at her dress. She's taken on the aspect of a Raggedy Ann. “We're suppose to come in looking like desirable play mates. The kid might just be a little introverted.”

"Or a sociopath,” Eames says cheerfully. “What?” he says, when Darren glares so hotly it ought to melt his plastic face. “I've extracted from several sociopaths, it's very enlightening. Change of pace and all that.”

Also painful.

Eames blinks, because that wasn't a thought and he didn't quite hear it, either – the words just up and registered themselves into his memory. Sounding remarkably like Arthur, especially for something that wasn't sound at all to begin with.

Come to think of it, where is Arthur?

Something which isn't quite a sigh, but nevertheless expresses a palpable irritation in the air, communicates, Down here.

Eames looks. And blinks, and looks again.

The ground of the dreamscape, such as it is, is more like an assortment of soft fabric, as if the entire world is a pillow-fort or a giant stuffed toy.

What, emanates clearly from a largish square of very light sky-blue fleece.

"Sorry,” Eames murmurs. One of his tentacles ventures close to the corner of the – of Arthur, but goes no further when Arthur twitches. “Took me a minute to spot you, you're rather well-camouflaged.”

Lynn walks to them. Her painted-on eyes can't narrow, but it seems like she wishes they could. “Why is Arthur a blanket?”

Eames hurriedly swallows down a pun, only to groan when Darren says, “Dunno, 'cause he's in charge of security?”

Hah hah, Arthur projects, very sour for something so soft-looking.

Lynn frowns to the best of her doll-faced ability. “Can you move?”

Eames watches in fascination as the Arthur-blanket folds itself slightly in the middle, only to collapse in resignation like a badly designed caterpillar.

Doesn't look like it, Arthur says.

"I guess I could,” Darren starts, then mysteriously stumbles in mid-sentence.

"Oh, sorry, that was careless of me, still not used to all these extra arms,” Eames says, scooping Arthur up. “Rather stable on this terrain, though, aren't they? No offense.”

Slung on two of Eames' tentacles, Arthur projects, Not subtle.

Eames doesn't dignify this with an answer. Arthur knows perfectly well that Eames is never unsubtle unless he wants to be.

Sherlock/John Total PG

[im_not_a_lizard]

Thanks to magnolia822 and asyaana shamelessly enabling me, I not only wrote this little ficlet (based around this pic of MF http://b.asset.soup.io/asset/1047/7787_5c6f.png ) but also created a Dreamwidth account just so I could post my cuddle fic. Seriously, these girls are gooooood. Enjoy!



“John, we are out of...what is that?”

John turned as Sherlock stood, poised in the doorway, pointing an accusatory finger at his chair. The cat merely fixed his eyes on the frozen man, and settled further, the very tip of his tail flicking a quiet beat against the upholstery.

“Oh, that’s Skull,” John replied absently, seated across from the ginger monstrosity that seemed to be engaging Sherlock in some sort of eye contact battle. He frowned. The cat flexed a paw. “Lestrade needed a cat-sitter for a few days.”

“Les... Sku... oh, very clever.” Sherlock walked stiffly to his chair and stood, looking down at the interloper.

“You are in my spot,” he said politely. The cat looked up at him, gave a very deliberate yawn, and spread further into Sherlock’s spot. Sherlock frowned, and looked up to find John watching him in bemusement.

“What?” he snapped, irritated.

“Sit on the couch, for fucks sake,” John replied, tone just exasperated enough to make Sherlock’s cheek twitch. With as much dignity as he could muster, Sherlock stepped smartly past his occupied chair and to the couch. The thing sniggered, and Sherlock whirled around.

“Did you hear that?” He snapped, outraged, “Mocking me! John, I will not...” He trailed off at the sight of John’s raised eyebrow, and sat down. It wasn’t the same.

***

Sixty seven hours of sitting on the couch, and Sherlock had had enough. It wasn’t his spot. The chair was his spot. How was he supposed to run through his thoughts properly if he couldn’t see John’s face? John’s expression was critical to Sherlock’s theorising. Their chairs were perfectly positioned so that Sherlock could move around whilst he talked, and John could sit and listen. The cat was intruding on Sherlock’s process and that was not on.

He bounded through the door, ready to lay down the law, and found his chair empty. With a joyful cry, (and possibly a small hop), Sherlock threw himself into his finally vacant spot. He stretched his legs, flexed his hands on the rests, and looked up at John, smiling for the first time since the interloper appeared. Everything was...not back the way it should be.

The ginger monstrosity was lounging in John’s lap like a poorly stuffed cushion, making a sound like a death rattle, as John absently ran the hand he wasn’t using to hold his paper under its chin and down its flank. It slitted its eyes open and grinned smugly. Sherlock ground his teeth.

“Why is it still here?”

“Hmm?” John replied, not looking up from his article. Sherlock’s eye twitched. The cat’s tail twitched in response. It was laughing at him, he was sure of it.

“That...thing!” Sherlock exploded, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, “Why is it still here, laughing at me, ruining my process, why?”

John’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners, and he carefully laid the paper down on the table next to his left arm. He tilted his head.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly, “Are you okay? You haven’t...taken anything, have you?”

“What? You think I’ve taken something because I don’t want that smug thing in my house...judging me?” Sherlock snarled, gesturing violently towards the cat, “AND WHAT IS THAT BLOODY NOISE?”

“Okay, first of all, relax,” John replied, his mouth twisted now, “and Skull is purring. Nothing but purring. It’s fine.”

“Fine? Nothing about this situation is fine!”

Sherlock could feel his whole body getting ready to twitch, so he whirled past the confused John, past the smug, purring thing, and out into the night.

***

“Where have you been?”

“Out.”

“Sherlock, it’s 5am. You’ve been gone for hours. Your brother was ready to call in...something so secretive it doesn’t even have a name.”

John sounded weary. Extremely so. Sherlock looked around quickly. John wore the same clothes he had been wearing when Sherlock had stormed out, wrinkled now as if he had been moving around a lot. Several mugs, their contents – tea, yes, John’s brand – untouched and cold, perched on various surfaces. John’s paper lay discarded on the floor, an unheard of event. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You were worried.”

“Of course I was bloody worried,” John yelled, “You came home, had a hissy fit over a bloody cat, and stormed out!”

Sherlock looked at John’s flushed face, the tight line of his mouth, his clenched fists, and frowned. The last time he’d seen those fingers they’d been stroking the monstrosity, and John had seemed much calmer. Content even. Sherlock frowned harder.

“This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous!” John threw up his hands, and stomped from the room, muttering about cats and lunatics. Sherlock looked around quickly.

“John?” He yelled, “Where is the cat?”

A slammed door was the only response he received.

***

The cat had been gone for thirty three hours, and John still looked tense. He was hunched in his chair, fingers white against his paper, Sherlock crouched in his own chair opposite him, scrutinising.

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been staring at me for half an hour now Sherlock,” John sighed, setting his paper aside, “What’s up?”

“Wrong.” Sherlock stated. John raised an eyebrow. “You’re mad. No, irritated,” he amended at the twitch of fingers on John’s left hand, “Also you’re...tense. You weren’t tense before, when...that thing was here, so the correct question should be, what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” John replied, the way his t and h slid into each other alerting Sherlock to his clenched jaw, “I’m fine.”

Sherlock frowned again, tilting his head. John retrieved his paper from the table.

“Would you like to stroke me?”

John made a small choking noise that turned into a cough. Very deliberately, he replaced his paper on the table, then raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s own inquisitive gaze.

“I’m sorry?”

“I did some research, and reliable internet sources inform me that people find stroking a pet to have an unconsciously calming effect. You were more relaxed when you were stroking that...cat,” Sherlock supplied, “The cat is gone, and you are no longer relaxed.

John’s eyebrows were still squinted in that way the meant he had not reached the obvious conclusion. Sherlock sighed internally. For a doctor, John could be very obtuse.

“Are you suggesting yourself as a...pet?” John asked, looking a little odd, “because I have to say Sherlock, that’s a little too far out of believable.”

“Of course not, I’m merely...” Sherlock interrupted before John’s words struck, “What do you mean, not believable? Are you saying I would make a poor pet?”

“What?” John was clearly bemused, “I can’t even believe we’re having this...what the hell are you doing?” Sherlock paused in his action of climbing into John’s lap to give him a look.

“I would think it perfectly obvious,” Sherlock replied, pushing John’s arms out of the way. Honestly, anyone would think the man had never had another man sit in his lap to act as a pseudo-cat for the good of his health before.

“I really don’t think...” John was saying ...no, squeaking...as Sherlock tried to curl his legs into a comfortable position, whilst simultaneously trying to tuck his head under the other man’s chin and show John where to place his arms so that they weren’t impeding Sherlock’s attempts. Sherlock had never noticed John’s propensity to flail before.

“Oh, this isn’t working,” Sherlock exclaimed, springing up from John’s lap.

“You think?” John groused, before grunting in surprise as Sherlock hauled him from his chair and to the couch, pushing him down and resuming his attempts to catify himself for John Watson.

“More space here,” he informed John whilst trying to replicate the ginger monstrosity’s rather effortless lounging, “Stop squirming!”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock found himself on a heap at John’s feet, looking up at his agitated friend. John looked down at him, mouth twisted. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” John bit out, “Have you lost your mind? Are you on something?” He leaned down a little, squinting at Sherlock’s eyes, “Is this some sort of experiment?”

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, did not pout at all, and brushed his trousers down before turning his shoulder to his ungrateful flatmate.

“It’s very simple,” he snapped out, “That cat was here. You were relaxed. I made the cat go away. You were not relaxed. I was trying to help.”

Sherlock turned fully away on the last word, but a firm hand around his bicep stopped him executing any forward motion with the move. He glanced back over his shoulder, and found John smiling at him. Not his you’re-a-smug-git smile, or his this-is-work smile, or you-duck-and-i’ll-get-the-gun smile. No, this was his you’re-bloody-adorable smile. Sherlock hadn’t seen it since Sarah.

“Trying to help,” John dipped his head a little, and his eyes crinkled, “Of course you were.” Then he pulled Sherlock down beside him on the couch.

“Try it this way,” he murmured, pulling Sherlock into his side. Sherlock, calculating the height difference, allowed himself to slump until he was curved under John’s arm, which was solid across his shoulder-blades, holding Sherlock tight against his side. There was a few moments of silence, then John’s hand slid up and into Sherlock’s hair, stroking softly.

Sherlock sighed in contentment as John’s right hand, previously balled on top of his thigh, relaxed and flattened out. This was exactly what John needed. John’s fingers found their way through Sherlock’s hair to rub, soft but firm, along his scalp, and Sherlock let out a rumble.

“Uh, what was that?” John queried, his hand stilling. Sherlock butted his head against the unmoving fingers until John took the hint, and yawned, sliding his right arm underneath John’s back and slinging his left around his waist.

“Purring,” he replied, leaving the ‘obviously’ unsaid.

“Obviously,” John answered, warm and steady, and Sherlock smiled in satisfaction.

Re: Sherlock/John Total PG

[chaoticallyclev]

Ahaha, Sherlock. You are amazing. Purring. ♥

Fic: Downtime (Warehouse 13, Myka/Helena PG)

[st_aurafina]

(Set some time before the end of Season 2)

There's always let-down after a mission. As soon as the slime or ooze has been sluiced off and the Artifact has been safely housed, the adrenaline fades and everyone is left feeling a little flat. When there's been a close call, the process of winding down becomes disjointed. Claudia's jokes take on a edgy, defensive note, and Artie's admonitions are more pointed.

Today, Pete's the one covered in slime and ooze, and Myka has a broken toe. The Artifact is safe, nobody died, but in the Warehouse there's a feeling of releasing a breath held too long. Back in her room, Myka bundles up her suit for the incinerator – whatever that stuff is, it's not going to launder out – and tapes her broken toe in position. She's itching with spent energy. Sleep is going to be a long time coming. She wanders through the kitchen, collects a mug of tea that Leena pushes into her hands, and finds Helena in the library.

Helena is curled on one of the sofas, with a pile of books on the table beside her – Heinlein, Butler, Le Guin – a century of science fiction for her to catch up on. She looks up from her book, shifts her legs, and holds out an arm to make a perfect space for Myka.

Myka nestles in beside her, balancing her mug of tea while she finds the most comfortable way to lie against Helena's body. When she's settled, Helena's arm is around her, and Myka's head is resting in the crook of Helena's shoulder. Helena gives her a tight squeeze then her attention is back on Neuromancer. There's nothing to say: Myka survived. For now, the best place to be is pressed against Helena's body.

Myka breathes in the familiar smell of tea and books. She watches Helena's eyes move hungrily over the text. The sound of pages turning and the crackle of the fire, the weight of that arm around her shoulder, these things lull her into the sleep she could not find before. She wakes, once, when Helena takes the mug of tea from her hands and presses a kiss to her temple. Then she's deeply asleep in the safest place she knows.

Poor Impulse Control

[chaoticallyclev]

This is angelgazing's fault and it is mostly probably terrible. Sorry but I'm not sorry.

Eames has terrible impulses, he knows. Usually, though, giving in to his impulses led to him being thousands of dollars richer and wanted by yet another country; nothing near as dangerous as this particular impulse he is fighting back at the moment.

It’s just that Arthur is, quite frankly, adorable when mad.

This isn’t new information, per se, as Eames has made sort of a habit out of irritating the other man, but something about Arthur’s ruffled state today is especially endearing. Possibly this is because for once it is not Eames’ fault nor is it an indication that their current situation will likely end up causing their untimely demise.

From what Eames has inferred from bits of Arthur’s grumblings in the kitchen amidst the clamor of heavy pots against the counter, this mood was brought on by a combination of terrible traffic, foul weather, and a poorly stocked grocer’s.

Arthur came home with a scowl on his face, sleeves crumpled up to his elbows, and strands of hair falling onto his forehead. Eames hasn’t the faintest clue how anyone could look at the picture he made and not immediately want to sweep him up in an embrace. Eames has managed to refrain from doing so up until this moment, but watching Arthur fuss about and manhandle the kitchenware is testing his resolve. Really, he’s let this go on long enough. Since Arthur has previously rebuffed all his attempts to at conversing, Eames is giving in.

In a few short steps, he’s crossed the kitchen and has one arm wrapped snugly around Arthur’s waist, then in the next second he finds himself knocked against the counter with a throbbing right eye.

---

“Are you sure you don’t want the frozen peas?” Arthur asks him yet again.

“Arthur, it’s fine.” Eames sighs.

Sneaking up on Arthur is never advisable under normal circumstances, and like he said, his impulses were terrible and that should be enough to advise him not to indulge them. Truthfully, he’s lucky Arthur only got his eye in what was mostly a reflexive hit.

“Your eye is already turning colors.” Arthur argues, but really it sounds as apologetic as every other word he’s managed since his initial apology. At this point, it’s getting a tad irritating. Eames is a big boy; he can take a little bruised eye and an ever bigger bruise to his ego without copious apologies over what was largely an accident. Arthur isn’t grumping about anymore, at the very least.

In fact, with Arthur’s current mood…

“Actually,” Eames starts, “You could do something for me. But it doesn’t involve peas.”

Eames hates peas, anyway, frozen or not.

To Arthur’s professional credit, his expression immediately gains an edge of suspicion. “Yes?”

Eames pats the space next to him on the couch in answer. Arthur rolls his eyes but comes and sits by him anyway. Making sure to broadcast his intentions with exaggerated, slow movements, Eames wraps his arms around Arthur once again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur mutters, but he tucks himself in closer anyway and, ah, there! Eames catches a glimpse of dimples, for a moment.

“Yes, yes, believe what you will. You are the one snuggling with the ridiculous man on this hideous couch.”

“That you picked out.” Arthur snorts.

And here comes another impulse, but a healthy amount of sap never hurt anyone, right?

“Well, I also picked you.” Eames countered.

Arthur groans loudly. “Terrible. You are absolutely terrible.”

“And ridiculous.” Eames reminds him, dropping a soft kiss to the top of Arthur’s head.

See? Not all of Eames’ impulses turn out terrible.

Re: Poor Impulse Control

[im_not_a_lizard]

Killing me with the cute!