Tonight is apparently sex night, though not in all of them!

1. [personal profile] meret: TVD: My theory is that Damon likes being dominated by a woman, so I'd love to see Bonnie and Damon in a female dominant relationship of some sort. Bonnie/Damon, NC-17.

“Don’t touch,” Bonnie said, not even an order.

Damon groaned. “But they’re right there,” he whined. He didn’t reach up, though. That was good, because Bonnie didn’t really want to have to tie him up. That took too long, and once they’d broken Damon’s antique bed when Damon had really thrashed. Not that Damon had cared, but Bonnie felt bad about destroying centuries-old furniture, not to mention the humiliation when Stefan had come in to ask about the commotion. Bonnie didn’t blame Stefan, because in their lives ignoring a loud crash just because you thought someone was probably having sex was a good way to get yourself killed. But it had still mortified her.

She was straddling Damon, naked except for the lilac silk teddy she’d indulged him by wearing. It covered the tops of her thighs, but she was bare and wet where she was pressed against his chest, and his nostrils flared every time he breathed. Did vampires need air, she wondered as she rubbed against him.

Damon himself was totally nude. She always required that. It had been the first thing that had made her realize exactly what he liked, and that she liked giving it to him.

She reached down and took his chin in her hand. “You were mean to Jeremy, earlier.”

“You’re mean to Jeremy,” he snarked back, petulant. “You won’t let me ask him to join us.”

She’d be a liar if she said she hadn’t thought about it. But Jeremy might react badly, or maybe Bonnie was scared that he wouldn’t, because she knew that Damon was just in this to get ordered around, but Jeremy might well want more from her that she wasn’t ready to give. Plus, Bonnie thought that even if Girl Code allowed emergency exceptions for really hot younger brothers, that wouldn’t stretch to ‘enmesh really hot younger brother in vampiric threesome.’

So instead, she frowned and pressed her fingertips to the tops of Damon’s pecs, just pressing down with her nails lightly enough to let him know that she could–and would—be scratching soon. “I think you need to spend some more time focused on me and what I want instead of getting distracted.”

Damon’s epic pout was so ludicrous it was hard not to laugh, even with his stomach hard and tensed under her. “You told me not to touch.”

“That just means you can’t use your hands,” she pointed out.

“Oh, in that case,” he said, and slithered up, opening his mouth on her breast like he planned to see just how much he could take.

Bonnie arched her back and closed her eyes and let the rest of the unruly world fall away.

2. [personal profile] jakrar: Mixed Cliché Fic - amnesia and body-switching
Smallville - Clex: Lex and Clark are exposed to something which not only induces amnesia but also body-switches them. Since only the amnesia is immediately discernible, Lionel takes ‘Lex’ back to the mansion to see how he can best use his son’s current vulnerability to his own advantage, while the Kents take ‘Clark’ back to the farm and probably tell him to stay home and away from outsiders until he’s himself again.

“Lex,” Clark said, eager and awkward. The word still sat uneasily in his mouth, familiar but distorted, like a face seen through glass blocks. Lex was climbing the stairs to the loft, an echo of how Clark had just snuck up. If Mom and Dad knew that Lex was here—

He didn’t care. They’d been nothing but loving since the accident, and part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up in their arms and never leave, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t deserve that. That if it weren’t for the accident they’d be looking at him with the same distrust and horror that he felt in himself when he looked around the rest of the world.

“Are you all right?” Lex asked, his face tight with concern as he came level with Clark. He stepped forward until he was close enough to touch. Closer.

“I’m not sure,” Clark said. The truth didn’t want to come out, not even to Lex, but Lex was the only one he trusted. “I think—there’s something wrong. Not just the amnesia.”

Lex didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head, only leaned forward. “I know,” he confided.

“Lex,” Clark said and had to close his eyes. “I trust you.” He could hear Lex breathing, fast and loud over the small noises of the barn settling and shifting. The air was warm and smelled of woodchips, here in this place that felt safer than his own bedroom. “I need to tell you—” He looked again, right as his vision shifted, so that he was seeing Lex’s skeleton, marred with old, healed breaks Clark was afraid to ask about (and Lex might not even know about) and slightly distorted by the sheen Clark was already learning to recognize as an aftereffect of meteor rock exposure. The phenomenon was fascinating and if Clark had the time he’d be investigating—he’d need equipment, but he could probably put together a serviceable apparatus out of the stuff in the advanced science classroom at school, which was not well secured at all—but he couldn’t think about that yet, not with so many pressing questions unanswered.

“I have abilities,” Clark said and swallowed, because he already felt that the abilities were just the tip of the iceberg, but his parents were keeping the rest from him until they thought he was ready. They didn’t understand how the secrets ate at him. He rubbed at the back of his head, hair rough and feeling odd against the heel of his hand.

“I thought you might,” Lex confessed. “Clark, you have to be careful. Lionel—he’s watching me all the time. And I think he may be watching you. It feels like he wants to take me apart to see what went wrong, and I’m afraid—” I’m afraid it might be literal, Clark completed the sentence in his mind.

Lionel Luthor carried around a big red flashing sign that said ‘danger,’ and even an amnesiac who wasn’t quite human could tell that. Clark thought that maybe the best thing for everybody would be to get Lionel in the path of another one of Smallville’s meteor mutants—they seemed to pop up every few weeks—and make sure that no one rushed in to save the day. Clark didn’t suggest it, because Lionel was Lex’s father, and so Lex couldn’t be feeling that nauseated rush that filled Clark’s stomach at every sight of the man. But he had to consider the possibility, especially if there was a way to get it done without Lex knowing.

“We’ll work it out,” he said now, reaching for Lex. Lex went easily into the hug. Metropolis sophisticates didn’t touch like this, did they? Anyway, Clark enjoyed the simpleness of the contact. He’d known as soon as he’d seen Lex, for what he remembered as the first time, that there was more that he wanted from Lex. He wanted to strip Lex, touch every inch, could imagine it in perfect detail even without the broad-spectrum vision. But Lex was a businessman in Kansas and Clark was a teenager, so even without the amnesia Clark knew that anything further needed to be put on hold.

If the problem of Lionel could be solved, if Clark could figure out what his parents were hiding and come to some relationship of equality with them, if he could turn his abilities to some productive use—then, maybe, he could approach Lex with certainty. That would be a secret worth keeping between them.

For now, he hung on, as gentle as he’d already relearned to be. His body remembered what his mind didn’t, thank heaven for differently distributed neurons for procedural memories, or he’d have destroyed half the farm and killed three or four people already. In his arms, Lex shifted, awkward with the height difference between them. Clark dared to brush a kiss on his brow, just reassuring. Lex was rich and powerful in the ordinary way, but Clark felt deep in his bones that he needed Clark’s protection.

“What are you planning?” Lex asked, just a little worried. He really did know Clark, no matter what Clark’s parents said about how they hadn’t been all that close before the accident.

Clark leaned away, gripping Lex’s strong, solid shoulders through his fine wool coat. “Nothing yet,” he said. “Just give me time.”

3. [personal profile] ariadnes_string: SPN/Fringe of the Dean/Peter variety (high rating is a-okay). Pre-series. NC-17 to be safe.

The hot guy in the leather jacket had been watching Peter all night, except when he was hustling his own games, winning slow but steady; losing just enough to keep the suckers thinking that they had some kind of chance.

Peter worked carefully around him. He didn’t need trouble any more than the hot guy did, and he had to calibrate so that the other players didn’t decide that what they really needed was to bet on a contest between them. Neither of them would make enough on that game to justify it, and after that they’d both be unable to get further ahead.

A little early, but with enough in his pocket to get him through to the next bar, Peter put away his cue, conceding the remaining suckers to the other hustler.

“Hey.” The voice, low enough that Peter’s pretty sure the timbre was deliberate, stopped him. Peter turned to face him, even hotter up close. Short, slightly spiked hair, eyes as green as a cat’s, mouth a dirty promise without needing any words.

“Hey,” Peter said back, drawing it out just enough to let him know that Peter knew he was being cruised.

“You’re pretty good,” he said. “Why’re you quitting?”

Peter shrugged. “Got bored.”

The guy smirked. “See anything else that interests you?”

“I could be persuaded,” Peter said slowly, but he had things it was better not for strangers to see back at his motel, which was how he ended up in the back alley, letting ‘James’—as transparently not his name as Alexander wasn’t Peter’s—push him against the cold, rough bricks, mortar pressing bruises into his back as James worked his belt open one-handed. He was a tease of a kisser, nipping at Peter’s lips then darting back, using his tongue in quick swipes, until Peter’s zipper was down and his cock was firmly in James’s hand. Then it was pure tongue-fucking, deep and sweeping, pausing just long enough for him to spit in his palm and use it to make the handjob better.

Peter put a hand around James’s neck, hanging on, enjoying the warm smooth skin on his nape. He got James’s belt open—never let it be said that he’d be shown up in dexterity by a backroom hustler—and started to reciprocate. James had a nice solid cock, fitting Peter’s hand like it was made for that, leaking obligingly when Peter ran his thumb over the head.

James licked and bit his way over Peter’s jaw, down his neck, and Peter let his head fall back as they both sped up, his leg lifted to grind his thigh against James’s jeans.

Peter came with a grunt, seconds before James. Peter produced a handkerchief, because he was in some ways a gentleman, and offered it to James, who just shook his head.

“Well,” James said, backing away, “thanks.”

“Any time,” Peter said.

When James was just at the edge of the alley, Peter called out, “Hey, James.”

He took a second to remember the name he’d given, then turned. “Yeah?”

Peter held up James’s wallet. “I’ll give you yours if you give me mine.”

Even in the darkness, Peter could see his eyes widen. “How the hell--?”

Peter grinned. “You’re good with your hands, kid, I’ll give you that. But I’m better. Do we have a deal?”

Sighing, James pulled Peter’s wallet out of his jacket. On an unspoken count of three, they both tossed. James plucked his wallet out of the air as easily as Peter did, and checked the contents grumpily, but Peter wasn’t trying to take his slightly more legitimate earnings, only to make a point.

He had a cute pout, Peter thought. With a bit more seasoning, he might actually make a con man, but only if he paid a bit more attention to his targets.

That wasn’t any of Peter’s concern, though. He only had room to worry about himself. Giving James one last wave, he stepped back into the night.

4. [personal profile] eclectic: SPN:- The Dark Side of the Moon, using the comment Dean made about the time Sam ran away: "when dad got home..." Note: Corporal punishment, gen.

“Aren’t you going to come with me?” Sam snipes, as if the tone in his voice is anything Dean would voluntarily expose himself to. “Don’t you have to make sure I’m not going to take off again?”

Dean closes his mouth over the sentences that rise up in his throat. “Nope.” Sam’s in his running gear, no backpack, so he isn’t planning another disappearing act. That was Dean’s mistake last time, not noticing that Sam was packing too much stuff for even a die-hard school geek to justify. Dean settles back into the couch, keeping his expression neutral.

Dad’s voice pounds in his ears.

Let a sixteen-year-old outsmart you. More irresponsible than he is. I thought you’d learned to take this family’s safety seriously.

Sam sneers. “Didn’t you get extra PT too?”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Doesn’t mean I have to do it with your skinny ass.”

“Looking at my skinny ass as I outrun you, you mean.” It’s a good sign that Sammy’s making fun of him, Dean knows. The storm is halfway to passing when Sam gets like this, at least as far as Dean’s concerned. By next week, Sam will be leaning into Dean’s shoulder when they’re walking together and showing him the mash notes his English teacher writes on his homework.

Dean waves his hand. “Whatever, bitch. Grab some burgers for dinner on the way back.”

That earns him another funny look. But he’ll pay Sam back out of his emergency stash, which is already so close to busted that another ten bucks won’t make a difference.

Sam doesn’t bother to say yes, just rolls his eyes and heads out. With the apartment empty, there’s just the echoes of Dad’s lecture again. Can’t trust you on your own. This isn’t a game, Dean. Dean thinks about getting up to turn on the TV, hoping to drown out the grim litany, but he doubts it would work.

Anyway, he needs to save his strength. Be sitting at the kitchenette table by the time Sam returns, beer cracked and Popular Mechanics in front of him. That’s going to require some effort.

Something in him says that he’s twenty years old; he shouldn’t have had to get his father’s belt and bend over to get his ass whipped. But then he shouldn’t have lost his brother for two whole weeks, and he was the one who’d begged for the belt, already crying and snot-faced. Hoping that taking his punishment would make Dad show some mercy.

Dad had frowned, because it had been years since his last whipping. But he’d seen the point: I guess if you aren’t ready to look after Sam, then you really are still just a boy. And Dean had nodded, wanting anything to balance against his failure.

The welts fucking ached. He wasn’t going to sleep any better tonight than he had the night before. But at least Dad had left Sam in his care again, one more chance.

Dean had one job. He was going to do it right if it killed him.

5. [personal profile] eclectic: - in the pilot, Sam says no and stays in Stanford, Dean keeps battling demons, and everything goes on as it did (except that they manage to keep Sam out of it, and Dean helps some other psychic kid). Years later, they run into each other. Note: okay, that’s kind of a downer.

Sam’s head snapped around, eyes caught on the man’s shoulders as he slipped into the service area behind the hotel ballroom. Just some handyman, nothing to do with the firm’s end-of-year holiday party. Except—

He hadn’t had that kind of reaction in years. It had always been false: just a haircut, or a general build, or once even a leather jacket on a woman who’d been five-six in heels.

It was never Dean.

“Honey?” Jess asked, following his gaze.

“It’s nothing,” he said. But he left her chatting with a couple of the partners anyway. The staff looked at him worriedly as he passed, but he moved with enough authority that no one cared to challenge him.

At the back of a storage closet, the man was digging into a wall.

“Dean?” Sam asked, his chest strangely light. He didn’t believe it, not really, until Dean turned his head.

Despite the crows’ feet, his eyes were just the same.

Dean’s face flickered through a thousand emotions, landing on the ever-familiar ‘annoyed.’ “You need to get out of here,” he said.

“Dean!” That was maybe louder than Sam should’ve been. He stepped forward, closing the door, cutting them off from the rest of the world.

“Dammit, Sam—” Dean stopped, like saying Sam’s name had cut him up inside. “Just—hold on, okay?”

And it wasn’t like Dean would be digging into the wall of a hundred-year-old hotel looking for buried treasure, so Sam waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot while Dean extracted—yeah, those were bones. Dean had brought a weird contraption that he dumped the bones into and closed up; there was a cracking noise and a foul smell. Dean opened the device to poke around, and was apparently satisfied with what he found.

“I guess I don’t need to ask what you’re doing here,” Sam said.

Dean’s eyes raked over his suit, then dismissed him. “Me neither.”

Sam unwillingly remembered the two calls he’d had from Dean after he’d said no: “I found Dad,” then, “Dad’s dead.” Five words, eight months apart. After that there hadn’t seemed much point in attempting to track Dean down.

“You’re still hunting on your own, then.”

Dean shrugged. “I had a partner for a while.” Sam guessed he didn’t need to ask what had happened to the partner, even if he’d had a right to the answer. Dean’s brow lowered and he chewed his lip. “Sam. Your nightmares, they stopped, right?”

Sam started. He’d never told Dean a word about the dreams. Wouldn’t have even if he’d kept in contact, they were that frightening. “Yeah, years ago. How do you—why?”

“That’s good,” Dean said, looking away as he nodded. Sam was going to insist on an answer, but Dean suddenly pulled a vibrating phone from his pocket, and Sam gaped as he actually flipped it open, as if an encounter with the brother he hadn’t seen in five years was no more important than a trip to Starbucks. “Not a good time, Andy,” Dean said, clipped. He listened for a moment. “Yeah, well, tell that feathery bastard he can—Fine. Fine. I’m on my way.” Dean put the phone away, sighing, and in that moment he seemed far more than four years older than Sam.

Now Sam had even more questions, like when Dean had started using baroque curses—‘feathery bastard’ sounded almost Shakespearean—and when Dean had stopped caring how Sam was doing so thoroughly as to take off after two minutes of contact.

“Listen, Sam,” Dean began, before Sam could. “I wish I could hang out, but I can’t. You look great. You—uh, you did the right thing, staying out.”

“Then why didn’t you get out?” Sam demanded.

Dean ignored him. “So, uh, shit’s maybe gonna get real, like apocalypse real, pretty soon. I don’t know if anything’s gonna help, but you should stock up. Call Bobby if you’re out of practice setting wards. Take care of that girl of yours.”

“Dean—If you’re in trouble, if--” He’d never believed Dad was vulnerable. But he’d been, evidently, wrong. And Dean, Dean was a whole different story from Dad. Since their last meeting, Sam had spent five more years making himself an adult, all the time wondering whether Dean was even alive. “I could take a leave from the firm.”

Dean shook his head, jaw set. “No fucking way. I—I’ve done some really bad things. But the one thing I did right was keeping you safe.” He hesitated, then moved in close. Sam was stunned enough that he didn’t do anything, not even when Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and squeezed hard. Then, just when Dean started to release him, his paralysis broke, and he grabbed back. Dean seemed smaller, somehow, than even five years ago.

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean whispered into his shoulder.

Sam hugged Dean until the bones of his hands ached.

“Dean.” The annoyed voice made them both snap their heads up, Dean twisting and shoving Sam behind him like that would even help.

Sam checked—the closet door was still closed, and he hadn’t heard this strange, intense guy come in. He was wearing a cheap suit and a trenchcoat, and he looked pissed. But Dean wasn’t raising a weapon. “Dean, it is time.” It was like he didn’t even see Sam at all, and Sam felt his hackles rising.

Dean shot a glance over his shoulder, meeting Sam’s bewildered eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Listen, if this all—I’ll come by if I can, okay?”

“At least give me your number!” Sam yelled, but the guy reached out and grabbed Dean’s wrist, and like that, like ghosts, they were gone. It was the closest he’d been to the supernatural in nearly a decade, and it felt more wrong than any haunting ever had.

Sam stumbled out, back into the party, and drank until his vision narrowed to almost nothing, letting Jess guide him home.

6. [personal profile] aerye: Supernatural. Ellen and Jo. Something set during the time they were hunting/traveling together, between "Good God, Y'all!" and "Abandon All Hope." Something that emphasizes more the ways in which their relationship worked rather than the ways they fought, and the fierce love they had for each other as mother and daughter.

“What is it with guys these days?” Jo complained as she shook out the salt in front of the door. “That’s the third place in a row where some idiot thought that what I really needed to hear was a MILF joke or a mother-daughter threesome proposition.”

Ellen shook her head and hid her grin. Telling her daughter that she didn’t have the world’s best taste in bars was not going to help any. “They weren’t any better when I was your age,” she said instead, sketching a quick Devil’s Trap on the floor before covering it up with the ancient rag rug. “They just were a little more careful about who they opened their fool mouths to.”

Jo grumbled. “Someday we’re gonna find a demon that stalks really high-class restaurants. And that’ll be a tasty day.”

“Until then—”

“Yeah,” Jo said, straightening, all business. “I found three references to the kind of rituals Bobby was asking about. None of them use this weird herb, but then there’s a passage in the Book of Solomon’s Magick that talks about it, and there’s a spell that has to do with human resurrection.”

Ellen frowned and checked her notes. That didn’t match up with anything she’d collected so far. “So, best we can tell, somebody might’ve as well put mystical herbs up on the wall and thrown a dart to pick this one.”

She hadn’t noticed Jo crossing the floor to her, but Jo’s hand was warm on her arm. “Hey,” she said. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

Wasn’t right, child reassuring her mother. Should be the other way around. Ellen wished fiercely that she’d never let Jo find out the true ways of the world. She guessed every mother wished that, one time or another. And it was always just as impossible.

“I know, baby,” she said, and smiled, because if she couldn’t fix the world for Jo, she could at least act like it was fixable and that her Jo was the one to do it.

7. Anonymous: Someone draws the short stick and gets stuck sorting through all the presents and holiday cards the Daily Planet takes in on behalf of Superman when they need to be somewhere else.

Jesse really believed that, if you were old enough to proposition Superman, you were old enough to spell ‘Superman’ correctly. This was not, however, a belief evidently shared by many of the clueless letter-writers, well-wishers and thanks-givers who wrote in to Superman, care of the Daily Planet.

In Jesse’s opinion, the marketing genius in the front office who’d come up with that great idea, kind of like collecting letters to Santa, should have been forced to open the goddamn things him or herself.

At least they didn’t send actual mail in response, though if you included an email address you’d get a thank-you on behalf of Superman. The administrative tasks were carried out by peons like Jesse; Lois Lane claimed Superman read every letter and had crafted the short but gracious form response himself.

Jesse was the mailroom guy who’d lost the most games of quarters at the staff party last night and thus was dealing with the last pre-Christmas mail delivery, which had brought in twice as much again as was already piled up. The letters and cards were easy enough to deal with: open, record, scan—though Jesse already had about eight wicked papercuts. It was the packages that were truly annoying. Already he’d found everything from cookies (donated to a local homeless shelter, and no, Jesse didn’t steal so much as crumbs; he was maybe a Grinch because of this stupid assignment, but he wasn’t an asshole) to panties (ew) to toys (which seemed to indicate some sort of fundamental Santa-related confusion) to hand-knitted scarves and mittens (a different kind of confusion, what with the whole invulnerability thing).

There was also plenty of art, this too ranging from the banal—Superman saves a bus full of schoolchildren! Superman sits on Santa’s lap! Superman rides a unicorn!—to the pornographic. Jesse was actually kind of impressed by the one hentai tentacle porn artist. And he had to admit, dude did make it easy, flying around in a suit that was hard to distinguish from body paint.

All of it had to be categorized, logged, and placed in the appropriate bins. (The homeless shelters didn’t get the sex toys and related paraphernalia, which Jesse thought was kind of discriminatory; on the other hand, there was absolutely no guarantee that the things were new and unused, and some reason to think the contrary, so he wasn’t going to complain to anyone.) Every fifteen minutes or so, enough packing debris accumulated that Jesse could break up the monotony with a trip to the recycling station.

When he came back from the latest trip, some weirdo in a Superman costume was standing in the middle of the mailroom, examining one of the cards.

“Hey!” Jesse said. There was an official Daily Planet protocol for Superman impostors, but it was in the binder on the far side of the room, and Jesse figured he’d try harsh language first.

The guy turned—

It was Superman. Real Superman. Jesse swallowed.

“Uh, hey,” he said, more apologetic this time.

“Hello,” Superman said. He was tall. His eyes were very blue. Jesse could feel entire sectors of his brain attempting reboot and crashing again. “You’re the one dealing with all this?”

“Yes. Um, actually, there were some other guys earlier in the week,” Jesse stammered, impelled to scrupulous honesty by the sheer fact of fucking Superman in the mailroom. “But today it’s me.”

“Well,” Superman said, and smiled. Jesse smiled back, no more capable of doing otherwise than of breathing underwater. “I want you to know I really appreciate it. I would do it myself, but I can’t superspeed because it ends up shredding too many of the letters, and if I tried it at a regular speed—” He shrugged self-deprecatingly, as if to say, ‘there’s this whole saving the world thing, perhaps you’ve heard of it?’ Except not at all like a jerk, the way Jesse would have been in the same position.

Okay, so maybe Jesse sort of understood why people wrote all those letters. Except for the ones with the underwear, because, Jesus, boundaries!

Superman held up a card. “This little girl was in the Metropolis Stadium when Brainiac nearly destroyed it. And now her mother has lost her job, and she wants Superman to save her again.” He put the card down on the sorting table and smoothed his fingers over it. His face, so beautiful, was suddenly alien as well. “Sometimes I think—”

“Thank you,” Jesse said, very much needing not to hear how that sentence would end. “I didn’t write a card. But thank you. We all know how much you do for us. So thank you.”

Superman looked at Jesse. “You’re welcome,” he said, almost startled, as if he didn’t hear that to his face as often as he should.

“You should try the chocolate chip cookies,” Jesse suggested. “They’re pretty fresh, and they smelled awesome.”

Superman shook his head. “I’m not sure anything could ever match my mother’s,” he said. Strange to imagine Superman’s mother baking, and not, you know, flying or zapping things with her eyes. But okay.

“I should let you get back to work,” Superman said, as close to awkward as a superpowered demigod could be. Jesse nodded. “And … thank you. It’s not superheroes who make the world work. It’s people like you.”

With that, he zipped away, leaving loose papers to fly this way and that in his wake.

Maybe Jesse wasn’t actually one of the people who made the world work, he thought as he ran around the room picking up the mess. But Superman thought he could be. And so, just maybe, he would.
melisande431: Michael Rosenbaum wearing "I *heart* my Meli t-shirt (Default)

From: [personal profile] melisande431

Now that I've straightened my head out, I love the way Clark and especially Lex's true selves come through the amnesia!
abbylee: (Default)

From: [personal profile] abbylee

Oh, man, rivkat, that last one just made me want to cuddle everyone so badly (but in a good way). <3
ariadnes_string: (Impala)

From: [personal profile] ariadnes_string

ahahah--I love you! I've been jonesing for Dean/Peter forever, don't ask me why, and that was just what I needed tonight--perfect face-off! or should I say hand-off? ;)

Thanks so much!!
thefourthvine: T-Rex and Utahraptor having buttsex, with the text, "More dinosaurs. More sodomy." (Dinosaurs and sodomy)

From: [personal profile] thefourthvine

OMG, I loved 2 SO MUCH. Like - I try not read WRITE MOAR feedback, but I would cheerfully read tens of thousands of words of that story. And you wrote this so perfectly - you could entirely tell who was Lex and who was Clark, even if they, um, couldn't. (Although if Lex ever finds out what Lex Luthor was like before the amnesia, he's going to figure it out.)
cass404: (Default)

From: [personal profile] cass404

Plus, Bonnie thought that even if Girl Code allowed emergency exceptions for really hot younger brothers, that wouldn’t stretch to ‘enmesh really hot younger brother in vampiric threesome.’

But he's REALLY hot...

Yeah, Bonnie's right.

These were fun!
eclectic: (omgyay)

From: [personal profile] eclectic

*twirls and dances* Whee! Fics! Awesome fics all over, and two for my prompts! Thank you so much, it was... awesome (dammit, Dean!), and I loved them all. I don't think you need me to tell you that you are a great writer, but I will anyway, at the risk of sounding repetitive.

So, ♥!
tehomet: (Default)

From: [personal profile] tehomet

Plus, Bonnie thought that even if Girl Code allowed emergency exceptions for really hot younger brothers, that wouldn’t stretch to ‘enmesh really hot younger brother in vampiric threesome.’


As canon would seem to indicate, if anyone could put manners on Damon in the sack, it would be Bonnie.

All of these are excellent - unsurprisingly! But the bodyswap and amnesia one is so especially clever. I re-read it three times just to savour it. It should be quoted in a characterisation masterclass.

And Dean had nodded, wanting anything to balance against his failure.

I am not normally sentimental, when reading fic or otherwise, but my eyes actually welled up a little at this.

Thank you for these.


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