Marina

riverflame @ 2007-02-04T21:09:00

2007-02-05T05:10:53Z

FRIENDS ONLY:

It's all cool, just add me and I'll add you back.

ALL GONE. only old fic remains.

FIC: The Fruits of Summer (Remus/Sirius, PG-13)

2006-07-18T19:35:04Z

Title: The Fruits of Summer
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual situations)
Notes: Remus/Sirius, for yeats in shacking_up's Minimalist Ficathon. Prompt: "Take away the right to say 'fuck' and you take away the right to say 'fuck the government.'" -- Lenny Bruce.
Many thanks to bandbooktvworm for the last-minute beta! :)

"It's abandoned."

"Not anymore. We've found it."

Remus doesn't ask if this is illegal; he's certain it is. He also knows that Sirius would laugh if he balked.

"We'll make it cozy soon enough. It'll be our own home-sweet-home. The only one I'll ever want," he adds, and Remus can hear his particular bitter tone. Sirius smirks, sweeping his arms about, gesturing to the cobwebby corners, the close walls, the cracked and grimy window panes. Every movement mocks this place and its shabbiness, as well as himself, and Remus, but is even more scorning of the decadent House of Black. Every empty sweep indicates their own poverty and lawlessness, their own quiet desperation now stark in the backdrop of London town.

"The only one I'll ever want," Sirius says again, slipping his arm around Remus' waist, nuzzling his cheek.

Remus leans in with half-lidded eyes, breathes, breathes.

Sirius protects himself with a good offense, lashing out at the city, unhappy and unkind. Builds up a barrier of misbehavior. Looks around the corner, drags on his cigarette, grinds his toe against a crack in the cement. Exhales: cloud goes out, rises in the rain. He likes getting wet. As if contact with precipitation could make him at once more real and more invisible than these busy strangers rushing by, umbrellas and dull coats.

Walking through the streets, no coats in the steady, heavy drizzle. Strangers, so many strangers, looking down or out across the distance, at their watches, at the passing cabs and cars. This summer rain is dark and impatient; this summer rain doesn't want to let up. Remus remembers the first drops and how they smelled like dust, and then the next few, and the next, and it smelled like wet city again, like spring. But the clouds overhead are dark and the air is still and close. It's only June. Only June. Summer is here.

Thunder rumbles. In their squat, Remus hears it. Padfoot is curled by his feet, ears pricked up at the low roll. Sometimes he paces the worn floorboards, nails long and scratching, swishing tail. Remus thinks he looks sad and impatient, the look of a dog waiting pitifully for something that may never come.

"Sirius."

Padfoot turns back, looks, returns, rubs against Remus and now Sirius is on the cot beside him, coolly leaning against the wall. Pausing for a second, Remus reaches out, brushes his fingers across Sirius' cheekbone, down his cheek, tenderly, almost cautious. Sirius looks at him with those same dark canine eyes, and Remus is surprised at how vulnerable he looks, even with his angled and defensive posturing. His hand slides down, down his cool neck, to the hollow at Sirius' throat, blunt fingers whispering at Sirius' open collar and at his waist, It's all right, it's all right.

Sirius kisses him, soft and then hard, and then soft, pressing, and Remus remembers how much he loves this stormy creature, wild and sad, cold and warm, warm.

Sirius thoroughly enjoys living above the law. He positively preens. Saunters by a corner stand, slips a bunch of cherries into his pocket. Some of the dark red ones. They match Sirius' hair in their dim candlelight of the squat, as Remus remembers the round fruits later, that night.

That night, and it's only them and the ambient heat, the smothering darkness. In these stifling weeks they've gone past comfortable in each other's presence and turned all the way around, into not speaking out of habit. No conversation will keep them up in the night, no amount of rubbing against each other, panting in the heat, the heat. It's too hot. Remus pretends to drop off, closing his eyes to the gleam of Sirius. Cherry-dark, eyes and hair, eyes and swinging hair.

Sirius let him eat them. They were squashy and overripe. Not even sweet, just juice, tasted like plants.

Remus wishes for some yellow and red cherries. Big fat ones. Tart or sweet, translucent yellow flesh. But it's already mid-August, and those are long gone. The nights will be cooler soon enough.

Sirius sits up smoking while Remus tries to fall asleep. The ashy smell comforts him at first, but after a while it just fades into the grime of the London atmosphere. Nothing special, this cigarette. Just like all the other butts littering the streets and tube stations, rubbing ash against the bottoms of his shoes. Remus realizes he hates the city, has hated it, for a long time.

But then he sleeps, and in the morning the sun is whiter, the air is fresher, Sirius is smiling, It's all right.

One night Sirius hovers behind Remus sitting at the low table, radiating heat, and slips into his pocket a brass watch on a brass chain. Remus feels it and turns around, takes it out.

"Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?" His flippant manner almost angers Remus.

"Where?"

"A man was selling them, in a booth, on the corner."

"You stole it."

"Does it matter?"

Remus glares. "It certainly does. You can steal cherries or bread all you want, so long as you're not getting caught, but not watches, and not for me."

"I want you to have it. I want to be able to give you something, now shut up; take it."

"Sirius, no, I can't."

"Yes, you can. We don't have to take shit, Remus; look what they've done to us - look at London, the Ministry and its anti-werewolf legislation, the whole fucking system. This world is ours, ours, for all the blood and sweat it's wrung from our bodies, ours, goddamn it."

"Sirius, it's just a watch, I don't need it, I don't want it. I don't want stolen goods. You didn't give anything for that; it's valueless to me."

"You want me to pay-"

"I want you. I don't want things. I want you." It's all right. Oh, he wants it to be, but this isn't, it just isn't.

Remus knows he hates this city and what it's done, what it has allowed Sirius to do. But he still loves, oh, he still loves Sirius. There's nothing else he loves in this life, nothing more than Sirius.

Sirius kisses him just right, and that is enough for Remus, because it has to be. Just right.

Dark, overripe foreboding red: the envelope Remus receives from a glaring owl. Official Ministry Business. Confidential.

Werewolf registration. Sirius makes a noise over his shoulder, something between a growl and a snort. Some noise with sneering fangs. Remus feels a little sick and a little angry, but deep down, he is already resigned.

"Dodge it," Sirius says.

Remus would like to, but he knows you can't dodge everything. They've been dodging too much for him and he needs to slow down before it catches up. Sirius doesn't care, flying at breakneck speed, scornful of anything less than reckless. "We can't go on like this forever," says Remus, looking down at the letter.

"Can't we?" says Sirius, angry at the suggestion of surrender. "Can't we?"

Sharply, Remus looks up. You don't ever have to see your family again, he wants to say. He knows it's not the laws, he knows it's not the werewolf registration; it's about Sirius, always about Sirius, until Sirius realizes it and comes to grips with reality. "I can't, you know I can't, and I don't care," he says instead, and hopes Sirius will come to see what Remus already knows.

riverflame @ 2006-03-12T03:31:00

2006-03-12T11:27:17Z

Hello, I think everyone should update at 3:30 in the morning!

And I want to alert the general public that I sure as heck did write something, it is called Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon for losselen at a_humumentathon - Heavenly Bodies, for posterity at least. I'm orful proud of it. mm, prosey! (hell yes I am shameless!)

Fic: For Who So Firm (Jefferson/Hamilton, PG)

2006-01-29T08:58:17Z

Title: For Who So Firm
Fandom: Historical RPS
Rating: PG
Notes: "For who so firm that cannot be seduced?" - Cassius, Act I/Scene 2. Thomas Jefferson/Alexander Hamilton. I made tons of junk up, but there are quite a few actual quotes stuck in there. Critique and criticism: yes, please!

These are the three greatest men the world has ever produced: Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, John Locke.

A smirk, a long pause. An anticipatory flush spread on the back of Thomas Jefferson's neck.

But Julius Caesar was greater than all three.

He furrowed his brow, appalled, disgusted.

The irony was that Thomas would have chosen the noble Brutus over ambitious Caesar, and Alexander would have pointed out the flaw: that Brutus was a traitor of the worst sort, however well-intentioned. Brutus, keeping companionship with Judas Iscariot in the cold heart of Dante's Inferno. Brutus, whose was the unkindest cut of all.

Thomas knew this would have happened, could see it by the somehow dignified smirk on Alexander's face. Laughter and triumph.

You haven't won anything yet, young Alexander.

-

President Washington merely humors your proposals because of his personal fondness for his old Aide de Camp.

Does Washington's approval discredit my plans in your eyes? You accuse the most moral man in the nation of acting upon bias when yours is the most obvious.

All men are susceptible to bias; surely you would agree. I do not accuse him of corruption, but I accuse you of exploiting any weakness you may find, even in our honored President, all to further your own self-interested politics.

I may be a politician, and I may be self-interested - self-interest governs all men, Mr. Jefferson, in case you have not noticed - but I put my country's interests above my own. I realize that what I may see as a perfect government may not work for this country; I would hope that you may trust my judgement on this, but I know that you refuse to trust anything that has its roots with me, regardless of any independent reason or virtue.

I am appalled and indignant! You make me to be an irrational man.

Men often oppose a thing merely because they have had no agency in planning it, or because it may have been planned by those whom they dislike. In truth, Mr. Jefferson, you use ration as it suits you; otherwise you disregard it entirely.

-

Each day that went by while Congress weighed, considered, and carried out Hamilton's atrocious proposals, Thomas grew more and more bitter. He tried to convince Washington of the adverse affects Alexander's plans would have, but Adams was right, and Washington was, after all, a stubborn old muttonhead. But there was no better man for President than George Washington, and perhaps there never would be. Thomas only wished he would reign in his impetuous, ambitious Secretary of the Treasury.

The President must placate you as my plans are carried out by Congress. You are impeding an expedient government, Mr. Jefferson, betraying the people's well-being by attempting to halt the construction of the sturdy foundation of a nation's fiscal organization. Acting on the beliefs of a single man, you betray your democratic compulsion.

And what would Mr. Hamilton care, but to catch Mr. Jefferson in yet another condemning inconsistency? This was enough reason to actively oppose the man: he sought to discredit the proponents of the noblest concepts upon which his very own adopted nation was founded. Like a parasite, the man sought to benefit from his country at the expense of its well-being.

It was clear to him that Alexander was the envious Cassius, perverting reason to suit his covetous cause. Thomas knew that none of the tragedy's characters were virtuous, but all self-serving in the end.

-

No matter their political differences, Thomas, on principle, admired Alexander's personal qualities. His determination, however ruthless; the honesty of his character, his boldness. But the qualities of his ambitions were twisted and faulty, his intentions pure but the means entirely backwards - it was fortunate a man such as he would never be eligible for the Presidency. Thomas shuddered at the prospect of such ruin into which he could bring the nation.

Hamilton is really a colossus... Why, he doth bestride the narrow world, and of we petty men? Is there any grave that is not dishonorable? Bitterly, this passed through Thomas' mind, only relieved by the image of that tree of liberty, the only honorable death for him.

Despite his honorable character, Hamilton's ambition overshadowed all. Hell, indeed, is paved with such good intentions as his.

-

Despite all their arguments, all of Thomas' carefully considered political philosophy, construction of a base of opposition to Hamilton's elitists, all his skilled and moving writing, Thomas began to realize that his efforts had all been in vain. Hamilton was winning, had already won, and showed no sign of stopping. Brutus would lose the battle.

The funding and assumption of state debts, the excise tax and the show of federal strength at the farmers' rebellion that could not be found, the establishment of a national bank - all had been accomplished, thoroughly accomplished. And that despicable report on manufactures would continue to influence political and economic thought far into the future. Thomas could not prevent that, but he could do his best to fight for liberty as long and hard as possible. He could only hope it would be enough, and that Hamilton would come to realize the error of his ways before he had damaged the country beyond repair.

In his distress he wrote to John Adams, who replied in light of Thomas' despair in his own efforts:

No, Thomas, not in vain. Perhaps misguided, perhaps your fruit have grown in ways you never intended, but never have your efforts gone to waste.

However that may be, intent was everything, was it not? The idea that his efforts to hinder Hamilton's agenda may inadvertently help the villain sickened Thomas.

He could only trust to Providence.

-

Whatever men's intentions, in the fifth act Antony is victorious, avenging his fallen Caesar. And Brutus and Cassius, however noble they may be, are no more. Everyone knows the story, because it is not only Shakespeare, it is solid and well-established history.

History has a way of repeating itself.

The only way to quell these fears was to ignore them. And so Thomas did, trying to forget the epic parallels, burying his head and hating himself for failing to recognize this course of events sooner. Hating himself for ever doubting his cause, the cause of Liberty and Democracy.

-

"I came to offer my congratulations on being awarded the Presidency."

Thomas was one the one hand, surprised - he hardly expected to see Alexander Hamilton here, alone, on his drawing-room sofa - and on such a cordial visit. He would never expect any visit at all. On the other hand, he cynically dwelled: on the other hand, Alexander's cause to rejoice was only in the victory of the man he considered the lesser of two great evils. Not only this, but his own victory, in assuring Burr's defeat. It reeked to Thomas of something suspicious, surreptitious, prideful.

"Why come at all? It is no secret, our enmity. I do not understand your visit myself."

"I found myself in your general area upon hearing the news, and decided upon a brief congratulations as it would be the gentlemanly thing to do." It could not be too brief for Thomas. Still, gentlemanly standards demanded courteous behavior as a host, and so he rang for one of his maids, requesting two glasses of wine.

When it came, Alexander graciously accepted and sipped it. "A fine vintage," he proclaimed with a curl of his lips. Thomas merely nodded into his own glass, commenting emptily, "Good wine is a necessity of life for me," refusing to meet his visitor's polite but mocking eyes.

-

"And these," he once again found himself saying, "are the three greatest men the world has ever produced."

Behind him, Alexander said nothing, but Thomas felt his words filling the air as though uttered. Julius Caesar and Great Britain. The tyrants, that would have been and were, the betrayed and defeated. The great and once-great. But Alexander lived, and Alexander was great - great and terrible, but undeniably great.

Thomas would not look at him - I have nothing but scorn for this man, he reminded himself, though he felt Alexander's radiance as if it were heat from a fierce flame. He is an enemy at heart.

-

If Thomas did not shift his eyes from the portraits, he would not have to look at Alexander. Ridiculous obstinacy just waiting to be contested - and it surprised him that he meant himself. Entirely illogical, this whole thing - perhaps Adams was right and his methodology was flawed, perhaps Alexander was right and his self-perception was skewed by his constant need to be right - but that would be admitting defeat, and Thomas could not do that. He wished he had the discipline of Franklin, the steadfast morality of Washington, the common sense of Paine or the good sense of Madison. He wished he were anyone but weak-voiced Thomas Jefferson.

"You admire all the wrong people, Mr. President. The French, the poor farmers, the idealists. Pragmatism is what a country needs. The wise man built his house upon the rock, and not the shifting sands of public opinion." Though Thomas still refused to meet Alexander's eyes, their mischievous glint was clearly audible.

"Mr. Hamilton, I could say the same to you. Your adoration for the British is fairly disgusting in such political climates as these. We should like to be rid of British influence, every speck of it, forever."

"That is where your error lies, I fear. The British are to be imitated, as their nation has prospered through their government's success in governing the affairs of the people."

"But not in America, my good sir, which is why there was a revolution." He wished the man would simply leave.

"That is no reason to rid America of every speck. Would you trust a farmer to understand the successes of Britain, when he is so biased against the country? I hardly trust you to understand them for the same reasons, despite the fine education your upbringing has bought you."

Thomas stiffened. "It is impossible to seriously consider what you propose when you have said yourself that man only acts upon his own interest." He finally looked away from the painting and at Alexander, fed up with the man's blatant baiting. He was surprised to find the younger man smiling playfully, almost predatory, eyes narrowed over catlike cheekbones.

"It is entirely possible; in fact, it is advisable." Was the man closer? His smile looked closer. Thomas felt in need of air, mentally turned in circles. He should have drank less wine and eaten more dinner, taken off his coat in the heat, shown Hamilton the door long ago. "Consider it because there are times when two men have a common interest."

For the first time in a long while, Thomas found himself grasping desperately for words that would not come and instead, focusing on Alexander's lips, finding nowhere else to look.

Alexander lifted Thomas' chin so that the older man looked him in the eye and saw that purposeful, steely glint, just as their lips met. Thomas was captured. Alexander, Antony; they would win every contest.

But then, he thought, as he pressed Alexander to the portrait-bearing wall, fingering his lace cravat, if two men have a common interest, any means to the end is desirable.

If two men have a common interest, they both are victorious.

-

They stood among brown rows of plants, dust settling at their feet. It was an unusually dry season, as Alexander's withered plot made obvious.

"Your wife's?"

"Would my wife grow turnips?"

"Your cook's, then?"

Alexander laughed. "My own. A garden, you know, is a very usual refuge of a disappointed politician. I might well be turning from my dirty politics, to become one of your beloved agrarians, Thomas. What say you to that?"

Thomas had already seen the dilapidated, dying state of the square plot. "You are a politician at heart, Mr. Hamilton; I do not believe you have the dedication to the soil necessary to the temperament of the farmer."

Another smile, this one ironic. "You may be right. But I intend to succeed."

Those flowers on the trellis, bright and open, they were his wife's and well-tended. Thomas could instruct the man in the husbandry of earth but suspected - no, knew - his words would not be heeded. Instead, he bent, stiffly, and lifted the drooping head of peony. "I wish you the best success in your agricultural endeavor, Alexander." They both heard clearly what he said, what he did not say.

"And not success in all my endeavors?" Lifting clematis to the black of Thomas' coat, Alexander's voice was low and clear, serious in tone but Thomas knew what they both knew, what the response would be, that it would never change. The indigo petals seemed to glow against their dark backdrop, then brushed a stray whisp of Thomas' silvered hair, lightly touching the skin below his jaw. Lips followed, Thomas shivered, reaching a low hand for a slight curve of waist - and then, gone, Alexander walking away from him and to the house, calling behind him, "Your horses are rested, Mr. Jefferson. I trust you wish to return to the capitol as soon as possible."

"Yes. Yes, I must leave, to arrive this evening. Thank you."

"It is no trouble."

But Thomas felt troubled, and to this there seemed no end.

-

The end was sudden but not unexpected; political and personal contest between two rash and prideful men was sure to have grown into something larger, Thomas thought. Fools, the both of them. Damn fools.

"Why did you do it?"

"I love my country, and I hate Aaron Burr. He stinks of ambition, the worst kind."

Thomas knew his reasons; what he wanted was to understand them. "And he challenged you to a duel, and you have accepted his challenge." He fought to conceal his fury, his disgust, his feeling that this folly was inevitable and his sorrow at that fact. Fixing his eyes on his paperwork, his insides roiled, knowing that to look up would unleash these rampant emotions and he could not afford such an explosion, such a display.

"I could not refuse." So simply he spoke, with boldness and, Thomas imagined, sadness. An apology? Never.

Thomas wanted to say a million things more - What good is honor to a dead man? What good is a dead man to his country?

Dead, what good are you to me?

For what grave is there, that is not dishonorable?

Instead he finally looked up to Alexander, just as the man turned to leave, and felt his thoughts tumble out. "Our country needs you. The Federalists at least need you. Your party, your family... I need you. Your President asks you to apologize, and refuse the duel." Please stay. "For all our sakes, do not be so stupid."

Alexander looked back, and grinned, laughter in his eyes. It was a light in the dark study. "I will not die."

"You will not fire, Alexander." This was obvious - painfully so, Thomas found. "Burr will kill you for vengeance."

"I know." Still smiling - sadly now, Thomas thought - he left, a shadow in the doorway. "I will not die."

"You are a fool, Alexander Hamilton," Thomas whispered, glaring at his letters. "A damned tragic fool." He blinked, quickly swallowed the lump in his throat, and took his quill from the inkwell once more.

-

Upon the news of Mr. Hamilton's death, Mr. Jefferson's maid was bewildered by her master's unsurprised behavior, and his subsequent remark. "He was a Caesar, moreso than any man I have known," he said, eyes bright with what could have been anger or sadness; she could not tell which. "But this I concede - Caesar may have been the greatest of all, if his life had not been stolen away by those more corrupt than he."

riverflame @ 2006-01-29T00:02:00

2006-01-29T08:03:42Z

The more I look around Wikipedia the lamer I find it truly is.

There are four books listed under "Literature" for "History of the United States." The last three are the textbooks we're using for APUSH - Johnson's "A History of the American People," Zinn's "A People's History of the United States," and Kennedy/Bailey/Cohen's "The American Pageant" 12e. Yeah, 12th edition exactly. What does that tell you about the people who wrote the article? Kids who were in love with Wikipedia and had taken APUSH. Yeah, the period-summaries look like textbook to me. I wouldn't care, except I do know there are more than four books out there on American history. It's just silly.

Mainly I'm frustrated because I didn't bring Johnson and I'm finding I want him, so I can find that bit about America being JUST LIKE Rome. Also, what Hamilton tried and failed to grow on that plot of land.

Or I could just make shit up and not have a catchy byline for my fic. I think I'll go for that. It's already full of bolonga; what harm is a little more going to do?

ETA:

"Men often oppose a thing merely because they have had no agency in planning it, or because it may have been planned by those whom they dislike." - Hamilton

"There is no act, however virtuous, for which ingenuity may not find some bad motive." - Jefferson

"Good wine is a necessity of life for me." - Jefferson (attributed)

"A garden, you know, is a very usual refuge of a disappointed politician. Accordingly, I have purchased a few acres about nine miles from town, have built a house, and am cultivating a garden." - Hamilton, in a letter to Charles Cotesworth Pinckney (29 December 1802)

"Hamilton is really a colossus... without numbers, he is a host unto himself." - Thomas Jefferson

- Hamilton's failure of a garden

- Jefferson's "three greatest men" scene, with Hamilton's Caesar rebuttal.

- muttonhead Washington

- Jefferson professed to admire Hamilton's character in his Anas

REAL TRUE FACTS: Jefferson was self-contradictory; Hamilton was a tease and not strictly honest; both were prejudiced against Aaron Burr (if you ask historian Roger G. Kennedy); both Hamilton and Jefferson were rather passionate, but Hamilton was extroverted to all appearances and impulsive, whereas Jefferson thought very carefully about his presentation and kept to himself.

FIC: Atonement (Cameron/Chase, PG-13)

2005-11-29T05:48:04Z

Title: Atonement
Fandom: House, MD
Rating: PG-13 (language, implied drug use, implied sex. ish.)
Notes: Cameron-centric, immediately post-Hunting (2.08), thus with some Cameron/Chase too. Wrote it just now :))

This thing is turning you inside out. This incredibly disgusting feeling, this shameful atrocity - you don't want to name it you don't want to have to blame yourself but you've got to face up to it: the truth.

You did it. You did meth, you did Chase, and you played the blame game.

Oct. 26 - finished first bottle of pills. Only 5 to go before the TEST. Snapped at Chase. Snapped at Kalvin. ~~I am an awful person.~~ I am ~~not~~ an awful person.

Forget about what happened. Concentrate on work. Forget about that bit, too.

It makes you feel dirty, still, and you pick absently at the scab on your arm until it bleeds, and you have to quick cover it with three layers of gauze and medical tape.

The day after was a misery you never want to relive. Coming down off crystal meth - oh, god, it was the shittiest you'd ever felt. Even when he died it was all predictable on your terms and his terms and you spent years thinking about it but you never felt as utterly vile as you do now. So utterly stupid. All this hatred and no good place to put it. So, because you're stupid and coming down off mountainous shitload of stupidity, you fling it everywhere. Flick little pieces of vitriol at House, Chase, and save fifty percent of the blame for Kalvin himself - the rest is for you. Like it always is. Because you are a strong person who made a stupid choice the same as this weak person lying in this hospital bed, and now how are you any different? How are you any better than him?

Chase had a small sore on his lip and then you went home. You noticed it all day.

When you came back it was bigger and made his bottom lip red like fruit. It was an empty patientless day. He would have done his crossword puzzle but he hasn't much since House started getting on his case about every little thing. Instead he kept himself busy with the clinic or paperwork or whatever could be done. Chewed on his pencils, pushed his hair back, and you kept imagining the smooth broad shoulders and chest and sloping back. Kept biting your tongue, not that you'd say anything but as punishment. Couldn't keep your eyes off him, could you?

"Red for impure thoughts," House announces, striding into the room, making his grand entrance the official start of the day - the sun hath risen, ye peons. Make way, make way.

You choke and look away and straighten, wanting to shrink into your red, red blouse. Wilson blushes. Chase looks up from his crossword puzzle, totally oblivious, surprised that he's not the butt of House's joke, for once.

At night in the almost-dark, in the few lines of orange streetlight that slip through your blinds, in the city-silence, you wonder if he's lonely. If he cares, and House is wrong. You wonder if you care. If you can remember what that truly feels like. If it is possible to be so helplessly, dully afraid and to care at the same time.

House is wrong about you and your caring, and that disgusts you to no end as well.

Carefully you move your hand away from your other arm. Carefully, you pick at your nails, flick your fingers. Nervous energy bubbling under your skin. Avoid blood at whatever cost.

5 AM: If House is right and I care but try not to, and he tries to care but can't, what's making him so persistent?

5:06: If he cares and I don't and what House said is wrong, does that make House right?

5:15: You are so screwed if House is right.

But this isn't the first time it's occurred to you.

"Haven't you washed your hands enough?"

"This is a hospital, Chase. You can never wash your hands enough."

He doesn't shrug or roll his eyes or do anything flippant. Anything normal, what you'd expect from him. He's quiet and still and you keep your head down, knowing that if you look up in the mirror you will see him worrying at his sore bottom lip. Staring at you, concerned and crumple-edged and confused. You'd do something stupid if you looked up and saw that now.

So you don't look and instead imagine this picture, how he has his hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn't know what to do with them, he's afraid they'll escape, the soft sadness in his eyes when he says "All right," in that soft voice and turns, leaves. But you look up to see his back once he's turned, watch as he walks away.

If this could work out, you realize, you'd like it to. Chase was right - about two people and sex and how yours didn't suck. This could be a good thing.

Except it could also be a very, very bad thing.

So you keep counting days and downing pills until you feel numb and hateful and helpless and just like House.

It's all your fault in the end - you took those drugs and you jumped Chase and you went to work while you were coming down off crystal meth. You married the terminally ill man, you insisted on self-inflicting guilt for what couldn't be changed, you shoved your nose in House's business and maybe he's right and you shouldn't have because it was none of your business, but maybe you could make things right for a change.

The only thing you didn't do was this AIDS thing, but looking back, you might as well have asked for it.

Fic: Revenge (Marty/Logan, PG-13)

2005-11-20T00:43:37Z

Title: Revenge
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: PG-13 for sexuality
Notes: Marty/Logan. I don't even know this fandom, or most of its canon; I have no grasp on the voices of these two guys. But I know a little context. And so I wrote fic. XD (Watch out for bad dialogue. :/)

"Well, if it isn’t rich jerkwad." Marty stumbles into the laundry room. Logan is standing at the sink, washing the mud off his forearms from where he slipped going around the house. The noise of the party is dimmer here, but still audible. From outside, Logan thinks he can hear rude laughter and retching sounds.

Logan raises his brows innocently. "Hello, what have I ever done to you?"

"You don't need to do anything to me," Marty mumbles. "You don't need to do anything at all; you have it all taken care of." He leans against the washing machine, eyes slightly unfocused.

"Is that what – "

"Spoiled little rich kid, you're all brag and no action, I don't know what Rory sees in you."

"I don't know what she sees in me either."

"That's what disgusts me." Marty glares. Logan turns off the water, wishing he could just walk out, but Marty is blocking the door now, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Listen, Marty – it's Marty, right? – there's nothing to talk about."

"Like hell there isn't." Still blocking the door, but his tone is subdued, more morose than enraged.

"You're belligerent when you’re drunk, has anyone ever told you that?"

Marty ignores him. "I don’t see why you're any better than I am. You, you stay away from her. You're nothing but trouble."

"Whoa, whoa," Logan raises his hands in a gesture of pacification. "Rory has a mind of her own; you know that. I could stay away from her but it's entirely her choice whether to stay away from me."

"You're a real jerk." Marty lurches forward and Logan steps to the side, wary, but the boy doesn't lash out.

"No brag, just fact." Oh, that mouth will never stop getting him in trouble.

"I'll give you fact!" Marty lunges and shoves Logan, who hits the wall. It's not hard enough to hurt, but enough for Logan to justify a fight. He doesn't want to, though. Fighting won't help this. Settling back on his feet, he plants them sturdily apart, with his palms still open before him. "Hey, I'm sorry, I was just joking. I didn't mean it that way. I don't want to fight, okay?"

"You don't deserve her," Marty scowls, not backing down. "I should have been the one. I was there for her. Always. And then you turn up, and I'm out of the picture. Bam. Just like that." Marty shoves his face right in front of Logan's, glaring. "I bet you're not so great."

Logan can smell the alcohol on his breath, can feel the heat of it gusting down his collar.

"I bet you're not so great."

And he crushes Logan's mouth under his, violence in the un-kiss. Teeth knock against each other, splitting Logan's lip; Marty's hands gripped his shoulders, pushing him hard against the wall. Logan presses in, bites back, but without true savagery. Tongues slick, and Marty's everywhere in Logan's mouth – the corners of the lips, behind teeth, in the crevices – where he might find some trace of Rory, Logan realizes.

Now pinned to the wall, Logan pulls Marty's hand from his shoulder and puts it under the loose wings of his collar, where rosy lipstick prints can still be seen. Marty tears the next button open, the pop making Logan laugh internally. Grabbing the other boy's hip, he pulls him closer, breaks the kiss, whispering This is where she kisses you, before his lips descend upon the smooth collarbone. Unbuttoning Marty's shirt, continuing – This is where she holds you dancing – to place broad palms on the broad back. Running his hands up to cup shoulder blades, lips on the smooth neck, grinning quietly at Marty's attempts to stifle his own moans.

Shoving him up against the wall again, Marty sucks and nips and demands from Logan's mouth. Logan chooses to forget that this is purely about someone else, not him at all; instead he takes the advances at face value and enjoys them for what they are. He knows that he is the one in control here, no matter how hard Marty grips or bites or pushes. If that makes him vain, he'll be Marty's Narcissus any day. With enemies like this, who needs friends?

Logan breaks off; they are both panting and bloody-mouthed. Logan has untucked Marty's shirt and hooks his thumbs over the waist of Marty's pants, one hand toying with the button, brushing against his erection. He feels Marty shudder in the second of stillness.

And when she goes down on you...

A choked gasp, guttural and trembling, and Logan flips their positions – now it is Marty pressed against the wall, tilting his hips, closing his eyes. As Logan undoes the button and drops to his knees he hears the slap of Marty's open palm against the wall, letting go.

one big recs post :D

2005-10-30T06:16:38Z

I decided I wasn't going to describe these, just list them, but then I realized I actually wanted to describe them :))

House, MD

Heart of Oak - alibi_factory - Chase, Chase/House, House/Wilson
alibi_factory writes the best Chase I've ever read. I love his character; I think they've begun to abuse him on the show. I love his angry, tense, confused, frustrated side. I love his POV on House, on Wilson, on all of it. I also like the glimpse of twisted-Wilson - I love the guy, but nobody on this show is healthy, and it's so good to be reminded of that. And then the style - I'm speechless, really, since I just re-read it; all I can say is Oh Man I Love the Style.

Traveler - alibi_factory - House, House/Chase
...

This one leaves me speechless. That's really all I can say. I love the beginning. I love the middle. I love the end. Sparse and ethereal but very strong ideas - obviously I don't know what I'm saying, but that's it. Like I said, speechless, right? Agh. Amazing.

Side Effects - isagel - House/Wilson, NC-17
Really great Porn With A Plot and Character, Too. The best kind, really! Realistic, too. House's bum leg does not disappear, people. His drugs are not magic pills.

Star Wars

Impossible - hallelujah - Anakin/Obi-Wan
This is not a rec, actually; it's just for posterity. I read this fic and it struck me in all sorts of weird ways - finding significance in something totally insignificant, noticing details that were inadvertent, analysing the dynamic of their relationship and this interpretation of their characters (Obi-Wan is always such an interpretation, since he's so archetypal.) Parts of it are not very good. But there are some strangely striking bits.

As I Lay Me Down - tartanshell - Luke, Ben Kenobi
Genfic. I hardly ever read it, but this came recced, and man, is it so very lovely and sad. Poignant. *sigh*

Real-Person Slash

The Color of Wheat (series) - ethrosdemon, and I think hackthis too? - Hayden Christiansen/Ewan McGregor, probably NC-17 in some parts
IT HAS THE BEST VIGGO MORTENSEN I'VE EVER READ ALL OVER IT. It has me cracking up all the time and hyperventilating and squeeing and flailing over the sheer joy of it. I love this sort of RPS because you never know just who is going to show up (and believe me, there are the BEST cameos etc in here, omg). Plus, you know, those two write amazingly amazing fic on their own. It's only going to be squared if they're collaborating. And that goes out to a quadrilateral of amazingness, or something.

untitled - anjaliesque - Lewis/Clark
Historical RPS!!! YOU CAN'T SAY NO! :DDDD It's so cuuuute!

Harry Potter

Untitled 03 - losselen - Remus/Sirius
You already knew I liked this one, since I did fanart :)) The images just caught me, so perfectly, which is evident since I felt compelled to do fanart. There are pictures, snapshots, which is probably intended looking at the summary. And there's that twist in looking at things - "the sound from her cigarette all wrong," "the grave building gave away," "reverence sliding from the hollows of their mouths." Which are all reasons I love all her writing, really.

Shoebox Project - Part 23 - ladyjaida, dorkorific - Sirius/Remus
Oh, yeah. The part we'd all been waiting for. And also sort of dreading, because it meant the end of amazing UST. But yeah. The love! Oh, man. This one also for posterity.

ETA: You have no idea how much I'm craving Dead Poets Society right now. Here's a clue: SO INCREDIBLY MUCH OMFG. O__O

ETA II: It's 12:46 AM and I've totally defeated the purpose of Fall-Back (which is to get to bed at a sane time and wake up, possibly earlier than normal, feeling totally refreshed and ready to tackle the world.) I guess I will just have to rely on the fact that, hey, tomorrow I'll be left alone until about noon or maybe even later! yay. Plus, I finished my History homework. Now it's just 1) waiting for Abby and Kyle to send their questions, 2) read Ch17 tomorrow, 3) do math assignment. :)

Fic: Torn (Obi-Wan/Padmé, G)

2005-08-25T21:45:30Z

Title: Torn
Fandom: Star Wars (Episode III)
Rating: G
Notes: Angsty Obi-Wan/Padmé, just for bandbooktvworm because she wanted some :D (I can't believe I just wrote het XD ~~Please tell me it's not as cheesy as the end makes it seem~~)

You love him, don't you.

She says this with her lips, with her hands clasped in her lap. With her eyes, oh her eyes, she says this, and every part of her is so appealing to everything in him.

It pulls at his heart and sucks the breath from his lungs.

He doesn't want this, this strange attraction, this inexplicable infatuation. He's lost control of his emotions; first Anakin, and now Padmé? A Jedi must let go of attachments.

But a Jedi must show compassion. It's just too easy to show a little too much, to feel a little too close; at least for Obi-Wan it is. He can't understand how Qui-Gon managed.

And with every awful thing she's going through, Obi-Wan can't deny her compassion.

Obi-Wan feels her eyes on him and he doesn't want it. Doesn't want it because he can't want it, can't want it because it would be a betrayal of his entire way of life - of that which he serves, a cause much greater than himself. And he cannot do that.

Obi-Wan doesn't want.

He goes to visit Padmé while Anakin visits Palpatine. Instead of ringing the bell, he lets himself in, though he knows he shouldn't. She'll be there, like she always is. The Senate has been meeting less and less, as Chancellor Palpatine has less need for their vote in his executive decisions.

"It's the death of democracy," she says to him, as they sit there on the couches. Anakin won't listen to such talk, Obi-Wan knows; it's the least he can do to indulge her. And though the Jedi serve the Republic, Obi-Wan's has his own reservations when it comes to politicians. He nearly tells Padmé this, but it wouldn't be wise.

Then again, what part of what he is doing is wise, anymore?

Obi-Wan is waiting for a breaking point.

Padmé is torn.

It's not enough to say that she feels torn, because feelings aren't enough. She is torn, with every fiber of her being stretched to near breaking, and she's sure of this. Far more sure of this than of anything, these days.

Nothing offers the stability she needs. Married to a Jedi, fighting for a falling Republic, and now falling in love with another man. Another Jedi.

Padmé doesn't understand feelings. Not anymore. Maybe the politics have done this to her, but she couldn't ever leave them if it meant saving herself, couldn't abandon her people.

"You're in love," Dormé says.

They are getting ready for bed now, after Anakin and Obi-Wan have left. Padmé is ashamed at this thought: even a traitor in her own rational mind, placing Anakin first but dwelling on Obi-Wan

"Of course I'm in love."

"That's not what I mean."

Padmé stiffens slightly. "Then you must be mistaken." She sees Dormé's shrug in the mirror, hears the soft, slightly teasing "Yes, Milady."

They both know it's no matter for teasing.

Padmé dreams of giving birth to a galaxy. She looks and it burns her eyes. The colors are the same cold blue as their lightsabers, both of them, and then everything is red until she opens her eyes to find the sun in her face, morning.

Obi-Wan visits later that same day. His company is more welcome than she would have him know; she does not want to seem as lonely as she is, if she can even help appearing so to his Jedi senses.

They speak of politics, which Padmé is passionate about, but today it is all recycled panic. Nothing new has happened yet, but she feels her skin crawl whenever she thinks of Chancellor Palpatine and his growing powers. It's the death of democracy. The feeling is getting old, and more and more a part of her hopes that when her child is born she can just go back to Naboo and have her family in peace, resign from her post as Senator forever. But again, she cannot abandon her people.

And she would never see Obi-Wan again. He is the only one she can talk to, the only one she feels anything at all for, and even that is a mystery. Anakin is growing so distant, and so blind to what is happening in the world around him.

She only hopes he will remain blind to this - Obi-Wan's hand on hers, her fingers at the curve of his neck, the sad plea in her eyes and the shadowed depths of comfort in Obi-Wan's.

Fic: Tie?! (House/Wilson, PG)

2005-08-25T01:19:44Z

Title: Tie?!
Fandom: House, MD
Rating: PG for suggestive... er, stuff.
Notes: House/Wilson, more snark, better fic quality than before ;D Mentions of kinky behavior! Inspired by house_slash's long-ago Labcoats, Suits and Ties challenge.

"What on earth is this?"

House didn't even look away from the television, just waved a hand towards the door and what sounded like Wilson standing there, sounding incredulous. "What's what?"

"Only you would leave something like this on my desk."

"Something like what?" Monotone, attention still riveted to the screen.

"You're watching your soaps, aren't you."

"Mmhm. Bother me some other time."

"It's a rerun."

"So what. You have issues."

"I have issues? What I have, Greg," and the screen was suddenly blocked by something Wilson was waving in front of his face, "what I have is a tie."

House finally looked up to glare at the other man. "You interrupt my soaps to tell me you have a tie? Do you have a death wish?"

"But see, this tie just appeared on my desk, and I have reason to believe you gave it to me."

"Why would I give you a tie that would inevitably lead to you pestering me in the middle of my soaps? That's illogical."

"It's a rerun. And you're the only person in this whole hospital, in the whole world, even, who has the sense of humor to give me a tie like this." Wilson brandished the offensive object for emphasis. Looking at it, House automatically winced. "It's neon, for christssakes. Clashing neon colors."

"I can see that. Very clearly. Stop waving it around, you're going to give us both seizures."

"Why?"

"... James, sometimes flashing lights make people's brains -"

"You know what I mean." He was utterly exhasperated, and House laughed a little inside. "What's with the tie?"

"It's your birthday."

"No, it's not."

"It's your half-birthday."

"It's actually my unbirthday."

"Does that make me the Mad Hatter?"

"Of course."

"Then you're Alice."

"Ha. Seriously, man, this is the ugliest tie I've ever seen. Where did you even get it?"

"The Salvation Army. You'll have to wash it before you wear it; it probably came right off of some dead homeless person."

"What even makes you think I'll wear it?"

"Masochistic tendencies."

"I'd be inflicting it on everyone else."

"Who said that? They won't get to see it."

"Then - what? That's... oh."

"Your thoughts are projecting so loudly, I'm surprised you haven't clued in everyone on this floor."

"You're the evil genius with the master plan, here."

"Only a suggestion," House shrugged. "And, since I'm in such a evil, plotting mood, here's another one: My place, tonight, the tie. Let's see what you make of that."

"... Kinky. Also, hot."

"Exactly. What was that you said about genius, earlier?"

"It was said in a fit of tie-induced seizure. I claim no responsibility. Whipping cream."

"Excellent."

Fic: Out of the Blue (House&Wilson preslash, G)

2005-08-25T01:00:30Z

I think I'm going to spam the LJ with various Housefics that I wrote a while ago, but never considered "good enough" to actually polish and put up officially.

I think I'm also going to do an iconpost later of more odds and ends. (I just realized I need a House icon. Cool!)

So! Housefic!

Title: Out of the Blue
Fandom: House
Rating: G
Notes: House/Wilson snarky cute preslash. Inspired by house_slash's Labcoats, Suits and Ties challenge; written during the Reign of Voegler, and before I had a good grasp on their voices, heh. (I'm sorry, Wilson XD)

Wilson couldn't figure it out at first. Haircut? New shirt? Glasses? Cane? Tie? Just got laid? He would actually stop to think about this, if he had any time - he had a patient on his mind though, as well as Julie, and that was more than enough to think about.

It hit him, though, as he walked onto the elevator to see House standing there. Hit him like a big, blinding white thing. An error in the landscape, if he would.

"You're wearing your lab coat."

"Great deduction, Sherlock. I see you're wearing yours too! What's next?"

"Finally giving in to Cuddy?"

"Giving in? You make it sound like I'm letting her win."

"Oh, excuse me. Shifting under the winds of change? Making way for Progress? Flexing to accomodate the rules?"

"I like the last one. Mmm, flexing. I don't do much of that, but there are some nice people around here rather good at that sort of thing. That masseuse, for one."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "In any case, I don't see why you make such a fuss about the coat. It looks good on you. Gives you even more of that 'shut up, lowly plebian' air."

House looked at him sharply. "Have you been talking to Cuddy?"

"What?" Despite his utterly innocent tone of voice, Wilson realized he had been staring at the lab coat. Sort of. Not really. Only a little. The glowing elevator buttons were suddenly rather more interesting.

"Never mind. The stupid thing's too itchy to wear everyday. I don't see how you stand it." The elevator doors opened; they walked out, House with a telling purpose. Wilson would have bet money that he had just gotten a brand new case.

"A little thing called patience. Or tolerance. I don't suppose you've heard of it?"

"Synonymous to 'wuss' in my thesaurus."

To that, Wilson couldn't say much but sigh, as he left House for more pressing medical matters. It was really rather a nice look on him - a bit cleaner, crisper - even though it looked a bit wrinkled from lying on the floor or sitting in the drier for too long. Plus, extremely authoritative.

What? That was out of the blue.

Maybe he hadn't slept as well as he'd thought. Or his coffee had been decaf instead of regular. Or... well, the coat just caught his attention. It was a new thing.

And he had some files to look through.

summer is boring

2005-08-09T00:53:25Z

Nevermind being late; the thing didn't work out anyway. *sigh of sadness* But there is tomorrow :)

So instead of hanging out with rabbitgryph all afternoon, I went on errands with mom by the Tacoma Mall. We got food at the Cash and Carry - fun stuff! 25 pounds of short-grain rice, chocolates for Uncle Rick's belated birthday, mango Snapple and peach Snapple, a big box of Baja!Starbursts. Then we went to Half-Price books, where I didn't find the Zinn book for AP US History, but I did find the Moulin Rouge soundtrack, a Massive Attack CD (not Mezzanine, but oh well :) ), and a Gin Blossoms CD for no other reason than I'd heard their name before and it was a buck in the sales rack. I really need to go there more often; I could've gotten a translation of the Upanishads for $5 but I already spent 20 on my mom's card.

Then I came home and posted a_humamentathon entries :D

THINGS I WROTE!

Title: The Gold Daughter
Fandom: Fairy Tales/Original Fiction
Rating: PG (implied creepy themes)
Notes: written for themis.

Title: Accidentals
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: PG-13 to be safe (ANATOMY. ZOMGZ. sort of.)
Notes: backup-written for rheakurokawa. Kind of cracked-out, maybe.

Oh, and last night we went to see Batman Begins! Which was a really really awesome movie. Like, really awesome. Seriously. That cool. :D (Mostly, I CAN'T GET OVER LIAM NEESON. WHAT!?!? Violence!? But he's been so gentle in every other movie I've seen him in! *mind is blown*)

I have to get to the library later so I don't get fined even MORE. Eurgh. How about I just keep Velvet Goldmine, kay? I'd like that. I'll pay my fines if you let me keep the movie. plzkthx.

drabble .5 - Moulin Rouge, G

2005-08-04T21:33:44Z

Vaguely slashy. I call this Toulouse/Christian, version .5. Totally G, and it's probably even more accurate to say that it's friendshipfic.

Posting it because I don't know why. (Probably because I'm avoiding my homework! But no, it seems a little bit complete in itself, there's just *something* missing in the middle and I'm not sure what.)

How wonderful life is...

"... now that you're in the world."

The absinthe glows in the glass, throwing green light in bits and pieces. He catches one in his hand, watches it dance. It sings like a star, shrill and piercing. Toulouse listens instead to the deeper voice and its more beautiful music and lets the spark slip between his fingers.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.

Toulouse can't be anything but happy for them, for their happiness. But then he sees that she is dying; he sees Christian in his bottomless grief, drowning his un-drownable sorrows. He never leaves, no; he stays upstairs and listens out the window to the incessant clackittyclack of catharsis, hears the occasional sob as a wave of fresh grief hits the man, and again, and again.

When he hears the typing and the sobbing stop, when he hears the clatter and crash of bottles in the alley as they're thrown away, he will go downstairs and knock quietly on Christian's door. When he hears a soft chuckle and sees a smile light up that fair face, maybe he will even ask to see the manuscript.

Fic: EXPLETIVE (Curt-centric, R)

2005-08-04T04:50:10Z

Title: EXPLETIVE
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Rating: R (Entirely for language)
Notes: Curt-centric. Wrote it all yesterday :)) Much thanks to bandbooktvworm for the beta!

Fuck.

That's all Curt does. Fuck. He doesn't make love, he doesn't do anything tender and soft unless he's got something in his system, and then it's not even him anymore, is it?

No, he just fucks.

Up on stage, up there, that's not singing, or dancing. That's letting loose, that's raw energy. Fucking the air, himself, the crowd.

It might be the electricity. He can still feel the voltage jarring through his body, through his head, rearranging his mind until it's only another jumble of pieces all adding up to Curt Wild. Electricity is what catches him onstage, throws him about, sets him thrashing. It's what ignites whatever frenzied crude desire it is that motivates him. He's still not sure what that is. He'd like not to think about it.

__

Curt has his quiet moments, too. Quiet is not necessarily still, and quiet is not an absence of noise. No, that's silence, and Curt has no silences. Quiet is just things going on underneath the surface, when you turn down the volume but still have the jabber of conversation like an ambient noise. White noise, is what it is.

White noise with a static like glitter.

That moment on the rooftop was one of those times - kept low, relaxed, quiet. High as a fucking kite, they were, and that night was something else. Curt didn't do gentle, or at least he'd like to tell himself, but he did then. There was that time with that kid Arthur, and then he'd had his quiet moments with Brian. He could count on one hand all the quiet times he'd ever had, and then with that same hand hold all the peace he'd ever known. Not that he cared. Not that he cared about a damn fucking thing.

And then after the quiet they would both go, he and Brian; they would explode onstage, violence and electricity and being utterly alien because they could be. This was life, not the quiet times. Living was this eruption, this constant buzz. Living was going crazy over an electric guitar. Living was this thing with Brian. It was all just this fucking thing.

"And they say it's not natural."

Curt doesn't care what's natural anymore.

_

And he fucked it up, Brian got fucked up, and he didn't know what to do. He went for too long without living after that. He's over Brian, christ knows he's over him because what's the point of hanging on to something that no longer exists, but that doesn't keep him from keeping an eye out for the guy. After all, Brian used to be something, even if he wasn't anymore. Brian could have been something, for Curt.

_

Sometimes Curt knows his life is one big fucking expletive.

The other times, he doesn't care.

_

Even after being out of it for a while, he keeps playing guitar, keeps his hair blonde, keeps with the dying glam scene. It's what he was about in the first place; he's not going to drop it like some passing craze. This craze is permanent: a part of him. There's no magic left, though, and he realizes it's been that way since Brian left. Since he left Brian. Whatever.

He sees Jack Fairy around, does the Death of Glam with him, but keeps on making the music after it’s dead and buried. Maybe it's more out of habit by now, but Curt knows the guitar is his fucking soul. If he's alive, he's going to be making music. He'll still be doing it when he's dead.

Curt thinks a person could have a thousand years of conversation with Jack Fairy and not know anything about him at all, but by then they'd understand the whole fucking universe. What's more, they'll have started to understand themselves, something far more convoluted and thoroughly difficult, Curt maintains. Not that he understands himself. But he thinks he's a lot closer than he used to be.

And there's a little more quiet in his life, too.

_

Curt kept that pin too long. It wasn't hanging onto Brian anymore; it wasn't even a souvenir from a magic era. The thing started to be an everyday part of him, and he knew that wasn't right.

So when he saw the kid and knew him, heard him talk, he knew it was time to hand it over. Like a torch, or some fucking symbol of Life-Goes-On. He probably should have handed it over long ago, all those years when he first met him, first fucked him.

True, it had been one of the quieter, more beautiful moments. But everything Curt did was fucking. And now life was quiet, and he was still fucking, fucking around with things and life and ideas, but quietly. Almost softly. There wasn't any electricity in life anymore; there wasn't even any beauty left.

So he gave the last of it away to a familiar stranger. Because he had to.

Jack Fairy would approve. Maybe even Brian would. Maybe even.

House drabble! "Pain"

2005-04-10T23:55:11Z

Title: Pain
Fandom: House, MD
Rating: G (though maybe PG if you count implied pain-med addiction)
Notes: Gen, House and Wilson. Based on Detox (1x11), and I'm sure there are inaccuracies, for which I apologize :). Third person House-centric. I totally suck at titles.

He takes the drugs. Pops one, two, crunches down. After so long without them, and that familiar cool medicated relief kicks in, hits like something much nicer than an upset parent or an iron pestle. Like a wave. Oh, yeah.

This goes on under the surface, but his real attention is focused on Wilson. The tired stance at the door, the gentle break of something in his face as House takes the drugs - the crunch like it's not pills, like it's Wilson's hope or faith in him or something equally fragile.

No, no, no, no. This will not do. House clenches his uninjured hand, digs the fingertips into the arm of his chair. Looks away from his friend's eyes.

Even with the Vicodin there's still pain, and that's not right. So he denies it and turns his chair towards the window, as he hears Wilson leave.

Fic: All Saints (Remus/Sirius, G)

2005-02-23T02:08:52Z

Title: All Saints
Rating: G for utter tameness.
Notes: Wingfic; Remus/Sirius; takes place before the Potters' death.

Unexpected it comes, on a yellow September afternoon; it finds a way into the apartment, into your room – a new magic.

It is the wide white spread and angles, the serrated feather edges, the way they fold and settle on the golden skin of his back. Gently, because it looks so fragile and unreal, you probe the crook of the joint with your fingers; gently you stroke, you feel the heat and the pumping of veins close to the surface. He shivers beneath you, and what sensation must he be feeling - what does it feel like to have this, to have wings? You cannot even begin to imagine, except when you think about war veterans who have lost a limb and their phantom pains - perhaps you have only lost your wings, and for a second you imagine you feel them, stretching out behind and to your sides and into the air.

But it is only imaginary, and as you know this the feeling disappears. You are a wolf, not a bird.

It is beautiful; it is strange. Who are you to judge? But there is no denying the glory, as the sun shines through the window and glances on the white sheets to make shadows of ridges, glances on dark hair and sinks in like velvet, settles in eyes that gleam but softer now, and cooler. The glory captures you; the glow of the curtains and his body illuminated, the feathers so soft and brilliant. He looks at you and sees your eyes on the white shapes; he looks at you, reaches a hand for your face, but you take it in your hand and keep staring, staring. He says your name; you stop, now, look at his face, in his eyes: he smiles. Leaning down you kiss him, and his lips are dry, yours cracked. A hand, now – your hand, touching where familiar and foreign merge, the throbbing heat upon his back, and he shivers (shudders, but no) and still he smiles.

When you leave for work he is looking to the window already, thinking, waiting. What is he thinking? He does not say; you do not know.

What is it, you ask him. What is it, again, when he does not answer. It's something silly, your question, and you wonder if the answer will be as well - if there is one. He barely speaks anymore, just looks at you, expects you to understand. Maybe he no longer has words for these things he feels. What do wings do to a mind? There must be some connection, you think; how could there not be some connection.

What is it. You make the accusation, prod him with this demand of a question. There is something hidden yet, there must be, because wings do not do this all on their own. Again, he looks away, turns to the side, and you can see their bumpy outlines under the blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders. You lose your question with this; your mind loses its grip on that feeling that moment, and if he asked you what you meant by it you could not tell him. But he never asks.

You are almost glad of this except you almost feel like crying. You miss hearing his voice.

He has changed. Obviously he has changed; that has what these past days or weeks or so have been, his change. But there is more than that, you know now. Much more.

Sometimes you feel like you do not know him anymore, and it is an awful thing to feel but you do anyway. How can you help it? He has changed.

Maybe people with wings do not need you any longer. There are fewer words between you, and more silences, longer ones, colder.

You spend time out of the house even when you do not have to; the streets are full of the ordinary. Once this would have pained you and you would have avoided the street-corners, the alleyways, the stores of people coming and going and coming; you would not linger among strange strangers, but go home to his arms for the night. Now it is comforting, the bustle and rush of the unknown, the mix of different people who all average out to normal.

Between wolves and wings, what normality is there? Between the white spread of sheets and browner scarred skin, the tangle of black and tawny hair, the glance of eyes and the absence of glances, what is there? You don't even know anymore. You don't know anything.

He does, though. When you come back later and mumble something about work – of course he knows. You would spare time to feel terrible about what you are doing (not doing) except you are tired and the bed calls. He calls, quietly (how he has changed), with his eyes and he cannot see the wings spreading behind him but you can, and they spread wide. The feathers and joints are still warm under your touch, and he tries to smile, tries not to let you see him wince.

Some day the magic would have to leave, but you did not know when. Not until that night, when you wake up to find him gone, the sheets only barely warm, and a cold breeze coming through your open window. You can still smell him, there in the air, lingering, and you hold your breath and stay there, perched, oh, on the edge of the bed, not getting up to look out the window, to look down. Physics are suddenly important, ridiculous though it is in this magical world of yours. But no, as the sun rises, you do not get up to close the window, cold as it is. Instead you leave the room, and retrieve the paper from the front door.

November 1st, it says. He stares at you from the first page, and you cannot see any wings no matter how hard you try.

A big recs post

2005-02-21T02:10:46Z

mainly for the purpose of decreasing my lj Memory count, but recs are always a good thing :)

Some of these (well, most of them, really) are pretty old, and I'm sure quite a few of you have read them before, but who knows? :)

Smallville:
Six Degrees from Sanity (working title), by muse_attack - This is just gorgeous. I know she says it's not complete, but it's gorgeous all the same. Charmingly disconnected and Lana POV, and it treats Lana in a way you don't see her treated very often in this fandom - kindly. Instead of ignoring the tragedies, Jess makes you sympathetic to them. Plus there are all sorts of wonderfully spiffy details, and a lot of color. Shades of Clark/Lex and Chloe/Lana.

Invert, by chiri_chan - A Chloe-centric 100-word drabble. Very sad; the theory at the end has been nixed by the fourth season but it was an appealing idea, as opposed to Dead Chloe. It makes me want to cry a little and give Chloe a big hug.

Harry Potter:
Sandcastles, by nest_freemark - Ginny/Hermione, short and [bitter]sweet. It really made me think, the first time I read it. I liked it because it's about a relationship that's not hunky-dory, that's not entirely functional, and you feel sad for both of the characters. Lovely atmosphere. It caught my fancy.

drabble request #5 (untitled, I'm assuming), by pogrebin - This is just wow. I love it; it's well-done futurefic, which is just awesome. I don't even like Snape but his voice works for me in this. Again, just wow. ETA: Okay, just now the journal has been deleted. That's depressing :(

The Love Song of Sirius Black, by kaydeefalls - One: I love 5-things-that-never-happened fic. Two: I love the Marauders. Two-and-a-half: I love Remus/Sirius. Three: I love TS Eliot. All of these incorporated into a fic and done wonderfully = astounded and adoring me. This fic is so amazing and so great and really, I can hardly be rational about fangirling this, can I?

Icon ficlet #3 (untitled, I assume), by pauraque - WAH. And, wow. That icon and the picture linked to are really fascinating. Once again, really great futurefic = awesome.

The Book of Avant Garde, rewritten, by losselen - Wow to the extreme. Supremely detailed, so full of so many small beautiful things, you could read it over and over and still find something new each time. And the imagery - Icarus and books and wings and red, blue, dark and light in dark. Just, exquisite, and painful. (sirius/remus)

Shakespeare:
Worm's Meat, by ipso_facto - Romeo/Mercutio, and Mercutio's death. So, so sad. Some very interesting details, and the atmosphere just caught me. It's about 2 years old, strangely enough - I found it on a google search.

In All Seasons, by Jiji - This is so lovely, and so softly painful. Seasons and flowers and china vases; the ending made me want to cry. Perfectly in character, Romeo/Mercutio. I've recced it before, June last year, and I'll rec it again because it's just wonderful.

Dreams Accord No Truth, by Val Mora - Benvolio/Mercutio, unrequited. I've recced this before as well. What impresses me so is the style in which it's written - the closest to Shakespeare I've yet seen.

Dead Poets Society:
The Very Definition, by givemehistory - Sad, as so many of these are. Slight Neil/Todd, but about all of the characters. Absolutely beautiful.

A Well-Timed Smile, by and_suddenly - This blew me away, oh god no pun intended. Hurts so bad, but I love it because, it just seems so true. Plus, I'm a sucker for angst. But really. Amazing. I know I've recced this before, sometime in November.

The Secret Garden:
Nest Building, by argyleheir - Every time I read this, I like it more. Enchanting. Colin/Dickon, implied. Memories, dirt, and poppies. Oh, yes.

Went on a walk for an hour or more. I should work on homework, yes. But Oligochaetes aren't much fun.

Christmas drabble, part 1.5 (but I'm thinking it's really part 2)

2005-01-09T11:15:52Z

FINALLY. Okay. Now I can post.

losselen: Here is your (by now, post-)christmas-drabble-thingy, after way way way too long (and for that I DEEPLY apologize. I feel quite bad about how late this is.)

And I really hope you like this - I was pretty blocked on it for what seems like forever, so I'm not sure about the quality myself. much love!

Eowyn, G, angst.

The light of dawn is death, and not hope; hope is no more to you; hope is cruel in that it promises but there is no delivery. Even as the sun rises you feel a dark veil settle over your heart, and even though you cry for war with the rest of them, you cry for death, death, and there is no heart in your cry because there is no heart left in you.

Despite this heartlessness, this emptiness, what you see is sharper and more defined than it was before – color is faded, though, as though everything has been left to weather in the sun and rain for too long. Life lasts too long, you think, and you wonder, is this what happens when one accepts death? When one is ready to pass away from the world, and one no longer needs it, it finally becomes clear? The answer is no matter, though, because you can feel your death upon you.

Though dawn is now full upon the hills and your vision is stark, all the turmoil around you is darkness, lurking on the edges of your vision; you can feel it beating through your un-heart and into your blood. It is the pounding of your horse's hooves, thumpa thumpa thumpa, against the hard ground, against your ribcage, the heaving of flanks the pressing of air in lungs. Expand, contract, expand, until you feel you are bursting, one small person among this chaotic battle, one small person who should and should not be there. Who would notice you, if you did burst, and you fought no more? What difference would it make? But you know, you know that you very well could make the difference; that is what you came to do, to be a warrior. And so you throw yourself into battle, abandoning all else, abandoning hope and even despair and now you are truly empty.

But instead of dying, you find yourself awoken, and though others may be happy what do you have to live for now? You have already thrown it away; you do not know how to find it again.

The night is dark, as nights have been; without moon or star as the clouds smother the sky and lie heavy over the earth. There is a deep red glow toward the horizon, flickering and flaring, and you cannot keep your eyes from it. Neither can he, beside you, and his hand in yours is the first thing you have felt for what seems to you a long time. It is good, you decide, as is he; his voice reminds you of the joy in living.

This is the beginning again. You have found each other; he has given you this gift, and you him. There are years and years of this happiness before you, and you know this as sure as you know anything as a light finally breaks, and you feel your heart leap within your breast.

Christmas drabble post, 1.25

2004-12-29T04:50:26Z

Christmas drabble-which-is-not-a-drabble for theatrically

(unrequited Olivia/Viola, PG, 1132 words)

Olivia lifts her veil, and sees clearly now the fair and rosy cheeked youth before her, gazing at her with dark eyes sparkling with vivacity. The smoothness of his cheeks, his slim throat, his slight figure beneath the shrouding clothes – it is gentle to the eyes, like a breath of fresh air.

What a pity, that such a youth should serve Orsino, but what luck that he should be sent on an errand to her! Even still, he must not be admitted past her gates again, not if he still bears the task of Orsino's wooing.

"Excellently done, if God did all," speaks the messenger upon finally viewing the lady's face. Olivia tosses a stale retort, paying mind not to her own words but to those of the youth, her eyes lighting on his lips which seem as rose petals. She deems him exceeding fair.

"If I did love you in my master's flame, with such a suffering, such a deadly life, in your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it." The messenger does not accept Olivia's refusal, and so he would persuade her otherwise.

"Why, what would you?"

"Make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house; write loyal cantons of contemned love and sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me!"

The lady takes these words to heart, and does not care to remember that they are of Orsino's love, and not this youth's very own. His speech is beautiful, and brings to mind the blue mist over the grey-green moors, the light-edged clouds of a fiery sunset, the wake of a boat on a still blue lake; his words are full of subtle glory and a profound beauty. Never has Olivia met anyone whose words enchant her as this messenger's do, and for every phrase his mouth utters her heart is driven further and further away from Orsino and closer to the youth before her.

Still she replies in clear enough mind so as not to present herself as utterly besotted, but her heart is taken.

At the crossroads Olivia meets the youth, Cesario, again, intending to bring him back to her house, hoping to make him love her as she loves him, and though at first glance he appears to be the youth she fell in love with, there is something different. The way he holds his shoulders seems stronger, or perhaps his neck is less slender than she remembered; his skin may be a shade less smooth, his words, a shade less fair.

But it is still Cesario, so it is close enough for her, lovestruck and longing. To her, this youth is the same as he first appeared before her, revealed with the lifting of her veil.

In the end, those shades of difference were key. Cesario was not Cesario; Cesario was Viola, and then Cesario was Sebastian, and Sebastian-as-Cesario was the one to accept her invitation to her house, and he was the one who loved her in return. And so her Cesario ended up as Sebastian, and Sebastian was the one who made proposal of marriage to her, and so Sebastion was who she married.

But now it has been two years, and Sebastian has grown a beard, his voice has deepened more, and he does not recite poetry to her anymore. Olivia does not like to kiss him, because his face is too rough; she does not like to lie abed with him because he is grown too much larger than she; she does not like to make love to him because his body is too hard in some places. What an ideal she began with, and what a tragedy that it should fade so!

Viola thrives and lives happily with the Duke Orsino; Olivia sees them regularly as Sebastian and his sister are dear to each other. When she sees their smiles and laughter, their contentedness, envy stirs within her breast. She wonders exactly what it is she covets, and what she finds is a strange confused complication.

One evening, just as the sky is turning dark, she finds herself directing the coachman to bring her to the palace of the Duke Orsino and his Duchess the Lady Viola.

"What is it that may bring thee here, and at this hour?" Viola sits by the light of but a single candle in the room where they would usually entertain guests. Olivia sits across from her as directed, but on the edge of her seat, and clasps her hands as though nervous. "What is thy trouble? Is it Sebastian?" It is clear that the answer is 'yes'; Viola can see this in the way Olivia stiffens to an even greater degree and looks down at her own hands.

"It is, then? How goes my brother? Is he well?" Concern tints Viola's voice.

"He is well, well enough; he is in good health," Olivia replies, and looks up anew with a strange sad glint in her eye. "Well enough, but still no more than Sebastian."

"What more wouldst thou have Sebastian be, if not himself?"

Olivia is silent. In her eyes, Viola glows softly in the candlelight. Alike he is to thee, and even moreso to Cesario as he was, and even yet not enough so.

"Speak, fair lady, release what troubles your thoughts so, that you have such difficulty giving them voice. Speak! and I will see what aid I can give, whatever it may be."

Olivia shivers; the maid speaks somewhat as she did years ago, and at the task of wooing for Orsino.

Meeting Viola's eyes, Olivia parts her lips in preparation of speech, and it seems to Viola that the sad glint in her eye is changed to a fey one. "I put it simply: that from the beginning I loved Cesario, and no other; now, at the end, I find there is no substitute. I am not worthy of thy brother, my duchess, nor am I worthy of thee."

With these words she stands and moves toward the door. Behind her, Viola begins to speak, but Olivia interrupts her with a harsh voice, sounding of the very pain that grips her heart. "I ask naught of you, your grace. I will return to my house and the house of my lord."

Before Viola has a chance to speak, Olivia has exited and shut the door behind her. She pretends not to see the lady at the gate as her carriage moves away, and pretends that her eyes are not damp with tears.

_____________

note: All dialogue, except for that of the last segment, is directly from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night play.

Three more to go :)

Christmas! And drabbles, part 1

2004-12-26T10:50:34Z

Have been searching for screencaps of Romeo + Juliet for the last couple hours. I feel so obsessed. But really, I'm just looking for really good ones of these three particular scenes (Queen Mab scene, R and J meet through the aquarium, Mercutio's death). So it's not like I'm crazy or anything. *shiftyeyes*
But oh em eff gee, I FINALLY got the soundtrack, and am IN LOVE with it, as much as it is possible to be in love with sounds. SOGREAT. I may be raving for days, I think ;D

And, those Christmas sortof-drabbles, most of them are done, but I'm having trouble with theatrically's and bookbandtvworm's, as well as losselen's. They will be up, as soon as I can get them written, I swear <333. Can I just say that 1) Olivia/Viola is so difficult to write when you have to keep referring to canon and realizing that whatever you write will in no way ever be even comparable to this; and 2) I don't think I'm actually able to write het (well, that, or Gilmore Girls het in particular). Those, and LOTR is tricky in almost the same way as Shakespeare.
And the lengths all vary widely, and let me tell you it is nothing personal at all. Lengths are just tricky for me.

(The Nutcracker, Clara/Sugarplum, G)

In her wispy skirt and beribboned legs she graces the court, mingling and moving amidst them as though dancing. The ties of her slippers criss-cross and are laced all the way up her slim leg, to midthigh, and the pretty pink keeps catching Clara's eye, even thought all the other vibrant colors of the court. She catches glimpses of her here and there, flickering across the room as she lights among these people, those, but never close enough to Clara. Like a dream, or an enchanting butterfly, she who is the most beautiful dances just out of reach. Clara could request the presence of any member of the court, any member and they would be glad to obey, all but she, the Sugarplum Fairy, because she is the Queen and Clara, though honored, is but a guest in her realm.

The night grows on, and Clara greatly appreciates the dances and performances that are put on in her honor, but the caramel seat she is sitting on is getting warm and a little bit melty, and a gumdrop has fallen off the arm. She would like to eat it, as it sits in her hand, but she feels it would not be so polite.

The caramel is sticky beneath her legs, and she would stand but she doesn't want to disturb the festivities, and now the Sugarplum Fairy has finally come over, close, and she smells refreshingly of cinnamon and fresh buttercream. The Queen's eyes sparkle like her dress, and she is telling Clara that everybody else has finished their dances, and would Clara like to dance? With her?

But my nightdress is stuck and my hands are covered in sugar from the gumdrops and I would look so awful next to you because you're so perfect, Clara thinks, but she can't say no to the Sugarplum Fairy.

Only slightly hesitantly, Clara stands, and finds that her nightdress hasn't really stuck; in fact, it seems perfectly fine. Though pink, her hands aren't sticky against the Queen's soft, pale ones, and they are dancing across a suddenly cleared floor beautifully, wonderfully.

"So, what do you think?" The Sugarplum Fairy's voice is whisper-soft and meant for Clara's ears alone. "Do you want to go home yet?"

"Not anymore," Clara says, and blushes a little. Her partner smiles. A silly question comes into Clara's head, and she shouldn't ask since it isn't polite but the words pop out anyways, and it's too late to take them back now.

"How old are you?" She hangs her head a bit, but looks back up to see the Fairy's reaction.

Eyes twinkling bright, the Sugarplum Fairy laughs, loud and clear. It isn't a mocking laugh, not at all – in fact it is a child's laugh, full of joy. "How old are you?" she asks Clara, and suddenly Clara can't remember. She also can't remember if the Queen's head was always on level with hers, or if her legs always felt this long, or if their hair had been the same color before, and now Clara's skin is milky pale as well.

"Am I you?" she wonders aloud. Their dance has stopped though Clara doesn't know when it did, and everything is faded away at the edges. The Sugarplum Fairy kisses her at the corner of her mouth; Clara thinks she tastes like vanilla and brown sugar. The feeling of those creamy fingers lingers on her skin long after she wakes.
____________

(Ender's Game, Ender/Alai, G)

Salaam, Alai wishes him. Peace be unto you.

But it is only a wish, whispered in darkness, unseen, barely heard. Wishes may have power, but not power enough against the harshness of a world in war, and not enough to protect Ender from such strange and unknown things he might encounter, so far from Battle School and Earth.

Peace is difficult to find in a time of war, and Alai may not know much about real war, but he can recognize the noise of soldiers fighting against each other in the strange tunnels of Eros, and those sounds signal the very antithesis of peace.

So Alai knows, that even as he feels Ender stirring beneath his hand, even as they whisper in the darkness and their lips touch, the sounds of war mean that this is not to be, this is goodbye.
_____________

(Nightmare Before Christmas, Sally-centric, G for gen)

Sally never grew up. She was never born, not like a real person, or even your average Halloween Town citizen – the Halloween people have existed forever, or at least as long as the people in the Real World have feared them. Sally was never small and wailing, or ghostly thin and growing, or even not-so-small and pesky. She never grew up, never was intended to gain independence, was just forced into the world exactly the way she was meant to be.

When she was born she was not born, she was made; some creation of the Mad Scientist who was the closest she had to a father. Her first sight was of a blindingly bright light, and then his face, leering over her, huge and wrinkled and squinting and hungry. It was not until later that she realized how ugly he was, in comparison to the others. They were all a little frightening and a little strange and ugly, but when they looked at her their eyes were different than the Doctor's, their faces kinder. Not by much, but it counted because it was enough to catch her attention.

In such a small life, Sally thinks, details become much smaller, day by day. In this confinement where there are so few new things, one knows every small part intimately, and the small parents keep dividing into even smaller ones, like fractions, until she realizes that 1/3 is 2/6 and also 41/123 and leaves 14/21 or two times the filled space empty, and these are all simple facts o her, and the differences between midnight black and jet black and crow's-wing black are vast. In the same way she realizes that the glow of the moon is not dissimilar to the glow of her own skin, or the bony head of that hero, Jack the Pumpkin King, but he bursts into flame every now and then like a hellish sun (the best kind, really), and she doesn't do that. Not even a little, except, maybe in her eyes and inside her skin. Jack Skellington is the apple of the public's eye, and so he flaunts his talents and glory without vanity, but Sally holds hers close and secret, because then she holds power, the little that she has. But she keeps what she has got, keeps it close to her heart, and it grows.
____________

(Arthurian Legends, Nimue, G)

You came to my river and did not know me, though I knew you. How could I not, for your face had appeared in those very eddies and currents no less than a week before?

They say that one can only scry in a still reflection, but I never heeded such limitations. The river served me well enough, with its depths and its glittering, rippling changing, yielding visions in disconnected scraps but so many, scattered here and there. My river may not have been a clear window to the future, but with all its possibilities it was more accurate than the limited views of a looking-glass. My river was great, but I was sixteen, and I wanted greater.

When you came to me, you bore a scored staff of oak and your hair was still the color of sunrise, though your face was slightly lined. Where are you going? I asked as I stood there by the river, glancing down towards the ferry.

Onward, you replied.

And will you cross the river? said I.

Not today, I think. You seemed distracted, but your eyes kept returning to me, your face with a strange expression flitting across it. Is there an inn near?

No, was the answer, but instead I turned and walked downriver, calling back over my shoulder, Come talk to my father, the vavasor.

I felt your eyes on me as I led you to my father's house. Your staff, it had been etched with runes that lay in spikes against the grain of the wood. I did not know what they said, but it was a sign of a magician, a druid, something of the sort.

I asked you your name, but you did not give it to me. You may have known my intentions already.
____________

(The Echorium Sequence, Kherron/Lazim, PG-13 to be safe)

Sunlight streams in through the cracks of the stable walls, peeking over the stall door, making clear-cut rectanglular shapes of light, and lines. These shapes are even prisms now, made three-dimensional and hanging in the air – caught and suspended by the dust motes stirred up by the straw, and the straw stirred up by two young almost-men.

The sun is warm on their backs; the blue hair of one is infused with it and he seems to wear a glowing blue halo. He sneezes as the dust tickles his nose, and the other boy turns to look at him, the bones braided into his own hair clicking against each other.

"You're sure nobody will find us here?"

"Don't worry so much Kher," the braided boy says, smiling as he shuts the stable door. "Besides, I've got Windfoot on the watch." He nods his head towards the stall next to them, where Kherron can hear the shuffling and stomping of a pony.

Opening his mouth with some sarcastic remark in mind, he reconsiders it, and instead settles for rolling his eyes discreetly. Lazin loves his ponies, and Kher – well, really, Kher does love Lazim. The two are a package deal.

Kherron suddenly finds Lazim's hands on him; one behind his neck and pleasantly rough against the skin there, the other hovering somewhere near his waist. The boys' faces are close, and Kherron grins, tilting his head and kissing Lazim fully, lips slightly parted. Lazim's mouth is hot and wet beneath his, and he hears the other boy moan, feels the vibrations of his throat and feels him pushing him against the wall, none too gently.

Kherron cannot stop kissing him, cannot stop running his fingers up Lazim's back, through Lazim's hair, over the smooth skin of his neck and where it broadens to meet tanned shoulders. They slide down the wall into a pile of straw, and send up a golden flurry of dust motes with their movement. Lazim is untucking the back of Kher's shirt from his trousers, slipping his hands in beneath, and Kherron is feeling the prickle of straw on his bare skin but not paying it any mind, when Windfoot wickers and stomps around a bit, bumping the side of the stall with her hoof.

A part of him is reluctant to stop, but a far larger part of Kherron looks up in nervous fear. Pulling back slightly from Lazim, he looks at te other boy, fear in his eyes.

Lazim looks at him, puzzled, but then realization dawns across his face. He only glances at the pony before returning to Kherron, exhasperated.

"She's just jealous."

Kherron can't help but laugh this time, and so he does, tipping his head back and guffawing until he can hardly breathe. Lazim is still looking a little exhasperated, but he seems to have caught the humor in the situation. He giggles a bit, and then throws a handful of straw at the blue-haired boy.

When that does not stop Kherron, Lazim pushes him over and pins his shoulders, dipping down to kiss him into submission.

"All right, all right," Kherron gasps, still breathless. "You win."

Lazim grins smugly.

"But for echoes' sakes, don't stop!"

He doesn't.
____________

I deeply apologize for any inaccuracies; most of the canon I'm not very familiar with, but I did my best :)

And if you want one but didn't get a chance to ask, ask away, and I will still be so happy to write you one! :)

DPS: untitled drabble, Neil/Todd, nearly PG-13?

2004-11-26T04:48:07Z

This is scrambly and experimental, but I definitely like it :D

Title: (untitled, as of yet)
Fandom: Dead Poets Society
Rating: er... PG-13 themes, but technically it's only PG? They need a rating between PG ad PG-13. Like, PG-10? oh, I dunno.
Notes: 160 words of Neil/Todd. Neil-centric third person POV, if it helps at all. It isn't very clear cut, but that's sort of the point.

Under starched, crisp sheets he slides, closer to the heat of the other boy's body. A hand over and cupping the waist, thumb dangling lazily over a smooth abdomen, his knee between two of the other boy's, legs now intertwined.

His trembling, pale form suspended over, a glint of moon catching light and making silver in the hair, glinting on the eyes. Palms pressed against the mattress, palms pressed up against shoulders, propped up on elbows, a hand reaching lower to cup the protrusion of his hip bone. Shallow breathing, warm in his ear, the brush and warm glow of skin on skin on skin.

Neil runs a hand over Todd's back, and feel him shiver, muscles taught.

This body wants to fly, he whispers in the warm shell curve of Todd's ear. The other boy stops speech, cuts these words off with his mouth over Neil's mouth, pressing gently as if to say hush and yes, please at once.

And I shall be posting DPS icons sometime, hopefully this weekend.

Dead Poets Society: drabble!

2004-11-18T02:41:48Z

Yay! This bit is finally refined enough to be presentable. Though, also quite short. Hm. Oh well, that's okay, because there is more. Much more. Moo ha ha ha. :D

Title: Autumn
Fandom: Dead Poets Society
Rating: utterly G
Notes: Golden autumn, outside, at Welton. Neil and Todd. Purely gen, but you can read into it as pre-slashy if you'd like :)

Leaves were red, orange and gold, staining light and filtering sun down to the dead brown of the forest floor. The sun was about to set, listing towards the western horizon, across the lake. The glare off the water shone brightly like a path, shimmering, rippled by a cool fall breeze that sailed on to discover two boys and their books, leaning against an old oak. Pages rustled, hair was blown in whisps across a pale brow, leaves lifted, spiraled, and settled again over legs.

"Agh, I've lost my place!" An exclamation of dismay, accompanied by much flurrying of pages. "Fie on you, you foul beast, breath of wind!"

"We're on act three, part two; it's your line now. On page eighty-four," the unobtrusive one says, eyes cast down after briefly looking to see what the trouble could be (because it did not matter what the trouble was, a part of him insisted, it was what it could be, and with Neil, nothing is impossible).

"Are you sure?"

Todd blinks at him quizzically. "Yes."

"Positive?" Neil's look is intense, as though this is some very important test that Todd must not fail.

"Y- yes."

"If you insist. But only if you're certain. It would really be awful if you were wrong." Neil still has not found the page and has even closed the book, so intent and distracted is he with his apparent goal of flustering and confusing Todd.

"Wh- why?"

Neil is still very serious about this.

"Because," he says, "how am I to become a convincing Puck if I have an uncertain Oberon?"

Todd cracks a small smile and Neal's face is transformed as he grins and lets out peals of laughter. He flings a handful of leaves at Todd and yells, "'What hast thou done!'" and Todd's small smile cracks into a larger one, and then he is laughing and throwing leaves as well. Neil rolls away to dodge the papery missiles, then tackles Todd with another yell.

Their happiness rings out over the water; the sun sets.

___________

Neil's last dialogue bit is one of Oberon's lines from Act 3 part 2 of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Now that I look at this, it could definitely have better background explanation, but it's difficult to do, and I don't have time, so I'm throwing this tidbit out there anyways. Utterly careless of me, as a writer. But NaNo does that to a person, at least temporarily.

FIC: The Dog Days of Summer (Remus/Sirius, G)

2004-10-01T03:17:57Z

Cheesy title warning. Eheheheheh.

Title: The Dog Days of Summer
Fandom: HP
Rating: G
Notes: Remus/Sirius fluff, written for Sara (I think she's just now at addicted2ewan) in the rsficathon. The title says it all.

The days of summer are sweltering hot, from the time Remus wakes up until the time he falls asleep reading. Now, when he walks outside, he is assaulted by the heat, the air around him; he can feel it clogging up his pores, and there would be no use in swimming to cool off as his skin is already thoroughly soaked. The sun beats down, and Remus had never realized how true that was until this summer. Waves upon waves of pure heat and light, making him sweat, blinding him, and if he stands too long in it he gets dizzy. Inside isn't much better, though, as it is absolutely still and quiet while his parents are out working. In there, the heat is stifling, but if he sits outside under the shade of the porch, he can catch a refreshing breeze now and then.

So Remus spends his days on the porch, a book keeping him constant company, and sometimes a quill and a pad of paper from the nearby Muggle corner store. At first he isn't sure what to write in it – a journal? But nothing is happening to him these days. A novel? He has no ideas – but eventually he finds himself drafting letters to his friends. He only sends one or two, at first, but then the family owl goes lame, and he can't be bothered to go out and borrow another, and he forgets, until there are pages and pages of letters with no reason to send them. Besides, he suspects that James is already vacationing in Majorca, and Peter is off visiting relatives in who-knows-where for the entire summer. Sirius has already mentioned that all his owls are intercepted by his family, and any letters from that half-blood, Lupin would probably be confiscated at first sight. Sirius is furious about this, but Remus reasons that soon enough Sirius will be out on his own, or at least they will be at school together again.

Pads,

I'm stuck in this terrible heat wave with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. I've finished my schoolwork already, and I've read about twenty books, and it's not even halfway through July. I wish I could come visit you, though of course we both know that's a terrible idea – family is a tricky thing. I don't even think my parents would let me leave home, really, even if your family ~~weren't so~~ ~~didn't~~ weren't opposed to it.

I had a dream about you last night (don't smirk, I know what your dirty mind is thinking). It was actually during the full moon, except I was still me, and the two of us were playing Exploding Snap all night and you were speaking French at me. It was odd, because I knew what you were saying, even though I don't understand a word of French.

~~I wish~~ ~~I miss~~ ~~Sometimes~~ See you once school starts,

Moony

The night air is still hot and muggy, though more tolerable without the oppressive sun, and Remus is sitting in the yard in an old deck chair. The dead, dry lawn pricks his bare feet, and the air smells like hot earth and sun-baked grass. Remus is looking at the stars, trying to see how many he can identify. It isn't the best night for star-gazing, as the moon is barely starting to wane, and Remus is still feeling sore. He wishes the others had been there, and remembering this, he looks for the Dog Star. Sirius twinkles and winks at him, blue green; Remus closes his eyes, smiling wryly, and listens to the chirruping crickets.

It is another golden, sun-drenched day. Remus finds himself lying on the wooden floor of the porch, still in what is left of the morning shade. A book lies upside-down on his chest, opened to the place where he had given up on concentrating, and rises and falls as he breathes. It is a particularly thick, red-bound volume on the minutiae of various potions ingredients, and Remus hates it. He had opened it to study for his worst subject, but the heat fogs his brain, and makes it impossible to concentrate on anything. It is ironic, Remus thinks, that light moves at such a high speed, but heat makes everything sluggish.

He lets his eyes drift out of focus, seeming to gaze through the trees of the wood behind his house. The wooden boards of the deck feel smooth beneath his bare legs. Warm air lies heavy over him, like a blanket, and the fierce heat of the sun creeps over his skin inch by inch as the sun slowly sinks towards the horizon. He is nearly asleep, eyes half-lidded and dazzled with the afternoon sun, when he realizes a shadow has fallen over him, and the sun is blocked out. He isn't sure how long it's been there; if it has just appeared, or if he has been sleeping for hours and has only now woken to this occurrence.

Remus rouses himself to see what has invaded his yard and broken the sunbeams. Struggling to sit upright from his slouched position against the house, he blinks at this dark silhouette leaning over him in a world of relentless glare.

"Wha…" he mutters, trailing off as he recognizes the source of this disturbance.

"Hallo, Moony." Sirius' voice is oddly soft, and Remus catches a glimpse of some ineffable expression before it changes into a grin, and Sirius says, "You must be bored out of your mind."

"You have no idea."

"It's your lucky day, then, because I have brought the cure to your ailment. Want to see?"

Taking Sirius' proffered hand, he leans into the grasp and lets the other boy pull him to his feet.

"I can't believe they make things like this!"

"Neither can I! Whoo!"

The motorbike veers wildly in midair, Remus feels his stomach lurch, and he tries not to look at the ground he knows is far, far below. This is absolutely insane, he thinks, as the shiny black machine rumbles beneath him. He has learned to expect nothing less from Sirius Black.

The airs up here are like heaven after these stifling weeks, a jump into the icy Atlantic after being stranded in the Sahara. The wind buffets them this way and that, whipping Sirius’ hair into his face, filling his lungs with a cold shock. Remus feels rejuvenated, as though the lonely, monotonous months of summer had never been, and this was only a week or so since he had said goodbye to his friends at the Platform.

He has what could be called a death-grip on Sirius' waist, trying to keep from being flung off into the air. Sirius is laughing like a madman, so apparently he can still breathe; his back is warm against Remus' chest. Only now does he realize, as he breathes in Sirius' comforting scent, how much he has missed it these past weeks, along with the sound of Sirius' voice, his raucous laughter, the aura of his mere presence. Everything about him is familiar, after years of living in the same dorm, sitting by him at meals, being best friends. It has come to mean home to Remus, more than anything else does.

Gasping for breath, he yells as Sirius revs the engine and the motorbike shoots up higher into the electric blue sky, into the stratosphere, and, Remus imagines, even past the moon.

"Why me?" Remus asks Sirius one afternoon. They are sprawled on the floor of Remus' bedroom, flipping through books, reminiscing, and swatting the occasional fly.

"What?" Sirius doesn't look up from his book, his tone lazy and nonchalant, but Remus is slightly anxious about this.

"Why'd you come visit me? You could have visited James, or… well, not Peter, but – I mean," he mumbles somewhat apologetically, "I'm not much fun."

Sirius pauses. It is visible in his stillness, his sudden presence; his thoughts are focused on the question, and he is otherwise entirely unreadable. Suddenly the buzzing of flies is very loud to Remus.

"Do I need a reason?" Sirius finally asks, by way of reply. "Merlin, Moony. Stop being so insecure." This should not be a sufficient explanation, but, coming from Sirius, it just is. He turns his dark head to grin at Remus disarmingly. Remus is certainly disarmed, feeling something seize inside his chest. He resists the urge to grin ridiculously, but his eyes are laughing.

One night when darkness comes, it brings with it a thunderstorm of majestic proportions.

Remus lights a candle and sets it by the dark window. Its light flickers doubly, reflected in the glass, and the two boys are still as they listen to the relentless pounding of the rain on the roof, the rumble of thunder, and watch for flashes of lightning. A faint breeze drifts in through the crack that Remus has left, not shutting the window entirely so as to let in some of that cool, wet element he has been missing. Inhaling deeply, each of them savors it, soaking up the dampness into their lungs and their skin.

Sirius rests his chin on the sill, staring out into the night. The candle makes his skin glow and his eyes seem to dance with the flickering of the flame. Remus' bed sheet is wrapped around his otherwise bare shoulders; the other blankets are strewn around the room. The bedclothes had been dismantled long ago, as they only served to make one hotter during a heat wave.

"Isn't it brilliant?" he says, never removing his gaze from the window. Remus sits in the shadows toward the head of the bed, leaning against the wall.

"Mm."

Eventually the lightning grows more distant and the rumbles of thunder gradually fade away, until the only sounds are of their breathing and the spatter of rain. It seems to Remus that the hour is terribly late, but time is irrelevant during the summer holidays, and he does not feel like looking at the clock anyways. Sirius wriggles down to lay his head against Remus' knee, curling his legs up so they don't dangle off the bed. Everything in his manner suggests Padfoot – cozying up, burrowing into the sheets, nudging Remus with his head. It is a strange sensation; the warmth of Sirius suffusing his legs, a cool breeze on his arm and shoulders. Shivering, Remus closes the window.

Absently, he rests his hand on Sirius's head, and is nudged encouragingly. Remus proceeds to scritch behind Sirius' ears, smiling as he hears the other boy let out a contented, doggy sigh.

After a while, Remus stops, letting his hand rest where it lies, fingers threaded through Sirius' dark locks. He is about to lie down and fall asleep when he feels Sirius move next to him, removing Remus' hand from his head. Remus feels the warm puffs of Sirius' breath on his palm, the brush and press of lips. When Sirius lets go and holds his breath, Remus brushes back the hair that has fallen over Sirius' face. Sliding down from the wall, he curls around Sirius' warm body.

"Hey," he whispers close to Sirius' ear, wrapping an arm over and around his chest.

"Hey," Sirius breathes, burrowing deeper into Remus' embrace.

Remus falls asleep with a smile upon his lips.

FIC: Wonderland (Spider-man - Harry/Peter, PG)

2004-09-05T07:28:26Z

I feel on top of the world. Two fics in two days! Well, okay, so it's after midnight. But I think it counts, don't you? Anyways. SPIDER-MAN. I think I like this one even better than yesterday's H/D. ETA: Oh yeah, and this is the one with the Ender's Game reference. It snuck in there, I don't understand how.

Title: Wonderland
Fandom: Spider-man
Rating: PG
Notes: A dream, insanity, snakes and mirrors. Written, but alas too late, for the challenge over at spideyslash.
_________

All he can see is darkness and haze, and so Peter knows that this must be a dream. The sound of an ocean in the distance, and rain he knows is there but he can't feel. Heavy grey weighs down on him, muffling his senses, pressing in. Maybe, he thinks quietly (even his thoughts are dulled), it means he's being asphyxiated while he sleeps. He would wake up, but this is so quiet and peaceful, and he hasn't dreamt for weeks and weeks.

They say crazy people don't dream.

But Peter knows he's not crazy. He's made sure. He really can do these incredible things, Harry really is his best friend and Norman Osborn really is dead. So is Uncle Ben.

It's just, if Peter is really so sane, why doesn't he love MJ the way he knows he should?

And as though his thought calls her (and, considering this is his dream, it probably did), here she is now, coming towards him out of the grey. Droplets cling to her hair and her dress is soaked - it's the costume from her play, The Importance of Being Earnest. Peter believes he's done well enough at that.

MJ is looking right through him, anxiety and impatience stretched across her pretty face. Starting towards her, Peter wants to call out, but he has no idea of what he would say. As she comes closer, Peter can see that her lips are turning black and she has the outline of a spider tattooed on her arm.

"MJ?" he finally says. "Mary Jane?"

She turns towards him, barely focusing. "Who are you? I'm looking for Spider-man. Spider-man. Spider…"

Pale fingers raise themselves to her blackened lips, and she blinks, tuning Peter out again, rushing away.

"MJ! Where –"

She is already gone.

And he knows the answer to his question. It rings around him, whispering and attacking, concealed in fog.

Spider-man, Spider-man, Spider-man.

He wakes up with his fingers clenching and unclenching fistfuls of sheets, holding his pillow over his head so the sound of his alarm-clock is muffled in his ears.

And the dream repeats itself for a week.

This time, it doesn't stop with an alarm-clock. It keeps going, and the words keep jabbing at him, even crawling inside his own head despite the palms he fervently presses against his ears.

His vision is getting darker, he is choosing not to see, all he knows are those awful words, that awful name, and he thinks he really might just suffocate this time when there are strong hands on his shoulders.

"Peter, Peter Parker, Peter," a familiar voice says, and Peter looks up and unblocks his ears and he can see again because it is not just grey infinity, it's Harry, comforting Harry, his best friend in the whole world who saves him with his name.

"Yeah. That's me."

"Hey, Peter, check this out. You gotta see this, man. You need to see this."

Harry's voice is suddenly urgent; he grasps Peter's wrist and drags him away, striding purposefully but Peter can't imagine why. There's nothing to see in this awful fog. There's no way to tell where you're going.

Still, somehow they find themselves in the Osborn study, and just outside is the balcony and the entire city, Peter could swear because he knows it's there. There's a mirror before them, and he has visions of walking up to it and stepping right in, like Alice, through the looking-glass.

Instead, Peter peers in, because it's hazy and smudged, old and dirty, which is strange because he knows it really isn't.

"Look. Don't you see him?"

Peter squints a bit and tilts his head – and there it is, some phantasm in a mirror, himself and yet not himself. A sect of him, dressed in red and blue, eyeless, mouthless. Voiceless.

Spider-man Spider-man Spider-man.

The whispers are back, and escalating in volume as Peter stares at the image – his reflection? But, how could it be? – and his hand finds Harry's and seizes it, willing the voices to stop, stop it, shut up already. Peter, he thinks. Peter Parker. It is the only way he can hold them at bay.

But then the image changes. Just a twitch of his head and a blink of eyes, and then it is Doc Ock. Metal pincers snap at him and the Doc grins strangely – and the mirror flicks again, like a television, to Norman Osborn. Peter can hardly process this before it changes yet again. Old Uncle Ben. Harry. Peter himself, then MJ, the Green Goblin, flick flick flicker. He can't keep track until the hideous green maw appears and Harry moves suddenly next to him, as though lunging. The mirror shatters suddenly, but instead of the Goblin or even Norman Osborn there are fragments of blue and red scattered on the floor, around the knife, a gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

Peter feels a strange sort of relief.

Now instead of a mirror there is a black opening, cave, and nothing comes out – why should something come out?

(Snakes, something tells him. But why not spiders?)

And Peter sees Harry, who looks at him like he is either about to kill him or love him (snakes snakes snakes) and so he reaches up behind Harry's head to twine his fingers through sable curls. It is soft and as Peter brings ruddy lips down to meet his, kiss, he realizes that yes this is what happens next and the thought or the kiss makes him whole. And through that hole he steps alone, through darkness and blackest gloom, to find a simple mask, sort of African, leering green at him.

The first thing Harry notices when he steps into the room is that the balcony doors are open.

When he goes to investigate, the hardness and cracking of glass beneath his feet startles him and he looks up to see that awful consuming hole in the wall.

No, please, no no no. Not my father, not that demon, not the goblin, oh God not insanity, he thinks at first.

Then he remembers the open balcony doors, and decides that someone must have broken in. But who could have gotten up there in the first place?

He walks through the jagged frame of remaining glass, pocketing the letter-opener knife which is actually sharp enough to cut skin, easily. As something clicks inside his head, he thinks again, No. Please, no. No, God, not –

"Peter." It nearly shocks him because he was expecting a red and blue costume, or nobody at all if he had been lucky. Not tutoring, quiet, friendly Peter. The man and the superman are still distant in his mind, despite the recently acquired connection. He is angered all the more for this.

"Harry... Harry, I -"

Yes, that's Peter Parker, sure enough, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by those shelves of glowing green capsules. That mask is in his hands, the wreckage of the glider lies on the table behind him; he looks trapped, like a cornered animal. Harry can't stand the innocent, shocked expression on his face.

"What the hell do you... how dare – No, just shut up, Peter, shut up. Just –" Harry closes the distance with his long steps, but at the same time it feels like there's so much left between them. Grasping Peter's upper arms, his shoulders, shaking him like a rag doll.

"You – there is no excuse – you knew –"

"I'm s –"

"Don't even say it, damn you! You're not." Harry can hear his voice break, shattering like glass, as fragile as he's felt these days. "You're not..." Sobs shudder through his chest and burst out of him, wracking his wasted frame. The noises he makes aren't even human. He sounds like an animal. His hands are no longer gripping Peter desperately, instead Harry is hanging on to him, wrapping his arms around Peter's slim back, fiercely holding him. He isn't sure if it's that he needs to control Peter, or that he needs him never to leave. Maybe in the end it comes out to the same thing.

"I hate..." Oh God, he can't even finish his sentences and he's falling apart quick somebody catch him. "I h-"

"Don't, don't even say it, you bastard. You bastard. I – you know I – I love –"

Harry extracts himself, looks at Peter and he doesn’t know what the hell he's going to do. Fortunately (unfortunately?), Peter takes charge, and Harry feels his head being pulled down and his lips pressed against Peter's, and before he can say anything, can even register the thousands of things that have happened in these mere minutes, he is alone in the dark and glowing room.

The mask is in his hands and he can't look at it. He would leave the room except this seems impossible as well.

All he can see is darkness and haze, and so Harry knows that (oh, god) this must be reality.

FIC: For the Love of the Game (Harry/Draco, R-ish)

2004-09-04T05:01:58Z

Oh ho ho. This is so cool. I am at that point where I've just finished a fic and I feel on top of the world. Sorry it's late, taylor, but at least it's pretty good, right? Could use more polishing, but what the hell. Moo ha ha ha.

Title: For Love of the Game
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R to be safe. Smutty boysecks, foul mouths.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Apathy, hypocrisy, and Tarot cards.

____________

"What do they say, Ron?"

The other boy riffles through the book, blinking away drowsiness from the heavy air. Three cards lie face-up on the little table before him, and three cards are before Harry.

"Er, well, this bloke," he points to the Knight of Swords, "means either skill or bravery, or war and destruction. And that's your past."

"I hate it when it's this obscure."

"Yeah, really. And then that one," it is the middle card, "means you're on a journey."

"Huh."

"And this means..."

"Oh, my dear!"

Trelawney hovers over their table, peering with great anxiety at Harry's tarot cards.

"You have the Hanged Man!"

"She gets you every time, mate."

Parvati leans over and says, "Oooh!"

Lavender shivers and whispers, "Suspension, the card of the Dying God, self-sacrifice."

In divination, everything is always about death.

"You're going to die, Potter. Aren't you scared?" Malfoy corners him at the bottom of the stairs. Harry's almost glad that he told Ron and Hermione to go on ahead; he doesn't want Ron to care, he doesn't want Hermione to give him advice to do things he's going to do anyways.

"No. It's just the stupid hanged man." He doesn't even know why he responds. He should know better, right? Maybe it's just habit.

"Exactly. Self-sacrifice - you're such a fucking martyr. You know what else it means, Potter? Revision, being stuck in a dilemma. Self-denial. Do you believe in that divination shit?

"No," Harry lies.

"Well, you should."

"You wish I were him, don't you, Potter. That disgusting dirty mutt. Wish he was here instead of me." Harry glares and yanks fine blonde hair and scratches red lines down Malfoy's throat, but Malfoy just smirks and grips the other boy's thin shoulder harder, fingers digging in.

"You're sick and perverted, you know that, Potter? If they could find a body, you'd still be lusting after it."

Lies, all of them. Harry would like to say that, to shove those words down that throat, but he just doesn't. He's not sure he can.

He'd like to divine the lines on those palms, or read who Malfoy is by running calloused fingers through that slick blonde hair, finding bumps on his skull.

"Honestly, Potter. Do you expect to find anything out from those, other than the fact that Quidditch practice is a bitch?"

"I knew that, wanker."

"Then stop with the head thing, prat. I want you to pay attention to my other one. Move south."

Harry would like to find what it is that makes him the way he is. He's not sure if he'd destroy it or worship it; these habits are hard to break.

"Fuck," he says, and it's the only word he can think of. Sensation explodes within him, and there's no distinguishing between pleasure and pain, there's just something attacking that bundle of nerves and he's going to die, die even though he'd thought he was already dead. It's not good or bad, it's just raw feeling, and it is the most alive he has felt in days. "Fuck."

"You've got that right," Malfoy hisses in his ear as he slams into him again and again. "I'm going to screw you until you don’t know who you are or what your name is."

Harry would be grateful for that, but he knows it won’t happen. This is punishment, and punishment doesn’t bring good things.

What the hell do you think you're doing, is what Harry would like to say. He could be indignant, and disgusted, and push him away, except it’s far too late. Neither of them knows who instigated this, whatever the hell it is, but then again neither of them wants to be the one who is laughed at and grabbed again and humiliated.

Something tells Harry he has nothing to lose in saying it, saying something, but he doesn’t listen, because he’s still got everything to gain.

"Why me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter."

"Yes you do. Why me? Why aren't you victimizing someone else? Blaise? Or, or Seamus, Terry, Ernie - Ron even."

"Stop blithering."

"Why, then?"

Malfoy shoves him up against the wall, and uneven stones dig into his back painfully. "I love it when you get so angry and flustered. You're so fuckable then." He breathes hot down Harry's neck, biting, and oh god it burns, it burns. He tries shoving Malfoy off, but his arms feel weak and he doesn't know if he cares enough. There are bigger things to worry about.

Hermione catches him alone in the Room of Requirement, just after a DA meeting.

"Is anything wrong, Harry?"

She's noticing the bruises around his wrists, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowness of his voice.

"What, you mean other than Voldemort plotting to kill us all?"

"Harry, it's not that, it's just those –"

"I'm a little stressed right now, okay? That's all. And Quidditch. You know."

Harry brushes past her and out of the room, down the darkening stone hallways. Sometimes he wishes she didn't care so much. He doesn't want to answer those questions; he doesn't want the thing with Malfoy to be real, except sometimes it is the only real thing he has.

"Why do you even bother?"

"With what?"

"Me."

"I'll tell you."

Cold now, dark, his silhouette against the pale, lightening sky.

"You're easy power. Any minute, I could hand you over to the Dark Lord. The Killing Curse, Morsmordre, and it'd be chaos in Hogwarts, and a victory for me, and the Dark Lord."

Harry's head feels light, he's dizzy, he doesn't know what he's gotten himself into.

"What's stopping you?"

Malfoy's smirk is audible.

"My mother always says, play for the love of the game. It's not the goal," and the pale, naked figure bends down to pick up his wand, "it's the journey."

He points it directly between Harry's eyes.

"Except, now you know what I'm playing at."