The Scrap Byn

Homecoming - PG-13

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 03:17:37 GMT

Title: Homecoming
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, fluff, pre-slash
Warnings: Real-Person Fiction, language
Fandom: Fall Out Boy RPF
Pairing: Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump
Word Count: 340
Completed: Yes
Notes: References the Ativan incident.

The first time after Best Buy, Pete's terrified, and Patrick can tell.

It's been a week since Pete rejoined them, and Patrick could probably count on his fingers the number of times he's spoken to Pete. Patrick's in his bunk, all the way against the wall, half-asleep, when Pete climbs in, hesitantly.

Pete has never been hesitant about anything when it comes to Patrick.

Neither of them move for a long minute, Patrick still against the wall, his back to Pete, and Pete all the way on the edge of the bed.

"I don't—" Pete starts, quickly cutting himself off. "Patrick."

Patrick takes a deep breath and twists to face Pete properly. Pete keeps staring at the comforter, afraid to look up, and something twists in Patrick's gut. "Hey, Pete," he says softly. "Look at me."

Pete looks up because he's never been able to say no to Patrick. Pete looks lonelier than he ever has in the years Patrick has known him, and shit, he thinks, maybe they've both fucked this up. Patrick can see how scared Pete is that this is it, that he threw away the best fucking thing in his life—he knows this is what Pete's thinking because knowing Pete is his job, maybe his purpose in life.

He can't throw that away any more than Pete can take it away from him.

They don't talk, but they've never really needed to. Pete just knows Patrick's forgiven him and bursts out in a grin Patrick hadn't exactly noticed he'd missed until he saw it again. He can't help but smile back—he rarely can't, even when Pete is at his most obnoxious. Pete moves closer until he's practically on top of Patrick, curled up, warm, against his side, clinging to him.

They fall asleep like that.

Patrick wakes up before the sun rises, and finds Pete in the same exact place, in the same exact position. He doesn't move him; he just smiles and maybe holds him right back as he falls back asleep.

Inked - NC-17

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 02:53:48 GMT

Title: Inked
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: Real-Person Fiction, explicit homosexual sex
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco RPF
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross
Word Count: 736
Completed: Yes
Notes: Debatably the kinkiest thing I've written.

The pillow swallowed Brendon's gasp as cold metal touched the heated skin of his back despite the soothing heat of Ryan's hand beside it. Ryan hesitated, but Brendon shook his head, wiggling down the bed slightly, encouraging him to keep going—reminding him that he asked Ryan to do this.

He felt him adjust his stance, straddling Brendon's thighs, his hand still heavy, flat on the curve of his shoulder blade for balance. Brendon tried to relax into the mattress as Ryan settled comfortably above him.

Ryan's other hand began to move.

The pen dragged across his skin, catching on muscle and bone, fragmenting the marks Ryan was leaving. His hand dipped and swirled, looping, in Ryan's neat script, extravagant flourishes to decorate every letter.

Brendon's eyes were closed, relaxed, as the chill of drying ink and the scratch of the tip against sensitive skin sent goosebumps across the planes of his back. His hips squirmed against the sheets as Ryan crossed over his left shoulder blade.

"Stop," Ryan growled, pen lifting off of Brendon's skin, and Brendon did. Because he really didn't want Ryan to stop. He forced his breathing to even out, the rise and fall of his chest to be less erratic. Ryan made a satisfied noise, rubbing his hand against Brendon's side, and that nearly negated all of his efforts to control himself right there. The pen returned, though, and Brendon moaned into the pillow as he felt what had to be a series of lowercase L's, sharp singular lines, just shy of scraping against his spine.

Ryan's weight shifted forward, the pen, warm from Ryan's hand, lay horizontal, flat against Brendon's skin. Ryan's body pressed into his, his chest flush against Brendon's back, covering up his marks—the ink maybe even bleeding from Brendon to Ryan, imprinting a mirror-image, the perfect complement—and his hard cock rubbing between Brendon's cheeks, little puffs of breath ghosted against Brendon's neck as Ryan thrust ever-so-slightly. Brendon moaned at the thought that Ryan was getting off on this, too.

"You look so good like this," Ryan whispered against the thin skin behind Brendon's ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive bone of his jaw. Brendon gasped, shifting against him. "My words covering you, claiming you. Mine."

Brendon ground back against Ryan's cock, gasping, "Ryan, please," even though he had no idea what he was begging for. God, he felt good, all heat and bony weight covering Brendon completely.

"You like feeling it? Feeling me mark you? Wish you could see it. See the ink on your skin, my hand putting it there. Maybe next time. Maybe next time, it'll be somewhere everyone can see—so they know you're mine." He punctuated his claim with a bite to the back of Brendon's neck.

Brendon was thrusting against the sheets now, so turned on by Ryan and by his words, both on his back and in his ear. He was babbling something, barely aware, but he knew Ryan's name left his lips, soaked in desire. "Ryan, Ryan, oh god—fuck, Ryan—please, Ryan, yes, make me yours."

Ryan lifted up—Brendon let out a whine—but his weight remained on Brendon's thighs. The pen once more started moving, making the same motions over and over, repeating the same words. Brendon tried to concentrate and make out what he was writing, just like those childhood games of tracing words on each other, one letter at a time.

He gasped loudly as he realized he was feeling Ryan's signature, "Ryan Ross Ryan Ross Ryan Ross" across his back. "Yes," Brendon groaned into the pillow. The pen dropped and he heard the soft sound of a zipper, then the scritch of skin on skin, Ryan's harsh breath. "Yeah," Brendon encouraged, his voice thick with arousal and anticipation. "Fuck yeah, come on, Ryan, come on me. Make me yours."

With a loud groan, Ryan came, hot spurts of come hitting Brendon's back, covering skin Brendon knew was painted with ink. Brendon's hips were frantically sliding against the mattress, desperate for release. Ryan leaned down again, spreading sticky come between their bodies, pinning Brendon's hips. Ryan buried his face in Brendon's neck, just breathing, until a whine built in Brendon's throat. He was almost there; his hips made small motions against the sheets. Ryan grunted, "Mine," and bit into the juncture of Brendon's neck and shoulder—hard—leaving a mark for everyone to see.

Brendon came with a shout of Ryan's name; he was his.

Far From Ordinary - PG-13

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 18:39:09 GMT

Title: Far From Ordinary
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff, romance
Warnings: Real-Person Fiction, language
Fandom: American Idol Season 7 RPF
Pairing: David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 1068
Completed: Yes
Notes: Beta'd by the lovely jehane18; all remaining errors are my own. I meant to post this up yesterday, but it was my birthday and my best friend's graduation, so it was rather hectic!

The grass was soft, but David smiled as he watched Cook shake out the ancient red and white checkered blanket he had insisted on bringing with them. "It's a picnic! What's a picnic without a picnic blanket?" he'd argued.

David humored him, smiling as he looked on while Cook smoothed out the corners of the blanket. He stood up and admired his own work before grandly gesturing to David to take a seat. David shook his head, giggling at the antics of the older man as he sat down on a corner of the blanket. Cook set the picnic basket—and really, who actually has a picnic basket?—in the center of the blanket before settling in next to David.

David turned to Cook, studying his expression. "Why are you doing all this?"

Cook looked away, pulling the sandwiches and a bottle of red wine from the basket. "Do I need a reason?"

David frowned. "No, I just...it's not like it's our anniversary." There was no question in his voice; David had memorized all the important dates in his and Cook's relationship, and some of the not-so-important dates, like when they went on their second date, or the first time they played Scrabble together. Today was just an ordinary day.

"I can't do something spontaneous for my boyfriend?" he said, sounding extra pathetic as he wrapped his arms around David's shoulders.

David smiled and pressed a light kiss to the top of Cook's head, the other man's face pressed into his shoulder. "Of course you can."

Cook sharply pulled away, grin on his face. "Good!" he barked, rubbing his hands together. He reached into the basket again and pulled out two wine glasses. "Dig in," he said, gesturing to the sandwich set before David.

David was caught up in Cook's enthusiasm, grinning as he bit into his sandwich. Cook poured the wine, holding one glass out to David. David took it, swallowing his mouthful.

He immediately moved to pull the glass up to his lips, but Cook put his hand on David's arm, stopping him before the glass reached his mouth. "Wait." David looked at him questioningly. "A toast," Cook said.

David narrowed his eyes. "You're acting weird."

Cook's smile dimmed. "It's just a toast, Arch." He pointed with his free hand to his glass, still hovering in his hand in the air between them. David still looked confused, but he raised his glass. Cook's smile returned. "To 3 years, 4 months, and 1 week," he said, tilting his glass toward David's. Confused, David clinked the glasses and took a sip. Cook placed his hand on David's. David's eyes snapped to Cook's. "I love you," Cook said.

David smiled. "I love you, too." He leaned in and kissed Cook, gently brushing his lips across the other man's before turning it into a deeper, more passionate kiss, drawing a surprised moan from the other man as he parted his lips with his tongue. When he pulled away, he looked up at Cook through his lashes, smiling as the other man sighed in disappointment. "Now, are you going to tell me what we're doing out here?" David asked.

Cook chuckled. "I can't put anything past you, can I?"

David smiled and shrugged. "Maybe I just know you too well."

Cook's smile softened, but there was something warm and tender in his eyes. "Maybe you do." David felt as though there was more to what Cook was saying, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He smiled, somewhat puzzled. "Okay, so, I have a confession to make." David looked at him expectantly, accepting that Cook had to make a big deal out of whatever this was. "I did arrange this whole date for a reason."

"Well I figured that out," David said with a laugh.

Cook stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, and suddenly his expression turned panicked. David's brow furrowed as Cook turned frantic, searching the pockets of his jeans as well as every fold in the blanket, muttering, "Oh no, no no no, where is it? Shit."

Just then, something suddenly reflected the sunlight so that David was nearly blinded. He shifted his head to get a better look at it around the wine glass. It was a ring, sitting on the blanket just behind his glass. He picked it up. It was a simple gold band. It was—David almost dropped it in realization. This was a ring.

"Um," he said. Or tried to. His voice wasn't up to cooperating.

Cook stopped shaking the picnic basket out over the blanket as he looked over to David who still held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it in shock. "Oh," he replied. He swallowed. His arm reached back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um. I was, uh, that is, um." He took a deep breath. "I had this whole spiel set up in my head, rehearsed and everything. Oscar-worthy, I assure you. But uh, pretty much it boils down to, um. Arch—David," he stressed, drawing David's attention up to his face. "Will you marry me?" Cook's voice wavered, unsure and just a little embarrassed as he tried to salvage what he had likely planned to be the Perfect Proposal.

David alternated between staring at the ring and at Cook's face for just a second too long, and Cook's expression turned distraught for a second before he opened his mouth to spout out damage control.

David cut him off. "Cook, I love you." Cook blinked and snapped his mouth shut, unsure where this was going, and whether or not he would like it. David reached out and put his hand on Cook's cheek. "And I want to spend my life with you." A smile broke out on David's face, and one sprouted on Cook's to match. David began nodding earnestly. "Yes, yes, the answer's yes."

The last few words were lost against the older man's lips.

When they surfaced for air an irritatingly short period of time later, David couldn't hold back his giggle. "What?" Cook asked, slipping the ring onto David's finger, admiring how it looked against his skin.

"You did all this to propose to me?"

"I wanted to make the day special," Cook defended.

David smiled and fell into the arms of his boyfr—fiancé. "It is special." He looked up and their lips met again, David's ring-clad hand coming up to cup Cook's face.

3 Ficly Ficlets

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 08:36:37 GMT

(Cross-posted from my blog, so if it sounds familiar, that's probably why.)

I missed the Ficlets days, not having discovered it until news came about that it was being shut down with no hope of exchanging hands. Bad move, AOL, but that's another grumble for another day. By then, it was too late for me to join in on the fun, so when I heard that a replacement service was starting up, I jumped right on that bandwagon.

Just the other day, an e-mail graced my inbox, proclaiming the opening of Ficly. I quickly jumped in and made myself an account, even though I had no idea what I was going to write. But I've been writing a lot lately (mostly Cookleta fic), actually, and when I haven't been, I've had ideas. It's kind of amazing, to put it lightly. So after I sign up, I head downstairs for a dried-mango run (blame David Archuleta and his obsession with mangoes) and the first line pops into my head. And then the second. And once I'm back upstairs, I'm typing as quickly as I've ever typed with one hand to try to capture my thoughts before they leak out of my head like water in a wicker basket. At the end of all that, I have something a bit short of 200 words that, if it weren't for the character limit, I could expand, and that I am super proud of:

Hollywood's Full of Girls Like You - PG (Gay/lesbian romance, angst)

I've since written two others, as well, and I hope to keep productivity up!

Upon a Star - PG (Romance, fluff)
The Other Half - PG (Action, drama)

Legality - NC-17

Thu, 28 May 2009 03:33:52 GMT

Title: Legality
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, romance
Warnings: Explicit homosexual sex, Real-Person Fiction
Fandom: American Idol Season 7 RPF
Pairing: David Cook/David Archuleta
Word Count: 2903
Completed: Yes
Notes: Written for storylandqueen's 18th birthday.

It's 11:58 PM on December 27, 2008, and David Archuleta is at your door.

"What are you doing here?" you ask with a smile on your face. It's been a while since you've seen him, and you've missed him more than you're willing to admit. Your eyes travel up and down his body, admiring how he's grown in the past few months, and then it hits you.

In one minute and (you check your watch) twenty-six seconds, he is going to be 18. Oh god. Your heart's racing already, and he hasn't even said "hello" yet.

He kind of stands there, helpless expression on his face as he fishes around for something to say before beaming right back at you and asking if he can come in. Like you're going to say no. You move aside to let him in, and the second the door is closed behind him, you find yourself shoved up against it by a body that has far more strength than you have credited it with.

His lips press insistent and hot against yours. You groan into the kiss and cry out when he thrusts his hips against yours, more eager than you'd ever seen him, even the last time you'd been together.

You'd refused him when his hands had reached for your belt buckle, and fuck if it hadn't taken every last bit of your willpower to do it. God, you'd done just about everything possible above the belt. Hell, you'd nearly come in your pants more times than you cared to think about because of Archie's wandering (and very underaged) hands. He hadn't seemed to care all that much about his too-far-off birthday, and you knew it was because he knew that this was right—that *you* were right—but for some reason, you did care. And it was more than just the prospect of jail-time and a scandal looming on the horizon, it was because this was David Archuleta—17-year-old David Archuleta—and you weren't about to actively shed him of that innocence that had drawn you to him in the first place.

But now, oh god, now those hands slipping past your waistband were legal. Well, in about ten seconds they would be, and "Oh god, is it midnight yet?" you gasp out against his ear before sinking your teeth into the lobe.

He groans and whimpers before responding, "Close enough."

Your cell phone alarm goes off somewhere, a single chime you'd set to remind yourself to call and wish him a happy birthday. You never expected him to fucking show up at your door, but now that it's final-fucking-ly happening, your original plan feels kind of foolish. You pull away the fraction of space given between Archie and the door and press gently against his shoulders. He takes a reluctant step back and looks at you with dark eyes, his chest heaving slightly. "Happy birthday," you say huskily before grabbing his wrist and pushing past him, pulling him with you. You've never been so happy about the crappy feng shui in your house before now, you think, running up the stairs right in front of the door.

You tumble in a mass of limbs onto your bed, Archie landing on top of you, lips attached to your neck and oh my god, why aren't you naked yet? The answer comes to you when you try to move enough to pull your shirt over your head, and Archie just doesn't let up. "Arch? Arch—oh god," you whimper as he does something that goes straight to your cock, still uncomfortably trapped in your jeans. "Wait a minute."

Archie makes a noise in frustration, and you understand—you *really* do. "I've waited like, nine months."

You chuckle as you gently push him off you. "And you can wait another ten seconds for me to pull my shirt off." His eyes widen as he nods, and it's almost funny except for the part where it's really hot how he licks his lips and doesn't take his eyes off of you while you pull your t-shirt over your head. There are two sudden clunks and then he's straddling your thighs, lips on your chest. You realize that he's kicked his shoes off, and are thankful that you pad around the house barefoot because you're not quite sure that you could handle shoes right now. The shirt was effort enough.

You shove your hips up, both you and he groaning at the friction, and use the leverage to roll him over onto his back, dislodging his lips from your nipple (which really is a disappointment) for the time being. You dip your head down and cover his lips with yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth before you can even think about deepening the kiss. If there's one thing the last nine or so months had taught you, it was that David Archuleta *loved* to make out.

You shift your weight back onto your hips as you raise your arms to work the buttons to Archie's shirt. There seem to be more than is logically possible, and your fingers aren't working as well as they usually do. You pull away slightly to observe your handiwork, and Archie folds his legs around the backs of your thighs, keeping you firmly where you are. "'m not going anywhere," you tell him, but he doesn't let up. You're probably staring and you've seen it before, but god, you couldn't help but admire the smooth skin of his chest, the flatness of his stomach. Your eyes trail up from the new dusting of chest hair (and isn't that a strange thought, Archie with chest hair?) peeking out from beneath the shirt where it's still buttoned closed, and you can't hold back your smile as he flushes under your gaze.

You finish off the buttons of his shirt (how were there still four fastened when it felt like you'd blindly undone twelve?) and as he struggles to pull his arms out of it, you bend down again, lips against the heat of his chest, whispering comfort and encouragement into his skin. He gasps when you swipe your tongue over a nipple, and you can feel his fingers in your hair. You smirk to yourself and scrape your teeth lightly over the nub, and he cries out, his legs tightening as he tries to thrust his hips. "Oh my gosh, Cook, come on," he says, and you look up to find desperation and desire and determination and at least one thing that definitely doesn't start with a D in his dark eyes. "Please," he says, and god, okay, so that does it for you, and suddenly you're scrabbling at his fly as his hands find yours and soon enough, both of your pants are undone and—oh, jesus, he's *stroking* you, and your legs just give out as you move into it.

And suddenly it's almost too much, and you reach down to stop his hand because, god, this is *not* ending before it even begins and that's final, you tell yourself. "Stop, oh god, Archie, stop." He doesn't question you, and you're pretty sure he knows what you had planned for this, or maybe he was the one with the plan—either way; you weren't going to argue over credit.

His hand pulls away and you almost voice your disappointment before you remember that this was your idea. You sigh, nonetheless, and fall into his lips again, and oh god, his fucking toes were running up and down your leg and you don't know how that feels so good except that every switch on every nerve in your body has been switched to 'Pleasure'.

You kiss down the line of his chin and nibble at his jawline, reveling in the hitches you hear in his breath. "What do you want?" you whisper. "We'll do whatever you want, just tell me."

You admit that there is a part of you that loves the self-conscious stammering that results, because it's so undeniably Archie. Despite how much he's grown, how much he's changed, he's still the David Archuleta you know and love, and it makes you smile. "I want, I mean, y'know, like, I want to do this, y'know, completely. I want to be yours, completely," he finally says, eyes glued to your chest, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say that he was afraid you'd refuse him.

Quite the contrary, you think, when the words finally sink in. Your hips twitch a little against his at the thought of it. "Oh god, are you sure?" He nods, and you're already pulling at his and your pants, hoping you can hold off long enough to make it good. But you know it will be good because this is *Archie* and you will make sure that it's good for him because, oh god, it's his first time, not just the first time between the two of you, and he came to you because he loves you and oh god, it's almost too much to process.

It takes a considerable amount of effort, but soon enough you're both naked, on your bed, and oh god, Archie is under you, moaning and writhing as you stroke him, looking like he's fallen out of one of your fantasies. "Cook, now, please," he says, begging, and god, you're not going to analyze your reaction to that.

You reach over to the nightstand drawer and pull out lube and condoms. You look to him, expecting a reaction, but the only thing you see in his eyes is love and trust and lust. The click of the lube is loud, and you both jump when you flip the cap up. For a second, you wonder if you've broken the spell, if he's going to change his mind, and you hope he doesn't because *god* do you want this. "Are you sure?" you ask again, because there's no fucking way you're doing this if he thinks he's *got* to or something.

"Oh my gosh, yes, Cook, I'm sure. I love you and I trust you, now *please*!" You weren't expecting the outburst, but it fills you with an overwhelming warmth that has nothing to do with lust, and you lean down to kiss him with everything you've got.

"I love you, too," you say, pulling away so you can spread the lube on your fingers. You press kisses all down his torso, from his lips to his cock, spreading his legs as you take him in your mouth, tracing your fingers down further, and gently pressing one inside. You feel his body tense, but it only lasts a moment before he relaxes as you flick your tongue over the head of his cock. You move your finger slowly, giving him time to adjust, but you can feel the heat of his body and the tightness, and part of you wants to rush this, but you know that that's not how this is going to work. You wait until he starts moving into your motions before adding another finger. He makes a noise, and you pause, pulling your mouth away to look at him in concern.

"No, don-don't stop," he stutters out. "Just...give me a second." And you do, waiting for a moment until you feel and see him relax. He nods and you start to move again, this time searching. He cries out and bucks against you, and you know you've found his prostate. You're watching his face, and oh god, he's gorgeous like this, eyes squeezed shut, hair all askew, head thrown back, baring his neck.

"Oh god, Archie," you can't help but groan, moving up to scrape your teeth against the exposed skin of his neck.

"Cook," he moans, grasping the back of your neck, working his fingers into your hair. You're still moving your fingers inside him, and you slide in a third while he bites at your neck, muttering, “Oh yes, yes” against your skin. You angle your fingers to brush his prostate on every motion, and he moans, long and deep, breath coming quickly. “Cook,” he gasps, and you know he's ready, so close his legs are trembling. You give one last thrust with your fingers, and reluctantly slide them out. He whimpers at the loss, and props himself up on his elbows, watching you as you slide the condom on. You reach for the lube, but his hand grabs your wrist. “Let me?” he asks, and your eyes widen even as you nod. Your eyes slide shut at the feel of his hand on you, and you can't resist the urge to thrust into it. His grip tightens and you moan before physically removing his hand, giving him a look. He looks up at you through dark lashes, smirk on his lips, and fuck that is a sexy look on him.

You look at him, staring a little, because jesus, this is the last time you'll see him as a virgin, and you think that maybe this will change him, somehow. You have to ask one more time. “Are you-”

“Cook! If you ask me if I'm sure one more time, I'm going to put a stop to this now,” he says, but you can tell he's so far into it that his threat is an empty one.

You kiss him again, laying him down flat on the bed as you settle between his legs. He mumbles something against your lips that you're pretty sure is Archie-speak for “Get on with it.” You reach down and guide yourself as you slowly press into him, watching him the whole time. He winces a bit, at first, so you slow down, ease a little of the pressure off, but christ. You bite your lip and grip the sheets in your hands as you fight the sheer *need* to thrust into him. In between deep breaths, you say, “Talk to me, Arch.”

“It kind of hurts,” he says through clenched teeth, and you nod because you remember your first time. You move your hand reassuringly to his shoulder, rubbing his skin in what you hope is a comforting manner.

A few moments later—though it certainly felt like several hours, to you—he gives you the okay, and you slide in further, still going at an agonizingly slow pace so as to keep from hurting him further. And then you're in, completely, and god, he's *yours*. He's looking up at you with these darkened eyes and the love there just hits you in the chest. You dip your head down and rest your forehead on his chest, kissing just above his heart, because now he's yours, body and soul. “I love you,” you say, looking at him with damp eyes. Archie smiles up at you, saying the words back, and oh god, he moves his hips and you have *got* to fucking move. “Arch?”

He closes his eyes, thrusting his hips against yours, head tipping back as he moans. It's pretty much the hottest fucking thing you've ever seen in your life, and you finally, *finally* start moving against him. You bite out an expletive, and Archie reaches up with a leg and kicks you. You bark out a laugh because only David Archuleta could berate you for swearing during sex. Then he thrusts his hips up against you and your laugh fades into a moan. You move together, gasping and moaning desperately, hands everywhere at once.

Fuck, you're close. Too close. You moan Archie's name and reach down, grasping his erection and stroking it how you know you like, hard and fast, holding nothing back. He cries out, gasping, “Too much.” He reaches down, and you let him adjust your grip until he's pumping his hips back and forth, between your hand and your cock, completely lost to the pleasure, and that just does it for you; with one sharp, uncontrolled thrust, you're coming. The world whites out and all you can hear is Archie's yell as your hand tightens on his cock, his come hot and sticky on your hand as you manage to keep stroking him through it.

When the world comes back to you, you find yourself collapsed on Archie's chest, both of you breathing heavily, your hand still around his cock. You gently extricate your hand and lift yourself off of his chest. You're going soft inside him, and you prepare to pull out when he grabs your arm. “Wait.” You look at him inquisitively. He blushes as he stammers out, “I-I like how you feel. Inside me.” And it's enough to get you wishing that you were his age again because you *know* you can't get hard again that fast, but god, you want to. Instead you just nod and carefully lay back down on his chest, listening to his heart beat beneath your ear.

“Happy birthday,” you tell him again.

“Yeah,” he says, ubiquitous smile beaming down at your face. “It was.”

It's a serious moment, and you almost hate to ruin it, so you press another kiss to his chest before pulling away and pulling out. “Round one goes to Archuleta,” you say, grinning down at his shocked face. “Let's see to round two, shall we?”

And he surprises you by rolling you over onto your back, still steadily straddling your hips. “Yeah.”

Random Behind-The-Scenes Fact: This was originally in Archie's point of view and the first line, which, for some reason unbeknownst to me, cracked me right up, was "It's 11:58 PM on December 27, 2008, and David Cook is at your door. What?"

Edited at 3:55 AM on 6/1/09 for minor typographical errors because I start writing in Notepad.

Aftermath - PG

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 23:58:12 GMT

Title: Aftermath
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Spoilers for 3.11, language
Fandom: Supernatural
Word Count: 179
Completed: Yes
Notes: Actually unsure if I wanted to call this finished, but I think it works as is.

Dean didn't get it. He didn't understand--at least not in the way that Sam did--the dangers that lurked around every corner. He didn't flinch whenever he saw a barking dog, or a razor, or an electrical outlet, an old man driving a car, a completely innocuous flight of stairs...Dean saw the objects for what they really were. Sam saw Dean's death in every one of them.

Sam would be the first to admit that he was being paranoid. That made no difference. He had seen every possible way for his brother to die--or at least 102 of them. Everything from being shot to having a ceiling mirror fall on him to managing to choke himself with his own damn amulet.

But Dean knew nothing of it. Life was just as it had always been. For Sam, he had lived three months watching Dean die every day, and then six more without Dean by his side. Every day, Sam had to remind himself that Dean was okay. That it was January again. That it wasn't just another god damn Tuesday.

He Knows - PG

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 23:35:15 GMT

Title: He Knows
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Spoilers for 1.10, pre-slash
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 408
Completed: Yes
Notes: Thanks to glistengirli for looking this over even though it's not her fandom.

Every time his father has another sorcerer executed, Arthur dreams it's Merlin's head on the chopping block. He doesn't need to wonder what this means; he knows.

He works it out shortly before Merlin leaves for Ealdor; he almost expects a confession to be among his goodbyes. When it doesn't come, he follows him, not bearing to let it be the last time he'd see the other boy, knowing that Merlin was going to his death.

Once there, he presses--he almost begs--Merlin to tell him the truth--to tell him what he really is...who he really is. He waits through Will's choked-off confession--lies--for Merlin to say something--anything. When he says nothing, Arthur clenches his jaw and leaves them to say their lovers' goodbyes.

He's not blind.

By the funeral, he is livid. When he says, "You know how dangerous magic is," he doesn't mean for Camelot or for himself, but for Merlin. He sees his servant's--his friend's--head on a chopping block in a blinding flash of memory. He says, "You shouldn't have kept this from me, Merlin," and he knows he's not just talking about Will. He fights the urge to add, "You shouldn't continue keeping it from me."

Merlin doesn't speak to him on the way back to Camelot.

Gwen and Morgana see it as grief, but Arthur can see it for what it really is; they don't need to know. They don't need to know that Merlin is blaming himself for Will's death; they don't need to know that Merlin is the one risking his life every second of every day that he remains with Arthur; they don't need to know that Merlin probably wants to have a go at Arthur for a misunderstanding he doesn't even know they're having. Most of all, they don't need to know that he should be returning to Camelot in chains or not at all.

After they return to Camelot, Merlin is a better servant than ever, but he makes for lousy company. Arthur hadn't realized just how dependent he had become on having Merlin as his friend. He did realize just how much this realization scared him.

He thinks about saying something, broaching the subject, but he doesn't. He deals silently with his dreams and maybe his gaze lingers on Merlin for a moment too long after those nights, but afterward, he sleeps well knowing that he would gladly risk his crown for his friend than see another sorcerer dead.

Fame - G

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 23:12:14 GMT

Title: Fame
Rating: G
Genre: Poetry
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 73
Completed: Yes
Notes: Written on a burst of inspiration when I should have been writing a paper.

I don't ever want
to see my name in lights
or on a list of
well-known
artists of my time.

Fame is not the ends
to my means
of wordcraft;
my purpose is
but to tell

the story
which has chosen me,
of all vessels,
to tell it
to the world.

I don't ever want
to see my name in lights--
for fame ruins art
and art
is what I live to do.

Congress: Definition 5 - NC-17

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 23:00:21 GMT

Title: Congress: Definition 5
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: Explicit homosexual sex
Fandom: 1776
Pairing: John Adams/Thomas Jefferson
Word Count: 400
Completed: Yes
Notes: Written for the prompt "srs biznes" for Porn Battle VII.

"This is serious business, Jefferson!" Adams shouts, his voice as shrill as ever. "If all you're going to be doing up here is twiddling about with your fiddle--"

"Violin," Jefferson calmly corrects.

"Yes, that. The point is, you've had a week, damn it."

Challenged, Jefferson rises to his full height. His blood thrums beneath his skin as he looks down at Adams, Adams staring up at him as if they were eye to eye. "And what are you going to do about it?" he drawls.

Adams gives him a fierce look, and for a second, Jefferson thinks he's actually going to hit him. Then a hand closes on his collar and pulls him down--and it is a sizable distance--until his lips mash almost painfully against Adams'. Another hand comes up behind his head, wrapping around his ponytail, pulling at the strands. He groans into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Adams' smaller frame. With his free hand, he pulls at the fastenings of the other man's trousers and reaches inside to grip him.

Adams gasps, pulling away from the kiss. "Good god, Jefferson, your hands are enormous."

"For the love of God, John, stop talking for once," Jefferson growls. He is surprised when Adams complies.

It doesn't take long for Adams to come; it has been a long time since either man had been with his wife, and fuses are short. He exhales a sharp sound, and Jefferson is grateful that he has the good sense to reciprocate, scrabbling at Jefferson's own trousers.

He closes his eyes at the feel of a hand not his own on him, and he rests his forehead on the top of Adams' head, their breaths mingling as Adams strokes him to completion. Jefferson comes as silently as he does anything, and after, he pulls Adams in for a kiss, drawing him toward the bed where he pulls the other man down on top of him, collapsing from the exertion.

"So this is what goes on between the members of Congress, behind my back."

Adams gives a small chuckle that might be coupled with a shudder at the mental image. "If so, not so often with me. I am obnoxious and disliked."

"Are you now?"

Adams gives him a look. "Get to work," he says sternly, collecting himself. Jefferson just wants to lie there, sated, but Adams is right; there is work to be done.

Congress: Definition 5

Proposal - G

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 02:20:13 GMT

Title: Proposal
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Pre-slash, het, spoilers for 5.16
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney, Rodney/Jennifer
Word Count: 178
Completed: Yes
Notes: Because the situation at the end of season 5 leaves much room for angst, and I am still an angst whore.

"I think I'm going to ask Jennifer to marry me," Rodney said suddenly. John almost dropped his beer off the side of the pier. "I mean, we've been dating for a while and..." Rodney trailed off.

There was a long pause.

"Wow. Are you sure?" John asked. "Because last time you proposed, it didn't end so well."

Rodney made a dismissive motion with his hand. "The reason Katie and I didn't work out was that she wanted a kinder, gentler Rodney McKay who doesn't exist. I'm pretty sure Jennifer's seen enough of the real me, and hey, we're still dating!"

John gave him a long look before finally saying, "Well, if you're sure...good luck, buddy." He gave him a lofty pat on the back, his voice tight. He cleared his throat as he rose to his feet. Rodney's head tilted up to meet John's, his expression confused. "I'm gonna go for a run," he said shortly.

"Oh," Rodney said, his voice strangely high. "Yeah, no, of course."

John ran off and Rodney sat there for a long time.

Wake Up Call - NC-17

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 06:06:25 GMT

Title: Wake Up Call
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, drama
Warnings: Implied slash, explicit heterosexual sex, implied threesome
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Implied Jack/Ianto, Jack/Gwen, Ianto/Gwen, implied Jack/Ianto/Gwen
Word Count: 280
Completed: Yes
Notes: My first heterosexual sex fic in...well, just about ever; all my NC-17 het has been original, so this is almost new territory for me! Inspired by the song Wake Up Call by Maroon 5.

When Ianto caught Gwen in bed—in his own bed—with Jack, he expected to be furious. He'd expected to be hurt. Instead there was this feeling of resignation. Like it was bound to happen. He was mostly embarrassed, to be honest. He'd turned around and left the room as soon as he'd gotten over the shock, but, as expected, Gwen came rushing out behind him. "Ianto."

Ianto cringed. He turned, and it was only when he saw that she was wearing Jack's light blue shirt—Ianto's particular favorite of Jack's—that he grabbed Gwen by the wrists and slammed her up against the nearest wall, forcefully pulling the shirt off her, taking her mouth fiercely with his, snarling into the kiss.

Somehow his anger had channeled into something else, and the shirt was forgotten, on the floor, and he had Gwen against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist and his cock inside her. It wasn't long before they were both moaning into each other's skin, Gwen whimpering the occasional apology, and Ianto growling "Mine, he's mine" against her mouth. Gwen shuddered against Ianto, who shortly after came inside her with one last fierce thrust, expending the last of his rage.

Before he had the chance to be horrified, he heard Jack's voice behind them, "If you wanted to share, all you had to do was ask." Ianto wasn't sure whether that was directed toward Gwen or himself; frankly he didn't care. He wanted Jack. Maybe he could share, he thought, finally acknowledging what had transpired between him and Gwen just moments before. He grasped her hand, and pulled her along with him into the bedroom, after Jack.

Untitled - G

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 04:29:41 GMT

Oh dear. It's been since Christmas that I've updated.

Title: Untitled
Rating: G
Genre: Romance, drabble, deathfic
Warnings: Slash, character death(s)
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 100
Completed: Yes
Notes: A depressy, non-spoilery, character-deathy Torchwood(y) drabble. Regrettably inspired by the residual feelings of the death of a friend; I dedicate this to Justin's memory.

Ianto's death wasn't sudden; nor did it come too soon, like the others' had. It was the cancer that got him in the end. He'd had the opportunity that none of the others had: to live, to love, to grow old before Jack's eyes, and not once did he stray from his Captain. Until now, at his deathbed, off to the one place Jack could never hope to follow. Jack sat beside the hospital bed, trying to think of something—anything—to say that could sum up his time with Ianto. He pressed a kiss beside his ear. "I'm sorry."

Mistletoe - PG

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 17:58:32 GMT

Title: Mistletoe
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Warnings: Fluff, slash, spoilers for season 2
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Word Count: 318
Completed: Yes
Notes: Wrote it around 5 AM, just typed it. As all I put up, unbeta'd, sans my own looking-over. My first completed Heroes fic, just in time for the holidays.

Mohinder and Matt crossed paths at the kitchen doorway. This was not an unusual occurrence; they did share a living space, after all. What was unusual, though, was Molly shouting out, “Wait!” as they went to continue on their paths. They both looked to her simultaneously. She simply pointed to the top of the door frame, where a small branch of mistletoe hung above their heads. They both tilted their heads up. They each gave a nearly imperceptible gasp at the realization.

Matt had nearly forgotten that it was there. Molly had insisted on hanging the plant one afternoon after her class had discussed holiday traditions, and handed out small sprigs of the plant. Matt, of all people, should have remembered; he was the one who had put it up.

Mohinder gave a small, embarrassed smile, and Matt couldn't really tell, but he suspected that the other man was blushing. He wouldn't be surprised; he could feel his own cheeks flush. “Well?” Molly insisted. Deciding to satisfy the girl, Matt cupped the back of Mohinder's head, feeling the curls wrap around his fingers slightly. Without giving any further warning, Matt tilted his head and gently brought his lips to Mohinder's.

There was softness and, for a while, stillness and surprise, but the stillness ebbed away slowly with the shock, and was replaced by movement, and response, and an arm around Matt's waist. So involved with each other, they missed Molly's self-satisfied grin as she walked away. The kiss lasted a few moments more, then they parted. Matt's hand moved to Mohinder's cheek in a caress, and he was certain he felt Mohinder gently squeeze his waist.

They slowly melted away from each other and continued with their separate errands without a word.

It was only due to the distraction of the lingering feeling of Mohinder on his lips that Matt picked up on a stray thought of Mohinder's. I do hope they pay that teacher well.

NaNoWriMo!

Sat, 27 Oct 2007 19:13:14 GMT

Banner by et13_icons.

Steve the Blond Blue Yeti - G

Wed, 17 Oct 2007 23:42:07 GMT

Title: Steve the Blond Blue Yeti
Rating: G
Genre: Drama
Warnings: Silliness
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 319
Completed: Yes
Notes: Kind of an in-joke. I don't expect 95% of you to get any of it. Dedicated to pokemastersan who gave me the prompt for this.

Steve wasn't a normal yeti. He was a blue yeti. But he wasn't just a normal blue yeti either. He had long, golden hair flowing down his head. For this, he lived mostly in exile.

Exile didn't last long for Steve. His parents were horribly ashamed of him, and did not wish him to have any friends. They also were worried about poor Steve, and did not let him talk online.

But what Steve's parents didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Steve talked online a lot. He had good friends online. And those friends liked him a lot. They knew nothing of his true appearance, and that was fine by them.

Until people started posting their pictures. Not wanting to feel left out, Steve was going to post one of himself. But then he remembered: He was a yeti. A blue yeti. With blond hair.

Well, that wouldn't go over well.

So instead, Steve hid behind his parents' overprotective nature. He came up with excuses of how he could get caught, and intricate stories of the sorts of things that might happen to him.

And then there was Steve's career. Ensconced by the shame and overprotectiveness from his parents, Steve's career suffered greatly. He was stuck working in the town's post office, instead of where he wanted to be: culinary school. Steve's dream, for as long as he had lived, was to be a chef. There was no way he could accomplish this goal with the dual concerns of his parents and his friends.

So, logically, he ditched them both.

He left home, travelling the countryside with only a pot, a knife, and a fork. It wasn't long before he finally found what he was looking for: the Culinary Arts School of Alaska. He ended his parents' exile, himself, and grew to become a skilled chef. Despite the fact that he was a yeti. A blue one. With blond hair.

Untitled Supernatural Pr0n - NC-17

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 06:53:24 GMT

Title: Untitled Supernatural Pr0n
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: Explicit homosexual sex, incest, language.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Word Count: 538
Completed: Yes
Notes: So, there were a couple things I swore I'd never read or write when I started getting into slash fanfic: RPS and incest. This fandom has broken that vow so badly. At least this is only half of it...

“Fuck. So good, so tight. Shit.” And if that didn't make any and all available blood in Sam's body instantly flow to his cock, nothing would. The running commentary from Dean's mouth into Sam's ear was more than enough to counter the sharp pain he felt as Dean's cock—god, Dean's cock—entered him. “Want you, Sammy. Wanted you for so long.”

“You have me,” Sam replied without thinking. He pressed forward against the mattress, trying for any friction on his sadly neglected dick. “God, Dean, please.” He was not begging. At least that's what he'd say later. But Dean was all the way in; Sam could feel his balls, and god, he had never dreamt that that would be the least bit erotic, but it was. Sam could feel his body quickly adjusting from the awkward sensation of intrusion to the immensely pleasurable sensation of being filled and Dean needed to move now before Sam did it for him. “Fucking move.”

“I would if it didn't mean ending this before it begins.” Oh. Oh god. Sam groaned. Dean took a deep breath and was still for a moment longer before he slid out slowly and torturously. Next thing Sam knew, Dean was flush against him again, and Sam was seeing stars. Dean fucked unpredictably. He went from full, long strokes, to short arrhythmic jerks, to thrusts with an age old rhythm that hit his prostate on every stroke, making him let out noises that he would never admit to after.

Through his haze of pleasure, he heard Dean's pornographic litany of “Sound so fucking good, Sammy. God, Sam, yes, fuck. So good. So perfect. You were just made for this weren't you? Oh fuck...”

His orgasm flooded his senses with the best pleasure. He felt his muscles tense up, his hips moving into Dean's continuing motions. His untouched cock spurted onto the bed sheet below him, making the spot uncomfortably wet—not that he noticed, being as preoccupied as he was. He cried out his brother's name, and Dean was soon to follow. “Oh Sam,” he whispered against the back of his neck.

He felt Dean pull out—and what an odd sensation that was—and collapse beside him on the bed. Dimly, he registered the sound of the condom hitting the trash can. “Why do I get the wet spot?” Sam asked suddenly, breaking the tension.

Dean chuckled. “'Cause you're the one who made it.”

“Only because you made me.” What was he, six?

“Are you complaining?”

Sam just wanted to wipe the smugness right off of his brother's face. So he did, leaning up on one arm, taking Dean's face in his free hand, and pressing their lips together. It was nowhere near as erotic or as teasing as the kisses leading up to the main event of the night were, but this kiss had nothing to lead up to. He pulled away, appreciating the dazed look on Dean's face. “No.” They both settled into each other and their pillows, breathing slowing as they fell into sleep. “Next time I fuck you and you can sleep in the wet spot,” Sam murmured into his pillow.

“In your dreams, Sam.”

“Or yours.”

There was no objection.

More - G

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 03:28:38 GMT

Title: More
Rating: G
Genre: Romance
Warnings: Slash (House/Wilson)
Fandom: House
Word Count: 100
Completed: Yes
Notes: Found this on my desktop's harddrive. Deemed it readable.

"I want more," House said to Wilson, spontaneously one day over lunch. Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

"They're still serving food," he said, gesturing up to the cafeteria. "But I'm not buying it for you aga-"

"I don't mean the food."

Wilson leaned back. "Oh. What do you mean, then?" House was silent. His eyes flickered between Wilson and down at his own lap. Wilson tilted his head, looking confused for a moment more before realization dawned on him. His head straightened, his mouth fell open slightly, and he said, "Oh. Don't you think we should talk abou-"

"No."

"Okay. Yeah."

Manhattan Industries - PG-13

Sat, 11 Aug 2007 07:13:52 GMT

Title: Manhattan Industries
Rating: PG-13 (overall)
Genre: Drama, sci-fi
Warnings: Potentially strong language
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 479
Completed: No
Notes: Something I came up with in the middle of the night; hoping to continue it.

“It just doesn’t sit right with me,” Helen said after glancing over the lines of code on the screen, “Causing the end of the world.”

“Oh, it’s not the end of the world,” the woman said with a sickly sweet voice. “It’s the end of war. You’re helping to create a new, better world!”

She frowned. “The distinction is not so clear to me, I’m afraid.”

The woman’s sickly smile disappeared at this. “If you feel that way, you don’t have to do it. You do know, however, what the alternative is.” Her hand slipped into her lab coat—a very strange item, Helen thought, considering that this was a computer-based laboratory, not a chemical or biological based one. She pulled out a small phial of a bright pink liquid. “This is our newly developed memory serum. KL-35, as it may become popularly known, though I do hope it will be our little secret,” the sweet voice was back, and then gone again in an instant. “One little drop can remove an entire day from your memory; this whole vial, probably half of your lifetime. I don’t want to use it, mind. But I will.”

Helen didn’t take her eyes off of the fluid. “And what if I wrote it all down, your little plot here? Then what? Would you find out by reading my mind and come and destroy that, too?”
The woman laughed, high-pitched and slightly maniacal. “No, of course not! You wouldn’t have time to write anything down. Did I forget to mention? The KL-35 works almost instantaneously. One drop of this and you’ll forget all about it and in seconds this entire facility would be unfamiliar to you.” Helen didn't quite know what to take of the lack of dismissal at the mind-reading part of her scenario. “Now, are you sure you don’t want to help us out?”

Helen stood tall and defiant. “Is this how you get all of your employees? Threats?”

“Only the ones who have seen or heard too much. Which you clearly have. Please,” she said, though in a tone that was nowhere near pleading, “Accept the job. It’s the right move for everyone.”

She nervously toyed with her thumbnail for a moment, mulling over her choices. Take the job now and potentially be the cause of what she saw as the end of the world, or leave now with her memories erased. Having her memory tampered with was not something she wanted done, but neither was the end of the world. But, a voice in her head spoke up, if you take the job, you’ll get even more insider information. And yes, that was true, but was it worth it?

“I’ll do it.”

“So glad you could help us, Dr. Munroe.” The woman stuck out her hand. Helen reluctantly took it. “Welcome aboard Manhattan Industries.”

Sir - PG

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 15:37:44 GMT

Title: Sir
Rating: PG for MINOR suggestiveness.
Genre: Romance, humor
Warnings: References to both het and slash relationships, but not much acting upon either of them.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 440
Completed: Yes
Notes: Took a hold of me when I was in the shower, and would not let go.

"Hey, look, he finally got rid of it!" Sirius cried, pointing at James as he entered the common room from the dormitory.

"Sirius," Remus said warningly from the chair beside Sirius.

"What are you two jabbering on about?" James said, arms poised in his 'I-have-authority-now' stance.

"Just your lack of facial hair. Come on, now, Prongsie, what made you get rid of it?" James continued to glare, which meant one thing.

"Lily made you shave it off, didn't she?"

"She didn't like how it felt," James grumbled.

"I reckon she didn't much fancy how it looked, either," Peter said from across the table.

"Man's got a point," Sirius said matter-of-factly. "I mean, it looked like Wormtail over here transformed and died on your face."

All but James, who attempted to look indignant and authoritative, chuckled. Wormtail, as though realizing what Sirius had just inferred, stopped abruptly and shouted, "Oi!"

"Nothing personal, Pete. A rat can't help what said rat looks like."

"Well, I think you look far better without it, James," Remus pointed out, trying to turn the conversation in a more positive direction.

James half-frowned and gave in. "You think?" Sort of.

Remus nudged Sirius with his foot. "Oh, yeah. Absolutely." James grudgingly sat down beside Peter. "Of course you know what this means, James?" They all looked at him questioningly. "It means you're completely and utterly whipped."

Laughter again errupted from their table as each Marauder--apart from James, of course--found this terribly amusing. James finally smiled slightly and let out a puff of what might be construed as laughter. "I guess you're right. But you're one to talk, Padfoot." This was enough to surprise Sirius out of his laughter. "Don't think I don't see Moony calling all the shots between you two poofters."

Remus looked sideways at Sirius, smirking. "He has a point, Sirius." Sirius would swear he saw Remus leering at him.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Yes, well, that may be the case, but I haven't gone off shaving bits of my hair for you."

"That's because I haven't asked you to. Yet," Remus added.

"Come on, Prongs," Peter said, grabbing James by the arm. "Let's get out of here before things get really awkward."

"You're a genius, Wormtail," James said, getting up as fast as he could. Peter was practically glowing.

"Get a room!" Sirius shouted after them.

Laughing nonetheless, Remus smacked Sirius on the arm. “Sirius,” he said, reprimandingly.

“Sorry, sir,” he joked, then worried over what he'd just done as Remus gained the look of one who had just been given a brilliant idea.

Loss - G

Sat, 14 Jul 2007 14:25:54 GMT

Title: Loss
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, drama
Warnings: Slash
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 286
Notes: I broke my LJ hiatus to post this. It's based off of a part of shoebox_project, the picture and caption from which I included. The picture and the subtitle, not to mention the concept and entire idea for this little ficlet belongs to the dear, fantastic ladyjaida and dorkorific, to whom my soul truly belongs. (Drawing and caption reposted without permission.)

None of it mattered in the end; all the words of endearment, or the kisses and the tender touches.

Remus stared at the photograph, taken by James on the train back after their seventh and final year at Hogwarts. Sirius had had his arm around Remus' shoulders, and they had been laughing, truly relaxed. The Sirius in the photo winked at him and kissed the Remus in the photo soundly and sweetly on the lips, just as the real Sirius had done after the picture was taken. It felt like an entire age had passed between then and now.

Remus shook his head at himself, disgusted. What good was nostalgia when the man you loved had betrayed you so fiercely? A wave of uncharacteristic rage overtook him. His unoccupied hand tightened into a fist, and the one holding the photo, almost without Remus' consent, thrust the photograph into the fireplace, where its frame bounced off the back, falling apart, and the glass shattered in the flames. The photo slid out of the broken frame and a corner caught fire.

Remus got an odd twisty feeling as he watched the picture-Remus and picture-Sirius curl up together, crawling up to the opposite corner from the fire. As if only just realizing what he had done, Remus rushed to the fireplace, sliding onto his knees, and pulled the photo out. He shifted and trampled the fire with his shoe. The whole bottom left corner was missing, and a hole had burned straight through the upper right side, but the two photo-boys seemed to have survived. Remus gave a slight hiccough of a sob, and finally let himself mourn the loss of not two, but all four of his friends.

Kept pristine, later burned, later salvaged.

A Page From the Diary of Pluto - G

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 01:24:06 GMT

Title: A Page From the Diary of Pluto
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, drama
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 158
Notes: Thanks to flyingarcanine for the prompt. I'm sort of in a funk right now.

Today the System Committee of Sol decided to cut back on their expenses. Everyone with half a brain knows that that means: firing. So who is the lucky planet to go? Me. That's who. Figures, right? I've always been teased because I'm the smallest. God, by now they'll know about my...size problem all the way in Alpha Centauri. It's so embarrassing, but you know what? I've lived with it all my life. I've had to deal with being discovered last, I'm the farthest away, and I'm small. Well you know what, at least I'm not a fatty like Jupiter. I don't show off with my host of intelligent lifeforms like Earth, or Mars. I don't have pretty rings like Saturn or Uranus. But I've still got stature! I've got my moon. I've got street cred, too. Anyone will testify to my dependability. I'm determined to get back on the Committee. And I'll do it, or die trying!

Prodigy - G

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 02:49:02 GMT

Title: Prodigy
Rating: G
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: Pre-slash
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word Count: 197
Completed: Yes
Notes: Random thing that came to me in the middle of the night ages ago that I randomly found on my harddrive.

"What the hell is this?" Rodney shouted.

"What are you on about, McKay?"

"You could have told me! Or is it supposed to be a secret, like your Mensa test?"

"Rodney, you better explain right now or-"

"Or what, Colonel? You'll shoot me?"

"It's getting there. Now tell me what you're talking about."

"You! You had to hide it all this time! Not even a 'Hey, McKay, I can do everything you can, but better!'"

"Rodney," Sheppard growled dangerously.

"First with your wonder gene, then your miraculous flying skills--which, granted, I don't have even a fraction of and I'm lucky if I can fly the damn thing in a straight line--your math skills, and now? This!"

"What 'this'?" John shouted.

"Is this or is this not you playing?" Rodney gestured to the laptop, now moving on to an intricate piano concerto. John nodded. "Just...tell me why you didn't say anything."

John chuckled. "It didn't exactly ever come up. 'Pass the salt. Oh, by the way, I'm full of raw musical talent.' Doesn't really roll off the tongue."

"Who the hell cares? You should have done this, not the Air Force--hell, not even Mensa."

Romance Rests - G

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 05:00:23 GMT

Title: Romance Rests
Rating: G
Genre: Poetry
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 121
Completed: Yes
Notes: Written in response (ages ago) to queenmeshi's challenge, "How far can you go without using the letter r?"

Do you think of me
as you lie awake at night?
How we used to lay in the fields
with no one else in sight?

Would you see me behind those closed eyes?
The ones that I would gaze into
on those many splended occasions
when I'd been so close to you.

They'd shine with twinkling lights
of the pin lights in the big black sky above
and I'd be humbled just the same,
but now I miss you, my love.

And what I wouldn't give if I could have
just one last meeting
with you since I had left
but the moment now is fleeting.

And though some may say romance is dead,
it is only resting in my head.

ETA: Fixed code.

Prompt Request

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 03:12:38 GMT

Give me a word (or however many you want) and I'll write something based on it. If you want, you can also include a fandom or other preference (with me having full rights to ignore that preference).

It's a Small World Afterall - G

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 05:29:59 GMT

Title: It's a Small World Afterall
Rating: G
Genre: Poetry
Warnings: Darkish; more ish than dark
Fandom: Original
Word Count: 57
Completed: Yes, I think

Laying on your back
And looking to the sky,
There’s no way to know
How much has passed you by.

But as you watch the clouds
Drift across the blue expanse,
Be careful of the light of the sun;
Before your eyes, colors dance.

An understandable blindness;
The end of all color.
But as you look and see naught
You find that the world, not you, seems smaller.