There's Someone In My Head

Zomg. Fic.

2007-09-09T22:53:16Z

Godd.
I haven't written anything for ages.

Title: Rapture.
Fandom: Bioshock.
Rating: PG-15.
Summary: He can't sleep. He won't ever sleep.

He can’t sleep. He knows he’ll probably never sleep again, so he lies there in the dark of the old hospital, eyes glued to the opening that used to be a door, shotgun clenched so tightly that his knuckles are aching.
But he can’t let go. He can’t sleep.
Nevergonnasleep.Notafterwhatyou’vedone.Notafterwhatyou’veseen.Nosleepforyou.
There’s a clanking, and for a brief second, the huge diving suit of one of the Big Daddies comes into view, a stark silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. It pauses, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and clenches his teeth together, grip tightening on the trigger of the gun.
Its head swings round, and he sees the eerie pools of light in its helmet that fix directly on him.
Theend.ohshitit’stheend.I’mgonnadie.Shit.Toosoon…Toosoon…
But then the slow clangs resume, and the Big Daddy lumbers off, crashing down the flooded corridor, its heavy footsteps fading into blackness, leaving him shaking and sick on the old hospital bed.
He feels dirty, and is repulsed by his actions, by everything he has to do to survive, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
The pull of life is too strong.
Slowly, shakily he sits up, his skin cold and clammy, he himself feeling alien inside it, like he’s too small to belong to this body. With trembling fingers he pulls out a cigarette.
Deadman’scigarette.Beeninadeadman’spocket.Thief.You’reathief.
It tastes bitter and crumbly in his mouth, which makes him feel sick to his stomach, and yet his singing nerves are slightly silenced by it.
The bed is pushed up against the wall, it’s been ripped of its sheets long ago, and the mattress is damp and squashy from the leaks and floods that have long become the norm in Rapture.
Splash.Splash.Splash.You’regoingtodiehearingsplashes.Whatabeautifulnoise,whataperfectnoise.
He wonders if anyone’s died in this bed.
The thought scares him less than it should.
He can’t bring himself to fear death when it’s all around him, lurking, waiting.
"Don't worry, Mr. Bubbles. I'm sure he'll be an angel soon."
A child’s voice. He hears it in the back of his mind, hauntingly familiar, and horribly relevant.
The cigarette has burnt out, the few strings of tobacco left in it have melted away into nothingness.
He leaves it in his mouth, forgotten.
In the flickering darkness, with the shotgun pressed hard to his side, and the unnoticed tears rolling down his face, Jack waits for a sign.
Toolate.Toolatetosaveyourself.Toolate.

Just a quick drabble to keep my mind entertained.

2007-08-28T16:25:51Z

Title: Bitch.
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs.
Pairing: Implied White/Orange.
Rating: PG.

Blonde moves forwards faster than Orange can pull back, and he grabs hold of the younger man’s chin, attempting to pull him in closer, and ultimately failing. Orange pulls back, eyes wide and startled.
“The fuck, man?” He asks fiercely, and Blonde grins and waves a hand, as if the two of them are friends.
“Nothin’. Just testing a theory,” He smiles as if at some inside joke that Orange isn’t part of. “It was right.” He confides with a raise of his eyebrows, and Orange eyes him suspiciously.
“What was right?” He asks eventually, and knows it was the right question, when Blonde laughs.
“My theory. White keeps his bitches on a tight leash, huh?” He asks, letting the words drop off his tongue with satisfaction. Orange looks floored, and flounders for a few seconds.
“Fuck off, Blonde,” He snarls eventually, not denying Blonde’s theory like he really, really should be.
“Woof.” Blonde chuckles, and walks away.

moar god phiction.

2007-08-09T23:17:05Z

Managed to write something.
It's not M/O.
Original fiction.
Sorry about that.
D:
I'll write whilst I'm away, I promise. :)

Title: Festivals.
Rating: PG.
Summary: What happens to the festivals no-one celebrates anymore? mild m/m.
Notes: Unbeta'd, slash, sort of similar to my gods fic before. :]

Saturnalia growled gently, revealing pointed canines through the translucent front of his gasmask. A feral look seemed to grow in his yellow eyes, making them appear to glimmer and glint like those of a wolf. Armilustrium looked at him doubtfully through the plastic panes of his own mask. All around them, people continued to shuffle through their everyday business, ignoring the two tall, masked figures. Both men were particularly striking, each at nearly six foot five, with their odd clothing, looking more like something out of a nuclear war zone, than Roman Festivals. Saturnalia continued to watch the passers by, his eyes following them hungrily, fists clenched in front of him.
“Sat. You have to stop it,” Armilustrium warned, placing a large hand on the other man’s shoulder. Despite being the same height, Saturnalia knew not to mess with Armilustrium, after all, he was the god of war’s festival. The feral looking festival stiffened a little, but allowed himself to melt into the other man, his back pressing hard against Armilustrium’s chest, his yellow eyes now squeezed shut to block out any temptation.
“Armil... Are we going to die soon?” He asked in a strained voice; this time he felt the tension from the festival of Mars behind him. “No one wants to celebrate festivals of long dead gods anymore, Armil… We can’t even breathe around these people without these bloody gasmasks,” He snapped. The time the two of them had spent in London had evidently rubbed off on Saturnalia, with the twinge of Cockney in his accent that Armilustrium hadn’t noticed before.
“Look, truthfully?” Armilustrium asked, spinning the slightly skinnier man around to face him. “I don’t know. I’m not Janus. He’s been dead for years. Got hit by a truck, silly bastard. I can’t see into the future, and I’m not going to pretend I can. I’m Mars’ festival. I deal with wars. Not the consequences of them.” He growled, and Saturnalia looked up, the yellow eyes full of wrath only a brief few seconds ago were now mild and gentle.
“I don’t want to live like this Armil…” He murmured through the gasmask. Armilustrium faltered, he could never say no to the other festival. Maybe it was that they’d been together for so long. Over one thousand five hundred years, to be exact.
It was difficult not to get to know one another.
Saturnalia had always been odd – going from pure, red hot anger, to mild kicked puppy in under twenty seconds, and it seemed that Armilustrium was the only one who understood the other festival, who knew how to deal with his violent mood swings.
“Well then, let’s not.” He murmured in a gentle voice. The noise of the city seemed to stop around them, and Saturnalia looked at him with a mixture of sadness and curiosity.
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” He asked in a small voice. Armilustrium gave a tiny half smile.
“I think it’s best we let Christmas and Halloween have free range without runts like us clutching onto their feet?” He suggested, and Saturnalia smiled back tearfully.
“Christmas is a wanker.” He sniffed, and Armilustrium held him tighter, the two of them swaying from side to side slightly.
“I know. He’ll die out soon enough. I hear scientology’s getting pretty big,” He teased, arms going up behind Saturnalia’s head to the gasmask clip. “Unclip mine for me will you?” He asked softly. Saturnalia nodded thickly, and reached up into Armilustrium’s dark hair. There were two tiny clicks, that sounded deafening to both of them, and then the gasmasks were pulled off.
Armilustrium allowed his to drop to the floor with a loud clatter, and his hands went to either side of the other festival’s head, pulling him in roughly. Their lips met in a teasing, final kiss, the feeling odd and alien without any rubber or cold metal covering their faces.
“We had a good run, kid,” Armilustrium grinned, and Saturnalia couldn’t disagree.

---

Authors notes:
I dunno what’s going on with the gasmasks.
I guess it’s like life support. Because people don’t celebrate them anymore they can’t survive off regular ‘human vibes’.
I like these guys. I don’t know why.
(:
The name Saturnalia is great though.
XD
He’s the festival for Saturn.
And Armilustrium is the festival for Mars.
In case you were wondering.
Janus is the two faced god.
Can see beginnings and ends.

I don’t mean to cause offense to anyone’s religion with this, by the way!
^^;;

smemmah @ 2007-07-28T01:01:00

2007-07-28T00:05:43Z

Had a really bad attack of my BFS today.
:/
My feet are painful as hell and I just feel wiped.
But here's a little bit of fic.
I couldn't walk anywhere, so I forced myself to complete it.
Which is why I'm not so happy with the ending.
But still.

Title: Untitled.
Pairing: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Rating: 15 +
Summary: The mark'll be the death of him.
Notes: Unbeta'd set sometime whilst the two are still at Hogwarts.

Marcus looks down at the still, stagnant water meters below him.
Just thirty to fall, and it’d all be over.
The horror, the losses, the persecution.
Everything.
He pushes back the sleeve of his sweater, and stares hard at the mark.
It’s not his. It feels like he has someone else’s arm grafted onto his shoulder.
Father’s arm.
He’s never believed any of it, but people are all too quick to disagree with this nowadays.
He’s never once been a victim.
Too tall, too broad, too tough.
Marcus Flint just isn’t cut out to look innocent and vulnerable.
But he feels so exposed right now, stood on the edge of the bridge in the moonlight, looking down at his tiny reflection in the green, silent water.
It would be so easy, just to put one foot forward, to hold out his arms and not swim.
The skull on his forearm grins at him, encouraging and mocking, and the snake curled around it stares blankly, with dull, green eyes.
All around the mark are ugly red welts, carvings and scratches, a desperate attempt to get it off him somehow.
It never works.
The scars heal up, and the green lines always heal up too.

“You’ve got a dark mark, Flint.” Wood’s voice is surprised, his eyebrows rise up into his fringe, and Flint looks at him.
“It was hardly my choice.” He murmurs softly, and Wood tilts his head to one side, like some shy, elusive creature.
He understands.
Flint knows he does.
“Ah. I’m sorry, Marcus.” He gives a tiny half smile, and scratches his head.
“It’s not your fault…” Flint shrugs, and pretends to be interested in his potions homework. His mouth opens a little, and he looks up through his eyelashes at the Gryffindor. “Oliver.”
“Nah. But, even though we have the whole hate thing going on-“
“I don’t hate you. Not properly, anyway.” Flint interrupts, setting the record straight.
“Good. I don’t hate you either.” Wood grins, and Flint attempts to return the smile, but fails dismally.
“Anyway. Not even you deserve that Marcus,” Wood looks pensive. “No-one does.”
“This mark’ll be the death of me.” Flint shakes his head sadly.

He’s right, as well.
It will be.
Any second now.
Marcus looks down again, and the water looks freezing, and yet somehow inviting.
He gropes about in his jacket’s inside pocket, finding a flask he’d brought along merely for some company.
“Dutch courage, Marcus,” He murmurs. “Just have some firewhiskey, then step off. Simple.” He mutters again, taking a large slug of the liquid, which burns its way down his throat.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Comes from behind him, a harsh, Scottish accent, ragged from lack of breath. Flint grins a crooked, humorless grin.
“Do you want me to draw you a diagram, Wood?” He asks, keeping his eyes focused on the drop below him.
“No…” Is it just Marcus’ hopeful imagination, or is Oliver’s voice shaking? “I want you to get down so I can kick seven shades of shit out of you.” Nope, it’s definitely shaking.
And then there are arms around Marcus’ hips, holding on tight and relentless.
“Fuck off Wood…” There’s no malice, and Marcus even adds a tiny ‘please’ onto the end.
“No.” And now Wood’s pulling him off backwards, where the two of them collapse onto the floor in a tangle of cold, shuddering limbs. Wood’s eyes are huge and wild like liquid amber and his breathing is far more ragged than Flint imagined. “What the hell was that?” A hoarse, strangled voice.
“What did it look like, Wood?” His own voice is even more gravelly than usual, making him sound like he’s been chewing rocks. Or razorblades.
“It looked like you were about to fling yourself off that fucking bridge.” Wood growls, the voice now angry as well as hoarse.
“Aren’t you a genius?” He grits back, the two of them shivering and shaking in each other’s arms.
“You’re a bloody maniac, Marcus…” And Flint feels something warm splash onto his face.
“Ah… Are you crying, Wood?” He asks tentatively. The Gryffindor says nothing, but when Flint looks up, there are in fact silent tears coursing down his face. “Look… I’m sorry…” He murmurs, suddenly feeling terrible about trying to jump, terrible about making Oliver Wood, Gryffindor quidditch hero cry. “Don’t… Please don’t. I’m sorry. Oliver, please don’t.” His arms go around Wood’s stomach, cradling him desperately.
“You absolute… Wanker!” Wood yells, his entire body now seized up, stiff and shivering in Flint’s cold embrace. “You absolute, fucking-!”
And Marcus is kissing him. The gesture is hard and full of fear and desperation and self-hate; a needy, tired kiss that isn’t what it should be like.
Still half-sobbing, Wood swings a leg over Flint’s lap, grabs the Slytherin’s head from either side, and smashes their mouths together, legs coming up to wrap round Marcus’ waist tightly.
There’s a fevered moan, muffled into the hot, wetness of someone’s mouth.
Neither boy will admit to making the noise, ever¹.
But it’s a real kiss, a ferocious, burning one with no holds barred and nothing left hidden.
And now Flint’s hot, wet tears are mixing with Wood’s – There’s nothing to distinguish them.
Gryffindor, Slytherin? In the end they’re just two boys.
Flint goes to tangle his hand in Wood’s hair, and his sleeve drops just a little, revealing the dark mark again, making Flint’s stomach knot up again. Wood notices the Slytherin’s hesitation, and then the way he drops his arm, as if thinking better of the action.
“Fucking hell, Flint.” Wood pulls away from the kiss for just long enough to manually place Flint’s hand in his hair. “It’s a tattoo. I don’t care.” He snarls, malice aimed at Voldemort, at the deatheaters, at everyone who’s somehow forced Flint into this. Flint smiles broadly, a sudden, real smile throwing Wood off slightly, but in the best possible way.
With that, Flint rolls up his sleeve, placing the mark in plain view, and somehow, by doing that, finding it easier to ignore.
Or maybe that’s just Oliver Wood.
The hero of everything. Loved by anyone and everyone.
That includes, it seems, Marcus Flint.

---

Fin.
Oh and:
¹ It was Wood. :)

Eggs.

2007-07-26T00:58:23Z

I'm allowed to use my laptop in hospital!
Success!
:]

I bring M/O fluffiness.
Because I don't want to write yet more angst for them.
Poor things don't deserve it.
:)

Title: Eggs.
Rating: PG-ish.
Pairing: Marcus/Oliver.
Summary: Remembering things is overrated.
Notes: Unbeta'd.

The first morning Oliver Wood woke up to Marcus Flint, it was quite a shock.
He’d completely forgotten the piss up after the Puddlemere win, and consequently completely forgotten being on his knees in the rain in a back alley, trapping a half bricking it, half stiff as fuck, Marcus Flint against the wall.
When he woke up on this particular morning, his mouth tasted of sawdust, and something salty and vaguely familiar, that his brain tried to ignore. He pulled on a t-shirt from the floor, that didn’t seem to belong to him, seeing as it came down to his mid thighs, and had something about ‘Saving a broom and riding a Quidditch player’ emblazoned across the front of it.
The second thing that greeted him was the smell of actual food, rather than instant stuff and things in tins. His first thought was that there were burglars of some kind in the flat, he then decided that if burglars wanted to cook him breakfast, who was he to complain?
“Good morning burglar,” He staggered into the kitchen, clinging to the doorframe, smiling idly. The burglar, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, turned around and raised an eyebrow.
“What’re you on, Wood?” He asked in a familiar, gravelly voice.
And then it all came back to Oliver in one swift ball of thoughts with the subtlety of a troll in a china shop.
“Oh fuck,” He groaned opening his mouth to try and find a question to ask from the millions of important ones flying through his brain. Eventually he settled on the rather anticlimactic: “Flint… Wh- Why are you using muggle cooking stuff?”
Flint looked at him as if he’d just asked him to grow another head.
“Huh?”
“Well, you’re a Slytherin,” Wood babbled, waving his arms wildly. “You’re into the whole anti-muggle shit! You burn toddlers and stamp on puppies and stuff.” He eventually grumbled, as if this provided an answer. Flint snorted, and flipped an egg over in a frying pan quite artfully.
“My mum’s a squib.” He explained, humoring Wood and his panicked question. “So she taught me, okay?” He grinned, and Wood smiled back automatically.
“Did I suck you off in a back alley?” He blurted out suddenly in a voice far louder than he intended. Flint looked slightly embarrassed.
“Er… Yes. You wouldn’t really take no for an answer.” He muttered, ears going red.
“Oh.” Wood nodded, sitting down. That does sound like me. He thought.
“Eggs?” Flint asked, looking down at the food hopefully, pointing the frying pan at Wood with a tiny nervous smile.
“Oh, yeah please.” Wood nodded, pulling out plates from one of the mostly empty cupboards.
How had he suddenly got a family dynamic thing working for him?
With Flint of all people.
The two of them sat down, looking at each other awkwardly.
“Good eggs.” Wood commented, and Flint grinned.
“Thanks.” He grunted happily.
“Good to wake up to once you get over the shock.” Wood nodded pensively.
And both of them knew he wasn’t talking about eggs.

I'll write better when I can be bothered. >

2007-07-24T16:02:45Z

Title: Eloquency.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Marcus/Oliver
Summary: For fic purposes Marcus is not a death eater of any kind. + we know he wouldn't be. :D
Notes: Unbeta'd, established relationship, Not really DH spoilers. :/

“Flint?” Wood’s voice is quiet, and he waits for a reply that never comes, just the sound of the shower pounding noisily in the bathroom. “Flint, come on. You can’t stay in there forever...” Actually, knowing Flint, he’d find a way. Eating soap or something.
“Look, Wood,” Eventually the weary voice replies, hesitant and beaten. “I... Just, um, just go back and help your friends. I’ll be okay. I can cope.” He mutters, and Oliver knows that that’s a complete lie.
He sinks to the floor, back pressed against the bathroom door.
“Fuck off Flint. I’m staying here. My boyfriend is just as important as my friends. More so.” He murmurs through the warm wood.
“Oliver... I killed my dad. My dad.” Flint eventually replies, turning the water off in the shower, the sudden silence seeming awkward and daunting to both boys.
“Flint... Marcus. He was going to kill you. Mate, you did the right thing... I’m proud of you, you know?” He reminds him, hearing the ex-Slytherin slide down the door on the other side.
“No, he was going to kill you. I’d have let him kill me.” Flint confesses in a choked voice. “But it was you, Ollie. You’re everything to me. I... Fuck. Oliver, I can’t... Uhn... I can’t work without you. It’s like there’s just a big fucking hole there, you know?” he manages to grit out, as if he’s having teeth pulled.
Oliver knows Marcus isn’t the most eloquent of people.
Understatement of the century, really, Wood’s one of the only people in the world to understand the language of noncommittal grunts of which Flint’s so fond.
It must’ve taken a lot to get all that out of him, and that stuns Oliver, because it’s not poetic and it’s not smooth and clean and well thought out, but that just means it’s true.
“Marcus... Please. Let me in?” He whispers tearfully into the door. There’s a moment of silence, and then the lock clicks and the it creaks open. Wood springs to his feet as if burnt, and comes face to face with a very washed out looking Marcus Flint.
“Oli...” And there’s nothing else he can manage to croak out, as the keeper wraps his arms around Marcus’ stomach, pulling them together. Marcus is wearing his boxer shorts and a baggy black t-shirt, but he’s shivering almost uncontrollably, beads of cold water clinging to his pale skin.
“You’ve not been to one of the healers, have you?” Oliver asks tearfully, if only to break the silence. Marcus shakes his head, and mouths a ‘no’ that comes out silent. His face is scratched, one eye swollen and blackened, arms scratched even further, burnt in pale pink patches. He looks like death, and the most beautiful thing Wood’s ever seen all at once.
Gently Oliver kisses him, trying to convey all his emotion into the gesture, deepening it slowly, cautiously. Flint’s hand travels up Wood’s back, hesitating at his neck, but eventually burying his fingers tightly in the keeper’s hair, bringing him in as close as he can.
Wood smells of earth and heat, and he’s practically burning under flint’s fingers.
Flint and Wood equal fire.
He remembers that from somewhere, some ‘without magic’ training from when he was a kid.
It’s true though.
Flint’s icy body is rapidly heating up, and the tears that drip down his face are scalding his jaw.
“I love you.” Wood murmurs into the kiss. Marcus lets out a tiny noise, and squeezes his eyes shut, a mewling, desperate, very un-flint like noise, which makes Wood smile.
“Thank you.” Is all Flint can manage to say.

---

DANAHH.
Euw, god that stank.
>.o
Ohwell.
Comments?

Just a note: I'm in and out of hospital for a bit 'cause my Benign Fasculation Syndrome thing got worse reccently, so I'll try and write when I can.
><
What a fun way to spend the summer, no?
xD

smemmah @ 2007-07-18T18:03:00

2007-07-18T17:06:03Z

Title: Sand
Fandom: Akira
Rating: PG
Pairing: None. Kai/Yama if you read into it lots.
Summary: Kai dreams. Post series/movie.
Notes: Unbeta'd.

The house was full of sand.
Kai couldn’t say how it got there, or whether there was some sort of huge symbolism behind it all, but in his dream there was definitely a house full of sand.
The grains were all evenly spread, with a very flat top layer that reached his knees, and did not change shape when he moved through it. The sand merely seemed to regenerate behind him, leaving him stood in a room full of perfectly even sand.
It was disturbing to say the least, even if it was a dream.
Since everything that’d happened, Kai’s dreams had been getting odder, often so strange that he was sure there should be some sort of meaning behind it all.
If there was, he sure as hell couldn’t see it.
“So, you made it then?” A voice from behind him, low and slightly amused. A voice he recognized with perfect clarity, that made the skin on his neck crawl.
“Fuck off, you’re dead.” He growled, without turning around. There was that familiar mock-hurt noise that was so alien and so normal all at once. He hadn’t heard it for years.
“Is that any way to greet your best friend, eh?” The voice asked. Carefully Kai turned around, willing himself to stay collected.
“Yamagata, you’re dead.” He repeated, fists clenched at his sides, palms sweaty.
“So you keep saying,” Yamagata sniffed casually, wading towards the other boy slowly, until they were basically nose to nose. Or nose to chin, Kai noted dryly. “Way to rub my face in it.”
The taller boy looked exactly the same as he had the day he died, his rising sun t-shirt still stained a rusty brown, the same smears around his thighs and his mouth.
His eyes however, were pulled open, so wide that it was impossible in anything but a dream, and there was nothing there, just a yawning, aching blackness, damp and glittering, like a rodent.
He’d never thought about how comforting eyes were until he saw these,
“Eyes are the windows to the soul, Kai,” Yamagata grinned, showing how obviously Kai had been looking. “Guess what. I’m dead. Dead people don’t need windows, we stay underground.” He noted, tilting his head to one side in a way that was so obviously Yamagata, the slight incline he always used when he was confused. However, this thing wasn’t Yamagata.
Not by a long shot.
Now that Kai looked closer, he could see tiny flaws, imperfections in the other Yamagata’s face, his jaw a fraction of a centimeter too long, his hair growing out anti-clockwise, the scar over his left eyebrow was missing, the one he’d got when Kaneda had been too enthusiastic with a monkey wrench that time.
It was as if the creature had taken all the things Kai remembered of Yamagata, and mashed them together into what it supposed was the other boy.
But then there were things not even Kai remembered consciously, minute details that his subconscious kept throwing up at him.
“Yamagata doesn’t smile like that.” He growled, and the thing looked surprised, Yamagata’s black, inky eyes widened slightly. “And you don’t smell of anything.”
Yamagata should smell of booze and pot and oil and leather.
Not of empty rooms and mothballs and forgotten things.
“But I’m the good things about Yamagata, I’m unselfish, I’m here only to please you, Kai.” The figure drew itself up, and it was too tall, and too thin, making Kai wonder how he could ever have mistaken it for Yamagata in the first place.
“See, that’s where you’re going wrong.” And it was true.

Christmas.

2007-07-15T22:41:57Z

Title: Christmas.
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs.
Rating: NC-17 possibly R?
Warnings: Smutttt. :D
Pairing: White/Orange.
Length: 2,042. (Possibly my longest that I’m happy with. :])
Notes: Unbeta’d.

Half way through the week building up to the heist, Orange looks up suddenly, looking so surprised that White almost thinks he’s been shot.
“What’s up?” He asks, puzzled, taking a careful sip of his coffee, the flimsy cup burning his hands.
“D’you know what day it is tomorrow?” Orange asks, smiling widely, proving to a slightly jittery White that he is most definitely alive and not bleeding.
“I… Uh. No… Why?” He Manages, trying not to sound relieved.
“It’s Christmas!” Orange grins, looking so overjoyed that it reminds White of just how young his partner is.
“Oh. Right.” He mutters, with an attempt at a smile, and a nod. Orange looks puzzled, his smiling face melting into a quizzical look, head tilted slightly to one side.
“It’s meant to be happy. Cheer the fuck up, White.” He murmurs, and it sounds almost like he’s asking, rather than telling.
“Never really celebrated it since my wife died.” White shrugs, cursing himself internally for letting that information slip when Joe specifically told them to say nothing.
“Oh… Ah, shit. I’m sorry.” Orange says, and the thing is, is that he actually does sound sorry.
White smiles a little an shakes his head, shrugging it off.
“Nah. It’s okay. You didn’t know. You weren’t supposed to know.” He laughs nervously, and Orange pulls an apologetic face.
“Sorry…” He manages again and White laughs properly this time.
“Quit apologizing. It’s pissin’ me off.” He grunts, teasing the younger man, who looks as if he’s about to say it again. “Why, you doing anything for Christmas Eve, then?” He asks, half just making conversation, half actually pretty curious.
“Nah. We could hang out if you want?” Orange suggests nervously, and White grins.
“Yeah, why not? I’ve got nowhere else to be.” And that’s not true anyway, he could be off getting out of his head
on whiskey and booze, but hey, the prospect of spending time with the kid is far more appealing.
“Cool.” Orange looks relieved and happy all at once.
“C’mon. Let’s go, I’m sick of sitting in the fucking car all day.” White sniffs, and drains his coffee in what he hopes looks nonchalant, when all it actually does is burn the inside of his throat and makes his eyes water. Orange is too sharp for him, and laughs.
“That’ll hurt like a bitch in a while.” He tells the older man, who pulls a face.
“Shut up, whelp.” He growls, and Orange merely smiles stupidly.

Orange is currently living in rented accommodation, he can hardly take White back to his actual flat, what with the wardrobe full of uniforms and police certificates on the wall, so he unlocks the door to his crappy rental, which smells of disinfectant and bleach. White’s nose wrinkles automatically as the well scrubbed, almost medical smell hits him, and Orange joins him.
“Tell me about it,” He mutters, closing the door with a gentle click. “It’s rented. I guess the last person here had OCD or somethin’.” He laughs, and White laughs with him, which makes him feel good.
“Open the windows?” White suggests, and Orange nods, hitting one of them with the heel of his hand, making it groan and squeak open obstinately. White goes to help and pulls off his jacket, tossing it over the kitchen counter.
Orange can’t help but think how scarily right it looks, how much he wants to have White’s stuff strewn all over the apartment.
He blinks, then frowns.
Bad thoughts Freddy. Bad. He scowls, and opens his eyes to see White looking at him curiously.
“Earth to Orange, come in Orange.” He intones into an invisible radio, eyebrows raised in amusement.
Wish you would. Orange can’t help but think. “Snap the fuck outta it!” White hits him gently on the side of the head, and Orange smiles dopily.
“S-“ He begins.
“Don’t say it.” White warns, smirking.

A few hours and a few bottles of vodka later, and White and Orange are pissed, the two of them both feeling warm and slow, the bleach smell dulled by the alcohol and two candles that Orange found somewhere in the back of one of his empty cupboards.
“D’you know. I don’t like these stupid codenames.” Orange scowls petulantly, and White turns to him, blinking curiously. “They… Are shit. I mean… Say. Say, um… Say I was having sex with um… Blonde. What am I s’posed to yell when I come?” He frowns, and White feels quite indignant about the other man’s choice of metaphorical bed partners.
“You wouldn’t be having sex with Blonde.” He mutters mutinously, knocking back another slug of the alcohol.
“How’d you know? I might be gay f’r all you know.” Orange scowls childishly.
“Are you?” White asks, his breath catching in his throat ever so slightly.
“Might be.” Orange teases, grinning crookedly, the candlelight flickering over his face.
“You wouldn’t be having sex with Blonde though.”
“Why not?” Orange asks, his own heart beating slightly faster than usual.
White leans in slowly, eyes nervous, like a cornered animal.
“You’re mine.” He murmurs, and presses his lips to the younger man’s gently.
Orange looks stunned for a few seconds, eyes widening considerably, making White wonder if he’s just made a huge mistake. But Orange’s eyes slide shut suddenly, and White finds himself being kissed back, teeth and tongue and vodka.
Orange moves closer, long fingers dragging slowly up White’s back, pulling up his shirt slightly, pushing at White’s belt gently. His tongue is soft and gentle against White’s, pushing and probing, making White pretty sure he’s kissed guys before. Orange’s fingers move up from White’s hips into his hair, tangling the strands into tight knots around his knuckles. White lets out a tiny moan, his eyes screwing up as Orange’s mouth moves down to his neck, tongue rubbing back and forth across the sensitive skin, rough and repetitive.
“mmm…” Orange purrs into his skin, teeth suddenly hard against White’s Adam’s apple.
White pushes the younger man back against the hard sofa, hands framing Orange’s pale face, with his reddish hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. Carefully he tugs off Orange’s black tie, letting the strip of material trickle to the floor, where it falls in a heap. Orange smiles and starts to untuck his own shirt, and pull it off over his head, where it crumples under the two of them. White kisses him again, dragging his tongue up and down the younger man’s now bare chest, pausing briefly to close his teeth around one of Orange’s nipples, tongue flickering back and forth over it, causing Orange to hiss and twist upwards into the larger man. His legs curl around White’s hips, supporting his entire lower body, looking like something off a nature program. White shrugs out of his own shirt and begins to pull off his tie, when Orange stops him, pushing him backwards until their positions are reversed, Orange straddling White’s hips and groin with a triumphant grin, end of the tie wrapped around his fist like a dog lead. White raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the left hand side of his face. They both know this isn’t right; you aren’t meant to get this close to your partner, it’ll only end in tears.
But Orange leans in and ignores the reasonable, logical voice in the back of his mind, White lets out a harsh laugh, riddled with the evidence of his smoking habit. The older man unbuckles Orange’s belt and pulls it out of the loops in one smooth motion, amazed that it slides out so easily.
“Show off.” Orange smiles, licking his dry lips, and White gives a slight nod.
“Yeah… Well…” He murmurs breathlessly and crushes his mouth into the younger man’s, tongue probing and poking fiercely. Orange wriggles out of his trousers with ease, he’s slim and lithe and the item of clothing falls off over his hips quickly. White finds his mouth very dry and has to moisten the inside of it cautiously. Orange unzips White’s own trousers with a childish smile, and pulls them down to White’s knees, long fingers and moist tongue tracing over the scars from god-knows-what that are long and white against the older man’s tanned skin, he raises a questioning eyebrow, looking up at White carefully. The older man shrugs.
“Later.” He manages to promise with a tight grin. “I’ll tell you later.” He repeats with a dizzy nod. Orange seems satisfied with this and resumes his soft kissing and biting across White’s thighs, fingers tracing the bulge in his boxer shorts briefly with a gentle, ghostly touch that’s almost not there and yet drives White crazy, pushing upwards in an effort for more contact. Any contact.
Orange moves his hands up, fingers pressing hard into White’s shoulders, eyes slipping shut, mouth open ever so slightly, not looking gormless, just distracted. White grabs hold of Orange’s ass, crude, he knows, but it’s not like Orange is complaining. Quite the opposite.
“W-white…” He moans in a small voice, making him look even younger than he actually is. “Call me Freddy… My… Name’s Freddy…” and White vaguely remembers the conversation before all this.
“Freddy.” He repeats with a smile and a kiss, never releasing his hold on the smaller man. In turn Orange wraps his legs around White’s hips again, and White stands up, easily holding the younger man up. The kid mustn’t weigh much he thinks to himself, and it’s true. Orange – Freddy, is just a bag of bones, slim and wiry all at once.
With evident ease, he pushes Orange against the wall, so the young man is sandwiched between the cold plaster, and White, who’s body may as well be giving off steam.
His hard on clashes against Orange’s which is painful, but not unpleasant, and it causes Orange’s eyes to open in strained surprise.
“Ah-hh…” His fingers scrabble at White’s back, and White’s sure it’s going to leave marks, but somehow that doesn’t matter. At least these scars will have something good to remember them by.
Orange lets out another groan, and through some marvel of his skinny agility, manages to get his hand into White’s pants, whilst remaining firmly attached to him at the waist.
Now White’s kisses are fierce and hot and possessive, this boy is his.
Not Blonde’s, not Joe’s, not Nice Guy Eddie’s.
His.
And doesn’t Orange know it.
He pulls at White’s tie with his free hand, pressing their bodies together as close as it’s possible for them to be without actually being classed as the same person.
Orange can feel it building up in the pit of his stomach, and he grits his teeth and knits his eyebrows together.
One hand leaves the tie, and moves up into White’s hair, which White is suddenly conscious of, it’s about a million different shades of grey.
He’s a fucking old man.
But Orange doesn’t seem to give two shits, as his legs tighten around White’s hips, and his fingers tighten around White’s hair.
“F… Fuck…” He tosses his head backwards, where it hits the wall with a loud crack that neither of them notice, more concentrating on the warm, sticky substance coating both their stomachs and Orange’s boxer shorts.
The sight drives White insane, and he presses his hips up fiercely into Orange’s, pistoning wildly back and forth, until he comes more vigorously than he has in quite a few decades.
“Fuck… Shit… Freddy…” His gravelly accent is higher with want and need, and he pulls out the D’s in Orange’s name so that it goes on into a near purr, clinging tightly to the younger man.

They sink to the floor slowly, candlelight flickering over them, sweaty and sticky, grinning like kids.
“I like Christmas.” Orange murmurs distractedly, sitting in White’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
White smiles at him, and kisses him slowly, long and drawn out, with no need to rush anymore.
Orange smiles, and then yawns widely, evidently exhausted, his sweaty head flopping sideways onto White’s chest.
“Yeah. So do I, Freddy.” White murmurs as the younger man eventually drops to sleep.
He still doesn’t tell Freddy his name.
That’ll have to wait for another time.

---

Haha.
:)
I finished!
Never thought I would.
But I’ve not been able to do anything else really.

Been at my granddad’s.
Got an abscess.
Been to see about nine different people including the hospital.
:/
Got the wrong antibiotics twice. xD
So It just got worse. :P
I’ve got the right ones now though.
:]

I’ve been surviving of MS Word and iTunes ‘cause there’s no internet.
D:

Butyeah. I like this piece I guess.
It’s less deep than my other Reservoir Dogs pieces, and it’s got way more pr0n than I’m usually comfortable writing I guess.
^^;;
So, comments?

Quit Bangin' Your Head On The Floor.

2007-06-27T15:08:52Z

We watched Reservoir Dogs in English.
Had to write 350 words on two character's relationships.
This is mine.
Can be read as Slash if you desire it to be so.
:]
Which I do.

Title: Cop.
Author: S’me innit?
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs.
Rating: PG or so, for violence and swearing.
Pairing: Sort of Orange/White.
Summary: White kicks Marvin the cop around a little.
Warnings: Violence, Spoilers, possible slash?

White stares at the cop, the man’s eyes are dark black, and wild and wide, he knows he might not survive and he’s faced with three enraged men in matching black suits and ties. White feels nothing as he launches his foot into the cop’s stomach, hearing the man groan and yelp as his gut lurches, he doesn’t care anymore, he can see Orange out of the corner of his eye, lying slumped down on the ramp, white shirt stained with his own blood. A second kick flies out at the cop, into the base of his spine and he howls, to Pink’s apparent delight.
“Fucking nice kick, man. Right in the spine. Right in the fucking spine!” He laughs, dancing around White in a joyous circle, eyes glittering, like a dog, eager for more. White ignores him, focusing on Orange, and only him, and yet the orange keeps being replaced by the red staining his shirt, clouding his vision, coating the cop in a crust of anger and bitter disappointment.
It shouldn’t have happened to Orange, should’ve happened to Blonde, or Pink, or Joe.
Joe who he’s known for years, Joe who gives him the best jobs, and who trusts him with his own life.
And then there’s Orange. The new guy. The young guy. The one who’s not quite used to all this.
The one he’s finding an odd emotional attachment to.
The one who’s dying in a warehouse, soaked in his own blood.
A final kick, and White staggers back, surprised at the trickle of crimson dribbling down the cop’s face.
His breathing is harsh, and Pink’s looking on in cheerful admiration, and Blonde looks like he knows the exact thoughts that have just run through White’s head.
He manages to walk calmly back over to Orange and kneels down beside him, watching the kid breath rapidly, shallow intakes of air seizing hold of his ribcage in a death grip.
White murmurs gentle encouragement to Orange, and tries to pretend everything’s going to be okay.
Everything’s always going to be okay.

Philosophizing.

2007-06-20T16:08:17Z

Title: Heartbeat
Author: Me. :]
Fandom: Akira.
Summary: Yamagata goes philosophical on yo' ass.
Notes: Unbeta'd, not slash, songfic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Akira, that belongs to Katsuhiro Otomo and Heartbeat belongs to Wire.

I feel icy.
I feel cold.

Yamagata drifted. There was no other way to describe it.
He just sort of hung there, his boots dangling in mid air, as if he was a bird or something.
It was cold up here, wherever he was, and below his steel-capped toes mountains unfolded, majestic and misty under the clear, blue sky.
Yamagata.
Mountain.
Was that why he was here?
Up here in the hills, wondering why he wasn’t falling, waiting for something else.
Something he couldn’t quite remember.
Something he’d been waiting up here for years for.
Something.
Someone?

Is there something here, behind me?
I’m sublime.

From his shoulderblades, so useless in life, now erupted two wings, white as the snow beneath him, so pristine and cliché, in their own right.
They beat lazily, basically for show, Yamagata imagined.
There was no way those slow, sluggish wingbeats kept him in one position up here in the icy air, wind curling around his jeans and t-shirt, sending his dark hair flying backwards into his eyes.
The wind should be sending him tumbling backwards, splattered up the side of one of the rocky peaks, blood and intestines bleaching the snow red.

I’m sublime.

Blood. Blood and ice.
Something triggers, and he gropes desperately for the memory, flashes of de ja vu hitting him in translucent waves, temptingly just out of reach.
A boy.
No, two.
One is laughing, he’s cruel, eyes are wicked and sparking, full of power and something not quite human.
The other is small, angry, full of a fierce, rich life which is so powerful Yamagata has to close his eyes.
There’s a body, twisted and torn, legs bent at the wrong angles, blood pooling.
The shorter boy is cradling it desperately, tears coursing down his face.
The body is rolled over by the toe of the first boy with a sneer, and Yamagata is faced with something achingly familiar.

I am mesmerized, by my own beats.
Like a heartbeat.

It’s him.
He’s dying, and now in his head all he can hear is labored, panicked breathing, and a beating.
A desperate, thrumming noise that squashes his temples, and forces him to his knees, clutching at the sides of his head, still floating, the wings on his back beating to the same slowing thrum.
Agonising thumps as his life flutters away, ebbing off into the distance.
Off into the mountains.
Where it floats away and falls into the mountain’s peak, shattering against the snow, sending his body plummeting back down to Earth.

Like a heartbeat.

Pride.

2007-06-07T16:30:21Z

Title: Pride.
Author: Me.
Rating: PG
Summary: Everyone dies sometime.
Notes: Unbeta'd.

“Why am I here?” Constantine asked in a level voice, trying not to look down at his feet, dangling aimlessly over yawning, milky blackness. The man beside him said nothing, and continued to look out across the universe, light flickering across sallow features, highlighting the hollow cheeks and dark, weary eyes. “Am I dead?” Panic gripped him, grabbing at his heart and shaking with both hands. The man gave a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly in what was just about a smile rather than a grimace.
“Yes.” It was simple, he had no time to explain the great wonders of the universe to someone, something as irrelevant as this. “You only loved yourself, only cared for your own wellbeing. This is your reward.” The word ‘reward’ was said with a sly smirk, the tall man’s angular features suddenly looking a lot more threatening.
“What?” Constantine was unsure what to make of the man’s statement. “My reward? What does this place have to do with anything?” He managed, wondering vaguely why he wasn’t falling, why the two of them were stood completely still, watching the spiral of stars millions of miles below them rotate lazily in a slow whirl.
“You ask too many questions, Constantine.” The man waved a vague hand down at the milky glow below them. “Just consider this, think how high up we are,” He prompted. Constantine did, and ended up only feeling slightly nauseous. “And now think, where’s earth?” The man cocked his head to one side, so that his lank hair fell slightly over his dark eyes and think lips. Constantine looked, narrowed his own eyes, peered down, desperately trying to see something, anything vaguely familiar from his Physics lessons.
“There?” He guessed, stabbing a finger at one of the spiral arms. The man laughed, not quite nastily, but definitely not in any particularly friendly way, either.
“I’m afraid, Constantine,” He shook his head, wrapping his arms around his thin frame tightly as if cold, “That you’re wrong. I’m afraid it was rather a trick question.” He smiled like a crocodile laying on the banks of some mud-drenched river, waiting. “You can’t even see the sun from here.” He waved a brief hand, as if it was merely a trivial issue.
“You can’t see the sun?” Constantine stammered, asking questions again, and not noticing. “But it’s like the biggest thing in the galaxy!” He declared eventually, sounding angrier than he meant. The man grinned delightedly, eyes gleaming in the flickering starlight.
“Far from it, Constantine my friend,” He informed Constantine gleefully. “An insignificant speck. Nothing in the galaxy would change at all if it burnt out. Just some backwater planet would die. Nobody would care. Nothing would look any different.” He scrubbed his nails absently against the long, leather coat he was wearing, and then inspected them carefully.
“But what about me?” Constantine asked in a tiny voice, knowing how the man was going to reply before he even opened his mouth.
“You think that an insignificant dot upon an insignificant dot orbiting an insignificant dot makes any difference in the grand scheme of things?” He moved forwards, eyes sparkling now, hair looking thicker, more full of life, his limbs stronger looking and his skin darker rather than pale white.
“N-no. It can’t be like that. People need to remember me…” Constantine was gripped with a desperate terror, and it was all he could do not to swing at the man in front of him.
“I’m afraid not. Just the way the universe works. Cruel mistress, isn’t she?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Now, I’m going to leave you to float. Above here,” He waved an arm. “For the rest of eternity. To teach you a lesson about how important you are in the grand workings of time and space.”
The man turned, and Constantine grasped out at his coat with desperate fingers.
“No… Please… Have mercy, please…” He pushed out, eyes wild and crazed.
God smiled. The mercy line hadn’t worked for a long time.
Today wasn’t going to be the exception.

smemmah @ 2007-05-29T08:55:00

2007-05-29T08:01:05Z

I know.
I'm lazy.
And Ill.
I'm really sorry.
But I did another of my 7 deadly sins.
:]

Title: Lust
Rating: PG-15
Summary: Some gods have all the fun.
Warnings: M/M, May offend you if Aztec or of Norse religion? Unbeta'd.

"Paiiinalll," Loki's voice was a low, gravelly purr, his blue eyes narrowed into slits, a smirk creeping across his face. Painal looked up blearily, the bottle of beer in his right hand tilting precariously, liquid splashing over the rim and onto the pale, cream carpet. Loki's grin broadened and he managed to crawl the length of the sofa into Painal's lap where he sat, his forehead pressed against the other boy's.
"Wh't're you doin'?" Painal squinted at him, trying to bring Loki's face into focus in front of him.
"I'm seducing you," Loki pulled back, holding onto Painal's shoulders, his blue eyes widening and his red hair falling across his face, giving the illusion of total naivety. "Is that not obvious?" The sly smile returned for just a few seconds.
Painal shook his head, eyes crinkling, flaunting the fact that his once immaculate circles of black eyeliner had smudged beyond recognition.
"I s'pose." He agreed. "I have a girlfriend." It wasn't an invitation for Loki to stop, just a passing statement, coupled with a grin. The beer bottle tripped out of his hand, and onto the floor, where it lay in a pool of its own liquid.
"Mm. I know, lovely girl," Loki agreed, wrapping his legs around Painal's waist, long fingers moving up to hold the other boy's jaw tightly. "Very pretty, not my type."
"You liar!" Painal laughed, mouth opening in an indignant 'o'. "You'll hump anythin' that moves!" The final word was muffled, as Loki took advantage of Painal's open mouth, by pressing his lips hard onto it. Painal made a slight moaning noise, and shifted closer to Loki, hands pushing down on the other boy's back.
It wasn't like this was the first time this had happened, Loki was a firm believer in acting totally impulsively, and Painal, well, Painal was essentially exactly the same, just more Mexican.
The two were both gods, neither acted like it, possibly why they were invited to Bacchus' party so much, both were basically whores. Bacchus was a good guy, immortal, always drunk, always cheery, in his house there was just one long infinite party going on, a house of a million rooms, beer and strobe lighting in all of them.
And that wasn't even an overstatement.
Loki's tongue was warm and wet in Painal's mouth, teasing and playing with the other god's lazily.
"Mmm. You taste of Vodka, Painal. I'm very disappointed, drinking at your age." Loki tutted, sending spikes of reddish brown hair into his eyes, further accentuating the smile playing upon his lips.
"Three million years? Over protective aren't we Loki?" Painal asked with a wiggle of his dark eyebrows.
"Not at all, Painal my Naive little friend." Loki laughed, folding one arm around Painal's neck, pulling him back into the kiss. The other hand moved downwards, unzipping the Mexican god's black jeans with deft, evidently experienced fingers.
Painal's long fingers moved to pull up Loki's t-shirt, tugging it off over his head, and letting it fall into the pool of beer at the foot of the sofa with a wet thud; he grinned approvingly, and Loki flashed the charming grin once more, fingers groping about within Painal's boxer shorts.
Painal let out a slight breath, heavy petting was something that Loki was pretty well known for, and Painal knew he'd be a fool not to take advantage.
His hips ground against the palm of Loki's hand, in short, needy thrusts, and his fingers traced their way across the Norse god's chest, coming to rest at his hips.
They began a steady rhythm, Painal pushing up hard against Loki's hand, in return Loki's crotch rubbing on Painal's thigh every time he pulled back, it was a win-win situation, really.
They lay there for a while, mumbling and groaning, sweating and touching brazenly.
It wasn't love.
Mutual affection was close, but it was merely the idea that each found the other both attractive and convenient at the time.
If there was a better system neither Loki nor Painal could actually be bothered finding it.
No sense in fixing something that wasn't broken.
Loki came first, features scrunching up tightly, letting out a intelligible cry that was muffled into Painal's sweaty shoulder.
The other boy arched forwards, making the fingers on Loki's hand crack, and coating them in stickiness.
"Sorry," He panted with a smirk, quite obviously not sorry at all. "Got carried away." Loki scowled, eyes sparkling.
"So I can see. Now I have to go back to Odin and explain why my fingers are broken." He grumbled, pulling away from Painal, giving the other god some space.
Painal laughed, tucking himself back into his boxer shorts and redoing his jeans.
"I'm sure you can make something up. God of trickery 'n' all that?" He raised an eyebrow, and Loki stuck out his tongue.
"Oh shut up and fuck off." Loki stood up with a wry smile, eye to eye with Painal.
"Seeing as you asked so nicely, Loki," Painal shook his head, and kissed Loki hard on the lips. "Have fun with those fingers."
"Bastard."
"You love it."

Notes:
Loki - Norse God Of Mischief.
Painal - God Of Mischief in South American Aztec Culture.
Black Circles - Painal's mask was black with circles on it to represent stars.
Bacchus - Roman God Of Wine and Partying.

Shakespeare hates your emo poems.

2007-05-20T16:55:23Z

Tearing Down Stars.

As I rip the stars down, they leave holes in the inky blackness,
Sobbing, gaping holes, belching strands of silver,
Vomiting creatures of myth, with long, fragile limbs and dewy eyes,
that clatter across the sky, and fade into the background.

The gaps in the night cry out again, and yet more silver thread coils out,
Falling and shattering into the ocean below them.
A mournful murmuring, like pipes and horns erupts from the tears,
Bursting out, breaking free, Pulling away from the cuts, unbottled,
The mutterings relish their new found freedom,
Ringing out across the waves, silencing everything but themselves.

My heart stops as I see the heavens burn,
Folding and glowing, twisting in beautifully choreographed agony.
The stars are dying in my hands now, writhing and wriggling,
Leaping through my fingers, only to sputter out on the floor.

I smile, and begin to unpin the sky.

smemmah @ 2007-05-14T07:29:00

2007-05-14T06:39:17Z

Title: Madly in like.
Author: Meee.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Wood/Flint
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Slash, Bad Language, Maulings, unbeta’dness.
Summary: None really. ^^;; Marcus is in St Mungo’s. Had this plotbunny for ages. Don't really like the fic, but still.

Oliver Wood had never liked hospitals, especially not St Mungo’s, with its never ending floors and wards full of people lying around groaning and screaming. You’d think someone would take the initiative to soundproof the walls, but obviously not.
“I’m here to see Marcus Flint?” He murmured to the Welcome Witch, who smiled cordially and boomed out a spell in a voice that made Oliver instinctively stand up straight and take his hands out of his pockets. She looked vaguely amused, and Wood grinned sheepishly, proffering a slight shrug. The witch looked down at the parchment that fluttered onto the information desk in front of her, examining the rows of names carefully, and her face darkened slightly.
“Who did you say you were here to see again?” Her cheerful smile had faltered and she looked a little pale.
“Um… Marcus Flint…” Wood told her again, trying not to let worry crawl into his voice.
“Ah… He’s in the Dai Llewellyn ward… But, he’s not very well…”
“Obviously, he’s in hospital, after all…” Wood tried to joke weakly, his chest tightening, suddenly wanting to turn around and leave.
“Yes… But… We’re only letting family see him.” She murmured, twisting her hands together awkwardly.
“I’m his mate.” Oliver gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into the soft wood of the welcome desk. “And I’m going to see him. I don’t care about any of your stupid ‘family’ rules. I’m the only family he’s got. And I want to see him.” He growled, panic clawing at his throat.
“Well… Okay, sir, this is usually quite unorthodox… But, I’ll let you through. I… I do have to ask you to please prepare yourself first.” The witch murmured, averting her eyes, shuffling through her piles of parchment with renewed interest, and waving a man with what appeared to be a muggle cassette player stuck round his nose forward.
“Thank you.” Wood managed to choke out, half walking, half jogging to find Marcus.

The journey upto the ward took what seemed like an age to Wood, and yet once he was stood outside the white doors the urge to just run away returned fiercer and more violent than before.
“Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn. Everyone in the Quidditch world knew of him, the stupidly hazardous – almost suicidal stunts idolized by kids and condemned by adults, but secretly loved by everyone. Ironic really that he was eaten by a chimera. It shouldn’t have happened. He should really, going with the odds, have smashed face first into the ground halfway through the Puddlemere v. Caerphilly match – instead he was eaten by a creature used for tourist photo opportunities. The Dangerous Dai Llewellyn ward for magical bites, wasn’t really where Wood wanted to be right now. But there was no choice in the matter. Not really.

Gearing himself, Wood pushed open the door into the dingy room, which was as bad as Arthur Weasley had described it to Oliver sometime after his snakebite.
The tiny window opposite the door let little light in, and Oliver could see the ivy from the outside pressing hard against the glass pane.
In the center of the ward a cluster of bubbles, glowed dimly, letting a pale blue light wash over all the stillness of the room, sending shadows of beds fluttering up the whitewashed walls.
Slowly and reluctantly he moved forwards, trainers loud in the echoing silence.
“Wood?” A hoarse voice, worn out and damaged managed the one syllable, and Oliver paused.
“Flint?” He asked, knowing full well who it was.
“Why are you here?” He still didn’t turn to look at the source of the voice.
“I always hang around in the Dai Llewellyn ward for kicks, don’t you know that Marcus?” He asked in a dry tone, almost smiling, then remembering the situation.
“Are you here to see me?” Bluntness, but there was hope in that raw, broken voice.
“Yes,” Wood nodded, turning around for the first time to face Flint, who’s face was still half hidden in the gloomy darkness of the room. If he was shocked, he said nothing until: "How’re you feeling?”
“How do I look?” Flint countered with a wheezy laugh, and Oliver had to ignore the prickling at the backs of his eyes.
“Ah. I don’t know. Scars can be sexy?” Wood moved closer, and Flint turned away, wincing as his battered face hit the pillows in his attempt to hide.
“Wow, you should’ve met the elephant man. I wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.” His voice cracked.
“I can’t believe you just implied that the elephant man was hot.” Wood teased softly, both of them desperately skirting round the subject of the accident. Flint turned to look at him, and for the first time Wood saw the other boy’s face completely illuminated by the harsh light.
A long, red scar stretched down the length of Marcus’ face, dragging his eye downwards and the side of his mouth up into an ironic smirk, the skin in between the scar and Flint’s nose was now just planes of smooth flesh, connected by stitches and crumples. His nose was broken violently, laced with further scratches, and one eye was swollen shut; teethmarks pressed into the pale flesh of Flint’s cheek, puncturing straight through into his mouth, leaving holes the size of knuts, raw and crimson.
“Still think scars can be sexy, Wood?” Flint’s voice was deadpan and quiet, looking anywhere other than the other boy’s face.
Wood opened his mouth, and closed it again, unsure of what to say. “Are- are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. Why not?” Marcus murmured quietly, still refusing to look at Oliver. “I used to be a troll. Now they’re gonna have to find something even worse to call me. It’ll be a challenge, I’ll give you that.” He smiled, mouth twisting slightly into a leer that held no humor whatsoever.
“You’ve never been a troll, Marcus,” Oliver told him, leaning in closer. “You don’t look bad in quidditch gear.”
“What are you, gay?” Flint tried to joke, but there was a serious question behind the jibe. Wood shrugged, and smiled coquettishly.
“Let’s say I’m a firm believer in equal opportunities, eh?” He raised his eyebrows, and moved in even closer, breath warm and stinging on Marcus’ fresh wounds. The Slytherin took in a short breath, which got caught somewhere in between his chest and his mouth, then frowned.
“Don’t piss about with me, Oliver.” He warned, and Wood wasn’t completely oblivious to the use of his first name.
“I’m deadly serious, Marcus.” His blue eyes glittered in the light of the bubbles, and he shifted closer pointedly. “You are an arrogant, suicidal maniac, with the grace and tact of a troll in an evening dress, and yet I still manage to fall in like with you.”
“You’ve fallen in like with me?” Flint didn’t look particularly convinced, and one scarred eyebrow was raised contemptuously. Wood nodded curtly.
“I have. I quite enjoy the bone crushing handshakes, to be honest,” Wood was now sat, basically in Flint’s lap, and neither boy felt it essential to make the other move.
“I didn’t know you were into that sort of stuff.” Flint laughed, the noise creaky and torn.
“Ah. You know me. Up for anything.” Wood grinned seductively, and Flint wriggled uncomfortably underneath him, desperately trying to get his crotch away from the other boy.
“It appears you’re up as well.” He sniped, and Marcus knew he’d been caught out.
“Well you do keep wriggling.” He muttered petulantly, glaring at Wood through blackened eyes. “I’m an ordinary kid, save for my tragic disfigurement. Someone wriggles, it’s gonna do something. Hormones and all that.” His face was patched red on the skin that was properly attached, the other grafts remaining pallid as always, serving only to contrast the blush even further.
“Aw. I can get off if you want.” Wood smiled, leaning into Marcus’ face, smelling of butterbeer and mint.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Marcus leant forwards the last few inches and kissed Wood gently, wincing at the pressure on the cuts on his lips, but making the most of it nevertheless. Wood grinned delightedly, and kissed back, his tongue flitting back and forth lazily over Marcus’ split lips, making them sting, serving only to drive Flint further.
Eventually the two pulled apart, Wood beaming wildly, Flint looking shy and yet definitely pleased with himself.
“I’ve fallen madly in like with you as well, Wood,” The patchy, scar tissue blush had returned, and Oliver couldn’t help finding it attractive.

“Well then. ‘S all good, isn’t it?” Wood asked, wiggling his eyebrows, and standing up. “Trolls are very sexy sometimes you know.”
“Great. So, let me get this straight. I’m second choice after John Merrick and Hagrid?” Flint grumbled mock offended, and Wood shrugged.
“Ah, I don’t want them in the way I want you. Despite their tragic disfigurements and, or troll-like looks.”
“In the way you want me?” Marcus looked vaguely confused, and Wood rolled his eyebrows.
“You know.” He tutted.
“No-oo… What?” Flint rubbed at the main scar on the side of his face, staring at wood carefully.
“For Merlin’s sake. Be my fucking boyfriend, Flint.” Wood shook his head. “You are thick sometimes.”
“Really?” Flint’s eyes widened, and he winced at the shock to the bruising. Wood nodded, and kissed him again gently.
“Really.”

---

DADAAAAH.
First thing I’ve written in ages that’s over 1.5k words long.
Originally what prompted the idea was just the fact that I liked the name of the “Dangerous Dai Llewellyn” ward.
So It took off from there.
I feel bad for mauling Marcus.
I don’t know what actually happened to him.
I’ll leave it to your imagination.
I mean no offense to either John Merrick, or Robbie Coltrane.
Legends that they are.
^^
Commentzorx?

"Did she put up a fight?"

2007-05-12T23:35:30Z

Title: Finding Fault.
Author: Me.
Fandom: Grease.
Pairing: Danny/Kenickie.
Summary: Fluffy smutty drabble. It was gonna be longer, but I'm shagged. I'm going to sleep instead. xD Sorry.

“It’s not normal,” Danny protests weakly, although having a half naked Kenickie straddling his hips currently makes it pretty difficult to make a convincing argument. The guy in question raises an eyebrow, looking amused, and shakes his head exasperatedly, grinding his pelvis into Danny’s firmly.
“Probably not. When’s it been a problem, before, huh?” Kenickie asks, his fingers pressing either side of Danny’s head, fingers grabbing at the strands of dark hair to stabilize himself on Danny’s hips. The other boy realizes that he can’t actually find fault with that point, his breath quickens as Kenickie’s rubbing becomes more furious and punctuated, hips twitching to a silent beat. “Just tell me to stop, Zucco, you know I will.” He grins triumphantly, sweat dripping off his nose onto Danny’s torso.
“Fuck you K’nick.” Danny growls, half-laughing. Kenickie raises his eyebrows slightly, and moves in closer to Danny, open mouth suddenly pressed to his.
“Hey, you asked.” Kenickie shrugs, smirking into the kiss.

Haha. I even got a Kenickie icon. :]

2007-05-09T23:17:00Z

Title: Hydromatic.
Author: Lolme.
Fandom: Grease.
Pairing: Danny/Kenickie
Rating: PG?
Notes: Unbeta'd crackfic with no plot. Because I can. :]

“All I’m sayin’ K’nick, is that I’m not sure I wanna be with her y’know?” Danny slurs into his drink, head resting on the bar in an attempt to stop it from spinning wildly. Kenickie looks down at him and nods almost approvingly, with the solemn frown of someone who’s quite obviously completely out of their mind on beer.
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah… Nah. I don’t even know what y’talkin’ about Zucco. Sorry.” The other boy confesses with an apologetic smirk, and lays his head down in front of Danny’s. Kenickie’s breath is warm and smells of beer and tobacco, laced with whatever the hell he’d eaten earlier.
Rizzo probably.
Danny snickers to himself at that thought, and Kenickie pokes him in the chest, demanding he shares the joke.
“I was just thinkin’ about what your breath smelt like. And it smells of… Shit.” He mumbles, trying to pretend he could quite evidently remember the last part of the sentence.
Kenickie lets out a very unKenickie-ish giggle, tongue poking out of his mouth, face red with the heat and the closeness and the beer. That just sets Danny off as well, and the two sit there, heads on the bar, laughing at nothing at all., shoulders shaking violently with badly concealed sniggers.
“Hah. Well. Yeah. It does…” Kenickie eventually manages, and Danny’s suddenly aware of how close together their faces are, and how easy it would be just to move forwards a few centimeters.
He tests this theory. It turns out Kenickie is better than his girlfriend ever was.
“Huh. Fag.” Danny laughs, pulling away, grinning. Kenickie raises his eyebrows and manages a coy wiggle. “You wish, Zucco.” He smirks, and his hand curls back behind Danny’s head, and proves his point.

You know that I ain't braggin', she's a real pussywagon. :D

2007-05-09T22:27:37Z

D'you know what I feel like writing?
Grease!Slash.
:]
It's so... There.
Not to mention I love Kenickie.
Hah.
Might write a drabble.
^^

Snow.

2007-05-02T06:34:30Z

Title: Snow.
Fandom: Akira.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Kai and Yama muse on snow. [not slash]
Warnings: Unbeta’d, bad language.

It was snowing.
For the first time Kai could remember in Neo-Tokyo, it was snowing.
Where he’d lived as a kid, on the coast it had snowed a few times, but he couldn’t recall it ever happening in the huge, smoggy city he now called home.
“Yamagata. Look!” He grinned, eyes shining, gazing out of the cracked window of their Business Studies classroom. Yamagata lifted his head from the desk briefly, hair flattened into a near perfect straight line.
“Huh?” He managed to grunt, evidently still severely hung over from the previous night, his dark eyes bleary and stuck together with sleep.
“It’s snowing!” Kai grinned, poking furiously at the dirty glass.
“Nah. ‘S not.” Yamagata frowned, lips pursed, forehead wrinkled. Kai nodded enthusiastically, and Yamagata leant over and pressed his entire face against the glass for a few seconds.
“So it is.” He murmured, not sounding the slightest bit interested.
“Well?” Kai blinked, waiting for some sort of response from the other boy.
“Well what?” Yamagata frowned, pillowing his head on his arms, preparing to go back to sleep.
“Well… It’s snowing! It’ll be all white and awesome ‘n’… Shit.” He shrugged, giving a last ditch attempt to enthuse the taller boy.
“K’suke. It’ll be slippy, and crappy and cold. Bad biking. Bad walking. Not enough for a snow day. It’s an incon… Inconst… Thing. That makes stuff difficult.” He grumbled, scratching absently at the desk with the nib of his biro.
“Inconvenience.” Kai sniffed and sunk back into his chair, the moulded plastic digging uncomfortably into his bony hips.
“Yeah, that. Anyway, the fuck’s up with you? You look like I just ran over your cat.” Yamagata asked, although there was an undertone of worry. Maybe that was just Kai’s imagination. He wasn’t quite sure.
“Nah. You’ve just turned me into some bitter bastard like you. I like snow.” Kai sniped petulantly with a slight shrug.
“Why?” Yamagata turned to face him, looking up from his vague scribblings across the desk.
“Why not? ‘S pretty. Clings to stuff, makes it look less of a big fuckin’ pile of shit.” Kai grumbled. Yamagata laughed at that.
“Hah. Fag. I knew you took fuckin’ creative writing, or whatever.” He joked in an almost pleading way, wanting to put the whole ‘snow’ issue away permanently, amazed that something so stupid could start an argument.
“Fuck you, Yamagata. Go back to sleep.” Kai growled, turning away. Yamagata blinked, hurt, for a few seconds, then settled back down with a worried glance at Kai’s back.
Kai gritted his teeth and watched the flakes fall, wondering vaguely if anyone in this whole, filthy city saw it through his eyes.

smemmah @ 2007-04-30T16:16:00

2007-04-30T15:17:46Z

Apologies for lack of posting.
I've been really ill.
):
I'm working on something right now.
Hopefully it'll be out soon.
Sorry again!
-Smem. :]

Chastity.

2007-04-16T17:38:15Z

Virtues.
Chastity
Abstinence
Liberality
Diligence
Patience
Kindness
Humility

Sins.
Lust
Gluttony
Greed
Sloth
Wrath
Envy
Pride

Reet. Here's the deal.
I plan to try and write one original piece for each.
Seven sins, and seven virtues.
I don't know if they'll all involve the same people, or be linked in any particular way - it just seemed an interesting idea.
=]

I come baring my first fic, which is chastity.
Enjoy?

Title: Chastity.
Author: Smem.
Summary: 620 days. And they don't know each other's names.
Warnings: Slash, Unbeta'd.

Chastity
It’s a kiss. Nothing else, just a simple press of the lips, and the businessman looks at the punk carefully, mild brown eyes taking in the lanky youth beside him, long legs folded up underneath him on the bench, green spikes of hair fluttering in the warm breeze. The businessman smiles slightly over the rims of his glasses, and the punk returns the grin nervously.
They’ve been sat together for nearly two years. On this park bench, for an hour every lunch time, side by side in complete silence, catching sly glances at one another when they think the other isn’t watching.
“Six hundred and twenty,” The punk murmurs. His voice is lower than the businessman expects, hoarse and yet vaguely melodic.
“Six hundred and twenty what?” He asks, tongue feeling oddly alien in his mouth.
“Hours we’ve sat together.” The punk looks up through dark eyelashes, smirking ever so slightly.
“That’s… About twenty five full days.” The businessman notes with a smile, placing his briefcase on the ground beside them carefully.
“Wow. That’s ages.” The punk looks away, fiddling with a rip in his sprayed on jeans, long fingers twisting around the frayed edges of the hole.
“So you’re gay?” The businessman has never been one to beat around the bush.
“You’re the first bloke I’ve kissed, don’t get me wrong,” The youth blushes slightly at the bluntness, his scowl wavering.
“I’m honoured,” The businessman raises his eyebrows, trying not to admit how attractive he just found that blush.
“Why, are you?” The punk shifts slightly on the park bench, picking at the bottom of his boots, trying to look as if he’s not interested.
“Am I what?” The suit looks curious. This boy is at least ten years younger than him, completely different end of the spectrum, with his ripped clothes and DIY look, but there’s something stunning about his narrow face, prominent cheekbones and lips, and glittering eyes.
“Gay.” The punk suggests with an almost seductive voice, yet it’s overlaid mostly with nerves and a cautious innocence.
“I’m not picky, to be honest,” The businessman toys with his sandwich which is lying forlornly on his lap, pulling strips of crust off, and tossing them into the pond across the pathway.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” The punk frowns at the bits of bread bobbing on top of the water. “You’re too thin. You should eat your food. I kept meaning to say something,” his voice trails off.
“Geeze, I thought I’d left my mum, already,” The older man teases, touching the punk’s knee gently. The contact is unexpected, and for the punk, it’s over too soon.
“Sorry,” The boy mumbles sheepishly, his cheeks flushing pink again. The businessman tilts his head to one side, the curious fascination with this soft spoken punk – an oxymoron, surely? – returning. A soft touch again, as the older man replaces his hand, watching the boy, unblinking. Gingerly the businessman drops the rest of his sandwich onto the floor, his now free hand reaching up to grasp the boy’s face carefully.
“Ah…” A fluttery breath from the punk, who moves forwards ever so slightly, lips parting. A second kiss, still as gentle and chaste as before, but this time with slightly open mouths.
The businessman tastes of mint, and the punk tastes of smoke, the two seemingly opposite flavours suddenly combining, mingling into one which somehow works.
“It’s two o’clock,” The businessman pulls away, looking unhappily at his watch. They both know what this time. The punk nods, his green spikes fluttering again.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
And that’s how it began.

Droogies. :]

2007-04-13T22:38:55Z

Title: Horrorshow.
Author: Smem.
Fandom: A Clockwork Orange.
Pairing: Dim/Pete, Pete/OFC.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nadsat, Slash, Het, Unbeta'd.
Notes: Only a little Nadsat. Translation at the bottom. Part two of Droogs Don’t Run, set near the end of the book (Three years on) but can be read as standalone

“Dim, This is my wife,” Pete smiles a little too broadly, his grin tight and strained, and Dim regards the two of them with obvious contempt, his lip curling slightly.
“Dimitri,” He snaps, obviously some pride inside him is completely ruined.
“Beg your pardon?” Pete frowns, worried at the man’s response. His wife clings a little tighter to his arm.
“My name, is Dimitri,” Dim snarls again, as if it’s Pete that’s stupid. “Or Officer.”
“Officer?” All this is just a little too much for Pete, who turns to his wife, who looks torn between fear and concern. “Would you mind leaving us, Dear?” He asks her gently. Dim makes an irritated noise, and glares at Pete’s spouse with raw hate. She scurries off fast as anything he’s ever seen.
“Don’t make exceptions on my behalf, Pete,” Dim drawls bitterly, his voice low “After all, I am only poor, stupid Dim, aren’t I? Got dirty work to do? Get me to do it. That was always the way.” He mutters heatedly, voicing his opinion aloud for the first time in three years.
“You know that’s not true, Dim!” Pete declares loudly, his mouth opening to protest, although he knows Dim’s right.
“Yes, it is. For you, I wasn’t even worth anything, just a warm body, a quick shag, bit of the old in out?” He spits, squaring up to Pete, who suddenly wishes he’d never approached his old friend. “Oh my brother. If only you could’ve viddied me now, back then. I would’ve smecked so hard, I would have died, dear Pete, you and your little ptitsa.” The nadsat crawls back into Dim’s voice, shocking Pete how easily it comes back to him. His wife looks across from the records she’s flicking through, mild, blue eyes worried. Pete swings back to look at Dim, and sees his eyes, all dark black and smoldering and full of anger and resentment.
He flashes back briefly, being pressed against a counter, humping and gasping furiously, seeing only those eyes, and he swallows thickly.
“Dim… I never meant to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry,” His voice is tiny, and the fight seems to go out of his old friend, who looks saddened at this.
“Too late for that, Pete, my little Droog. Too late for us,” He nods glumly at the woman over by the boxes of records, looking through the ballads she seems to love so much.
“I know. I wish I’d been a cleverer kid,” Pete murmurs. ”Wish I’d realized what I’d got before it was too late. Now look at me.” His tone is neutral, and Dim smiles tiredly.
“So do I, Pete. Viddy well, little brother. Any time you need a warm body.” With that, and a slight raise of eyebrows, and incline of the head, Dim is gone, leaving only a slight scent of blood and milk that makes Pete’s head spin.

Viddy – See
Smeck – Laugh
Ptitsa – chick (slang for woman)
Droog – Friend
Viddy Well – A phrase meaning sorta ‘See you around’ or ‘Take care’

9 Drabbles.

2007-04-12T21:07:28Z

A few shorter than short Drabblies. :]
9 Keywords.
9 Different fandoms.
9 Drabbles.
All Slash.
All PG-13 or so.
:]

Fear
Yamagata is stoned.
Off his head completely.
He’s had too much to drink, and too little to sober himself up.
That’s the only reason he kissed Kai.
Nothing to do with him realising he liked boys.
Yamagata’s not a fag.
And he’s not scared of anything.

Liar
Orange is a liar.
Not even a good one.
And yet somehow he’s mixed up in all of this shit when all he wants is…
Well. He doesn’t fucking know anymore.
He wants to help innocent people.
Stop crime, all that stuff he got taught at the academy.
And yet somehow, getting sucked off by Mr White seems a lot better than solving mysteries.

Bend
Dervish likes Kernel.
Likes is an understatement, really.
Kernel is Dervish’s walking wet dream.
Kernel is also straight.
And yet Dervish can’t help wondering if he can be persuaded to bend.

Discoveries
Wood stood under the spray of the shower, hands moving faster than Flint can see.
He’s muttering something, and Flint’s eyes widen when he hears what it is.
Wood writhes and moans like a woman, yelling Flint’s name.
Flint’s always liked Scottish accents.

The End?
It’s the end of the world.
Again.
The two men lie side by side on the cot that smells of sour milk and sweets.
“Fuckit.” Spike murmurs, staring pointedly at Xander.
For once, Xander’s inclined to agree.

Love.
Rafter Man is dead.
The realization hits Joker square in the chest.
Rafter Man is dead.
And Joker forgot to mention he loved him.

Thanks.
“You wear bullets well,” Jackson tells him.
Upham smiles, and bows his head.
Acceptance is an odd thing.
With it come attachments, attachments Upham got warned never to have, at church as a kid.
“Thanks.” Is all he says.

Remember?
Maxxie hates hospitals.
He hates Tony as well.
So why’s he even here?
Chris’ arms wrap tightly around him, pulling him in closer.
Maxxie suddenly remembers.

Clockwork!Slash.

2007-04-11T22:54:16Z

Title: Droogs Don’t Run.
Author: Smem.
Fandom: A Clockwork Orange.
Pairing: Dim/Pete.
Rating: R
Warnings: Nadsat, Slash, Unbeta'd, No Real Plot.
Notes: Nadsat glossary is included. It’s not difficult to understand though, tbh.

He comes before your mother; he comes before your lust.
Droogs don’t run.

Dim stumbles in, laughing that annoying laugh; that Pete seems to both love and hate all at once, his boots thumping on the wood floor, crashing and grinning. For once Pete’s actually glad his parents aren’t here, that his mother’s off whoring herself whilst his dear old father works his fingers to the bone as a security guard, down at the closed metalwork factories.
He smirks as Dim moves in and kisses him hard, tasting of milk and blood.
“Cheest your rot out!” Pete pushes him back, splaying a hand over the older boy’s chest. There’s no reason for the hostility anymore. They aren’t out with Alex, not indulging in the old Ultra-Violence, why bother?
“Appy polly loggies,” Dim laughs, and crashes his way through into the kitchen, Pete wandering slowly behind him. “Might one be permitted to use this chasha?” Dim holds up a squat, brown cup sat on the side of the sink, and Pete gives a shrug.
“You may. Although I don’t know what’s been in there.” He warns, knowing full well that Dim will take absolutely no notice. “Dim, you need to call your Em. Let her know you’re over here?”
Ironic, really, Pete thinks – they’ve just been out, beaten numerous innocent people up, raped some innocent woman, destroyed a man’s life’s work for no reason other than the thrill and the moloko, and yet Dim still has to ring home when he stays at Pete’s house.
“Yeah. Hang on,” Dim gargles with the water noisily, and Pete just stands and watches, torn between disgust and amusement.
“Look, I'm ittying for a shower. I'll be back in a few minootas, remember to phone your Em, and don't eat the beef that's in there - it's got fur on.” Sometimes Pete feels like Dim’s mum. The older boy nods, and grins stupidly, making Pete remember just why he’s sleeping with this guy.

The shower is cold, obviously his Dad used all the hot water before he left, inconsiderate bastard.
Pete stands there, goosebumps rising on his arms and legs. He thinks about what Alex did to Dim earlier in the Korova Milkbar, it wasn’t fair really. But then, maybe he’s just a little biased nowadays. He wonders what Alex’d say if he knew two of his very own Droogs were currently going at it like dogs in heat.
Then he decides, he’d rather not know, to be honest, and carries on soaping and shivering under the icy water.
There’s crashes and thuds from somewhere in the flat, and Pete shakes his head exasperatedly.
“Dim, my brother. If you’ve broken anything, and my Em viddies it, you’ll be out on a prayer,” He yells.
“appy polly loggies. I’ll tidy it up,” Dim mumbles sheepishly from the kitchen, and there’s a sweeping sound of pottery being pushed into the plastic dustbin.

"I didn’t eat the beef.” Dim looks proud, and Pete raises an amused eyebrow.
“So I can viddy, Dimitri.” He chides, knowing full well how much like Dim’s mother he’s acting.
“You sound like my Em. Shut your rot," Dim grumbles at the use of his first name, and then stands up, a few inches taller than Pete. Pete, in turn, moves forwards, kissing Dim hard, his skin prickling and warm.
“If I’m so much,” He kisses, and then pulls away briefly “Like your dear old Em, then you won’t be wanting the old in out, in out I suppose?” He asks, and Dim makes an obvious noise of annoyance. Pete may be smarter than him, but he’s not going to let that stop him in any way.
Dim’s arms wrap around Pete’s waist, tugging the slightly damp boy into him, where Pete has no qualms about being. Slowly the older boy trails his fingers up the curve of Pete’s back, across warm, moist skin, slipping up into damp curls.
A tiny moan from Pete, who wriggles into Dim even closer than before, mouth parting slightly. The older boy responds, by pushing Pete backwards, almost forcefully into one of the wooden counters, causing him to bend over backwards slightly, a smile playing on his lips.
Before he knows it, Pete is pulling at Dim’s clothes, desperately, his breathing coming in pants, and he’s lost his towel somewhere along the way. Dim is gasping and grinning, and biting at Pete’s lips, bruising and eager. That’s always Dim, brutal, but desperate to please.
He’s lucky Pete’s a bit of a masochist, really. The aforementioned masochist lets out a breathy moan, as Dim’s hot skin presses hard against his, dry and burning.
"Dim. Dim, I’m going to-" His whispered protest trails off into another groan, as Dim’s crotch presses hard into his, ramming the small of his back into the cabinet top. “Ah…” Is all Pete manages, before Dim’s tongue invades his mouth, probing, clawing at the back of his throat. Pete’s teeth clamp down around the foreign body suddenly found in his mouth, and the pain merely spurs Dim on, thrusting his hips up fiercely into Pete’s, the taste of blood flowing easily around their mouths.
Pete’s hands slide down Dim’s back, coming to rest wound around the taller boy’s waist, nails digging in every time Dim pushes his hips up.
Dim makes a feral noise, and his hands press into the counter, either side of Pete, pinning him in place.
“Di-iim…” Pete moans, his hips twitching like one of the whores in the Korova Milkbar, and Dim loving this even more.
Pete’s arches forward and comes violently, his entire body wracked with spasms.
For someone who lives upto his namesake, Dim sure knows what he’s doing.

The Credits.
Droogs Don’t Run – Cock Sparrer.

The Glossary.
Cheest = Wash
Rot = Mouth
Chasha = Cup
Em – Mum
Moloko – Milk
Itty – Go
Minoota – Minute
Droog – Friend
Viddy – See
In Out, In Out – C’mon. Don’t be naïve. :)

The Author’s Note.
Haha. I had fun writing this.
I love Nadsat, I’m slowly learning it, and this entire piece was written without a Nadsat Glossary.
Clockwork Orange slash was never something I thought about, but the lyrics to the Cock Sparrer song seemed to fit with the idea.
I liked how the pairing ended up, it reminds me a little of Kai/Yama.
I read somewhere Dim is short for Dimitri.
So, I used that I s’pose. :D.

Reservoirfic. :]

2007-04-07T23:44:59Z

Well, I promised to keep this journal reasonably updated.
:]
So I come bearing Reservoir!fic.

Title: Liar
Rating: PG
Pairing: White/Orange
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs.
Summary: Orange has some thinking to do.
Notes: Unbeta'd.

Throw down your gun, you might shoot yourself,
Or is that what you're trying to do?

His hands are shaking, from alcohol, cigarettes, nerves - he doesn't know anymore.
"What's up with you, Orange?" White turns to him, half annoyed, half concerned, eyes screwed up under his sunglasses.
"Nothin'. Nothin', I'm fine." He tries to sound sincere, but his voice quakes slightly.
"You're a fucking awful liar, kid." White stops the car, and this time the concern is far more obvious.
"If only you knew," Orange murmurs quiet and hoarse, looking down at his fingers, knotted together, trembling.
"Huh? didn't catch that, kid. Speak up?" White looks at him in that way that makes Orange just want to spill everything. If he spills everything though, he'll lose White for good.
And rest of them won't get caught the heist'll get pulled off successfully.
The brief thought wanders through his mind, and suddenly Orange realises how much of a back seat that philosophy has taken in retrospect.
"N-Nothin'. Like I said, I'm fine, honest."
"Orange, I'm gonna get pissed off in a second. Tell me, it can't be that bad." White grunts, turning to face Orange, so that the younger man can smell the smoke and mint on his breath.
I'm an undercover cop. I'm supposed to be getting all you guys thrown in jail, and to top it all, somehow I've fallen in love with you, I don't even know your name.
Yeah... 'Cause that'll go down a storm.
"I love you." He manages. It's half right. He's not exactly lying.
White looks stunned for a seconds, his eyebrows crawl up his forehead.
"Wow... Wasn't expecting that, Orange." He murmurs, leaning forwards onto the steering wheel, glancing sideways at Orange, a curious look in his dark eyes.
"Shit, I'm sorry... I... I just... I don't know. I don't have an excuse I guess," He mumbles, sat bolt upright in the chair, watching his hands intently. White lets out something that might be a chuckle, or may just be a breath out, and the next thing Orange knows is that the older man's hand is curled around his.
"When did I tell you to apologise?" White mock-demands, mouth tugging upwards slightly into a smile.
"I... You, you didn't." Somewhere in his desert of a mouth, Orange manages to croak out the words. White nods slowly, and exasperatedly, as if Orange is a little kid.
"Well then don't." The older man shakes his head, and laughs hesitantly, his fingers feeling heavy and numb on top of Orange's, not necessarily a bad thing he supposes.
"Sorry." Orange murmurs again, looking straight ahead at the traffic sprinting past, paying no attention whatsoever to them.
White watches the kid scrutinously from his vantage point, sprawled over the wheel.
"C'mere," He crooks a finger at Orange, who looks confused, then leans over. White smiles slightly, breathing in the scent of smoke, soap and aftershave which, after only a few days, has already invaded the car.
"What?" Orange's voice is a hoarse whisper, and he sounds slightly short of breath.
Lazily White leans forwards, pressing his lips softly onto Orange's.
There's no tongues, no rough clawing fingers, no desperation - just gentle teasing, which throws Orange off completely, he's unsure quite how to react, and before he can figure out that he wants to kiss back, White has pulled away.
"My name, is Larry," White grins, sitting up abruptly, leaving the younger man looking quite out of it, smiling ever so slightly, still leaning over at that awkward angle.
"We'll discuss this after the job. See what we want to do." White suggests, his eyes glowing. Orange tries to look happy.
When you're in prison, Larry? I'm sure you'll really want to see me.
"Mmhm. Yeah. Cool," He nods, attempting to sound enthused, when in fact, all admitting the secret's done is make things even worse.
Rejection Orange could have coped with - it would've made the arrests easier, but this?
No.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
He wasn't supposed to fall for one of these guys.
And definitely not as hard as he has.
White starts up the car, and they carry on driving, Orange pulling the stuffing out of the seats, pretending everything's going to be okay.

Slashy skinfic.

2007-03-24T22:46:41Z

Title: Confusion.
Author: Smem
Fandom: Skins.
Pairing: Maxxie/Chris, (implied Chris/Angie)
Rating: R, to be safe?
Summary: Takes off after the final ep. Maxxie and Chris are confused about one another.
Warnings: Slash, Spoilers, unbeta'd

Chris is warm beside him, curled up on his side, looking for all the world, like a little kid.
The duvet is pulled up tight under his chin, the orange of the cover striking against his slightly washed out skin.
Carefully Maxxie leans forwards, brushing the dark hair out of Chris' face, showing off the dark bags under his eyes that he wears so well.
Tony's still in hospital, no-one's quite sure what's going on anymore, Cassie's in Scotland, Sid and Michelle have gone to pieces, and Anwar's... Too busy with his new girlfriend, apparently.
Chris wriggles in his sleep, lets out a little moan, and it's not one of those moans either, tonight.
"Chris. Chris, are you okay?" Maxxie asks, rolling onto his side, so he's facing Chris directly. The other boy says nothing, and continues to mumble and wriggle, his incoherent words interspersed with gentle keening sounds.
The bruise under Chris' eye is nearly gone, Merve had quite a right hook on him for such a campy bloke, Maxxie thinks to himself, allowing his fingers to trace the dark edges of the mark lightly. Chris' eyelids flutter slightly, coal black eyelashes trembling in retaliation.
All of a sudden, Maxxie can see just why Angie was sleeping with his friend. He's never once considered Chris attractive.
Yet here they are, sharing Maxxie's bed, in the wee hours of the morning, waiting with the cordless phone and both of their mobiles for some news, on something - anything.
Maxxie reaches over, curls his long fingers under Chris' chin, and moves in, slowly and nervously.
Maxxie's eyes close, just as Chris' open.
Their lips brush together, and Maxxie pulls that face, the anguished, upset Maxxie face that is only seen in the direst of situations.
Chris watches unbeknown to the other boy, a wave of pity and love and just plain weirdness crashing through his body.
Making a snap descision, Chris' hands move to the small of Maxxie's back, and the blonde boy's eyes fly open in fear, very blue, and very surprised.
At first he's about to pull away, but Chris' hands shoot upwards, to the back of Maxxie's head, long fingers twisting through the fine strands of hair.
Questioning eyes are met with a slight opening of Chris' mouth, coaxing Maxxie to do the same; the other boy complying immediately.
"Max," Chris pulls back, but holds Maxxie's head in place, inches in front of him. "I... I dunno what this means, it's all a bit... You know, er... New to me?" He hopes Maxxie understands, his forehead wrinkling, concern crossing his face.
"I know, Chris," The other boy nods, after all, it's new to him too - Chris? That's a little disconcerting, in a good way. "I won't push you into anything,"
Chris smiles at him. He already knows that, after all, it's Maxxie. "A -and, you can call me a slut, or whatever else you like, like 'Chelle did, but I-"
"Shh." And Chris pushes their lips together again, all too aware of the raging hard on he's got through his red bermuda shorts. Maxxie kisses back, eyes sliding shut again, tongue darting forwards, Chris' repeating the motion. Maxxie's hands waver over the dark haired boy's hips, and Chris senses the tentative reluctance, and extrapolates his fingers from the blonde hair, before pushing Maxxie's hands firmly over his ass.
Maxxie feels Chris smile, as his hands travel back up the length of Maxxie's spine, lingering at his shoulders.
Their two bodies crash together, Chris is sweating, his hands slowly slipping beneath the waistband of the other boy's boxers, the warmth of him so welcome.
Maxxie lets out a slight squeak, then an intake of breath, as his own arousal accidentally manages to find Chris' through an entanglement of limbs.
"Wanna go all the way?" Chris asks, pulling back ever so slightly. Maxxie nods, unable to speak, tongue thick in his mouth. "Good."
Chris is grinning, and pushing the boxers down, over Maxxie's hips, and god, he's so close...
An urgent beeping, and they freeze.
"What the fuck do they want?" Maxxie asks, glancing fiercely at Chris' mobile phone currently vibrating in little circles on the nightstand, playing Vivaldi's four seasons.
He pulls away from the warmth, and picks it up.
"Hello?" He asks, sounding far hoarser than he intended.
"Chris?" It's Michelle, her voice tearful.
"Maxxie." He manages, unsure as to whether the tears are good, or bad.
"It's Tony." And the phone goes dead.