patterns with a cork on the tablecloth

rooftop_answers @ 2005-05-17T22:06:00

2005-05-18T02:05:52Z

Three bucks says the three hotshots of the lecture are Ducklings next season at PPTH...I mean, they're listed in the credits as "Caring Student" (Cameron, anyone?), "Rebellious Student" and "Keen Student". Oi. Spell it out a little louder, cheerleaders.

(I digress; I cried when Jimmy, Allie, Bobby, Ricky and Lisa all filed in slowly to listen to what we all knew we'd hear one day.)

And please note - was Stacy cheating on her husband with Wilson, or was that just my understanding?

rooftop_answers @ 2005-03-23T23:17:00

2005-03-24T04:29:04Z

This week's episode of House had me tied in knots on the floor with the whole knock-down-a-duckling game.

i consider it in this manner, for easier, less biassed opinion:

if one of the CSIs were to go, which would it be?
the answer is easily Nicky or Warrick. Equal in playing ground, though they'd each be missed sorely.

how does this help decide which duckling House will let go (if, and I doubt he will, he does let one go.)

If House is the equivalent to Grissom, Willows to Cuddy since her 'promotion' in season 5, then Sidle is like Cameron, and Chase is like Sanders in that they are both slightly lower-end (due to Chase's intensive care position - don't get me wrong, I'd see him gone last of the three without batting an eye.), leaving Foreman and Wilson as Brown and Stokes (respectively, since Wilson and Stokes have similar heroic-persona tendancies) and thus, Brown and Stokes being the most likely candidates for pink-slips, and Stokes' House-equivalent not being a duckling and thus not being an option, Foreman is (by my estanged deductive logic) the one who will be going.

But, who am I kidding? 'Rick's not leaving Vegas anytime soon.

Other trains to hijack:

1. Foreman's already threatened to leave. Threatening him to leave is slightly redundant. 2. Chase commited an offence against House. Naturally, House should fire him. Audiences don't like predictability. Conclusion: Cameron's going.
And, what, leave only one woman on the show? It's doubtful. So back to the CSI theory.

My head's spinning.

ryndy ficlet, A

2005-01-19T11:36:28Z

I had sort of a weird conversation tonight, and then, while watching the OC, Sandy told Ryan he looked good with a shiner, and...you know what? It would have strangled me had it not gotten out.
And those two thoughts were so unrelated they take eight degrees. *chews nails* Hope you like it, damnit.
Furthermore, I shall get you back, you know who you are, and I'll confuse you SO terribly you'll forget your name - both of them - and just let me think of a Plan and Get Back to You. *evil grin*

Decimal, Quiet and Scheming.

You had him in handcuffs – bad, in a good way – and his tanned, muscled body looked so undone beneath you.

When you’d discovered that the boy you’d taken in as son was gay, you hadn’t bothered with discretion: you’d pulled him aside thirteen minutes before supper, side-tracked the issue for eighty-three seconds, and four minutes after Seth and Kirsten had begun their corn and ribs you’d walked in after him, lips red, cheeks red, and you’d ignored Seth when he’d raised an eyebrow at you. You’d spent the whole of supper with Ryan’s foot running up and down your calf, getting higher every time, and once you’d chocked down your food you excused yourself – shower, you’d said – and he had met you in there seven minutes later, unclothed, half-aroused. That time had been your gentlest time – his movements careful, uncertain, and once he’d made you come you’d raked your fingernails down his back and he’d moaned so loud – for after that you had discovered his intimate kinks, his violent nature finding an outlet after all.

Tonight, you had him in handcuffs – he looks up at you, still now uncertain but for all the right reasons this time – and you hear him growl, low in his throat, when you rake your teeth down his jaw, your fingers up his thigh.

rooftop_answers @ 2005-01-18T19:40:00

2005-01-19T00:42:39Z

Perhaps the reason I love poetry is because I can be as transparent, as see-through, as naked as I like with my thoughts and still, those words and imageries will mean something else to everyone. This thing I wrote a handful of nights back...it isn't a favorite, but it's a thought-through sort of cute.

Trial

Distractions in a clamour,
I’ve been told to change and
here you are.
The picture-show’s had us talking for days,
Each time less far and less disengaged.
Obscure, tight, subtle,
I am your foil, your audience, your friend,
this hesitant banter is our trial,
though I’ve never been lightfooted,
but perhaps come spring, cloudless skies
and frequent picture-shows
will mark our days.

three poems, K

2005-01-14T13:54:27Z

I've never posted poems here before. These aren't morbid or about stupid or cheesy things, however, so I figured I may as well show you. There are three - one and three are related, the second is about something else entirely. Thank you, REM, for the contribution of 'cartoon smile' to the second. They're all short, by the by, more so than normal. Yes. I hope you enjoy them.

Foxhunt, Your Fashion

these silken eyes, my dividends,
watch the foul afternoon, sickened.
My playtime and puppet, you
will resist subtlety,
breathe, sly, high-pitched, the sky
comes down,
those surly spies won't see my
escaping frustration.

One-oh-Three Frequency

Star-gazer,
crystal glass time continuum.
look up.
Imaginary imagery,
constellations consent to moulds.
smile, you're forgiven.
You walk on everyday cranberry and
only breathe when no one's watching.
cartoon smile,
bite your lip, tongue,
because you're damaged, and an
inside-out deep breath.
count to ten, star-looker,
I can't carry your dreams forever.

Not a Love Poem

Cherry-apple sauce,
All-inclusive cost -
count the clocks.
Today you smiled my way.
Echoes through the stairs and
down the corridor,
the carpet's scuffed and I'm
surprised when you push me down.
Lime or red or midnight makeup,
you are, we are,
I faked our overdose 'cause your
real-time jokes and eyes and games
and a hard-fallen flutterboard.

ryndy ficlet, K+

2005-01-11T13:36:41Z

I can’t listen to Aftermath and do anything else, function; this song, it makes me cry, dear lord I want to marry you, Michael.

Needlevoice (The Links Deleted Ending)

Sandy, still a little drunk, had woken to find his wife asleep beside him. Three in the morning; he yawned groggily and opted for a salted bagel. It was in the kitchen that he’d found Ryan, sitting at the island with his head in his hands.

He’d tried to be stealthy, tried not to make a noise, but he’d tripped on his feet and Ryan had looked up with a start. His eyes were tired, and slight imprints of fingertips on his cheeks and forehead told everything. “Hey,” was all he said, and even that was tired, scratched but hoping.

Sandy was in no state to consider seriously the effects of his comments. One goofy grin, slight tilt of the head, “Hey, Ryan, love,” and the younger man knew he was drunk; he got up to make his way to bed when Sandy pushed up back down to the chair and stood next to him.

“You,” and again Ryan thought Sandy’s speech was surprisingly clear, “look like you need a good fuck.”

Ryan almost smirked, almost said, “Yeah, well, my girlfriend’s off doing just that with Oliver,” but he didn’t. He stared. And Sandy grinned a little wider, little more feral. “Let’s get you into bed.”

When Sandy leaned down, kissed the corner of his lips so lightly Ryan could have imagined it, all the fears and troubles and angers flashed before him and later, when Ryan thought back on this moment, he would swear it was the aftermath of such hotwired emotions that attributed to his next move. He hated Marissa for not hating Oliver; hated Seth for having Anna and Summer; hated himself for hating Kirsten for being married to Sandy and as he thought this he was kissing Sandy, fingers gripping his shirt and tearing at the older man’s lips.

They almost made it to the poolhouse, it was close, though at the time perhaps they were thankful they didn’t drown themselves in the pool by accident. Clothes were thrown into the flowerbeds, the water, the bushes, and Sandy, thinking back on this night, would always wonder where Ryan had learned to take it so very well.

house/wilson fic, A

2005-01-06T02:12:12Z

1.

“Ah. Another new tie,” commented House, and Wilson wasn’t quite sure when he’d looked up from the chart long enough to notice. “Did you have lunch with the nurse again?”

Wilson just looked at him, confused; “What nurse?” and then he remembered the story he’d woven to get House to stop questioning him last week. “Oh,” he said, “the, the nurse. Yeah, we-“

House looked up at him with such a searching look he stopped talking, and couldn’t remember what he was going to say anyway.

“You’re a terrible liar,” House was shaking his head, putting away the chart. “And I’ll figure you out, you know. You can’t hide from me.”

“I await the day,” murmured Wilson, turning to follow House out of the clinic.

2.

“And then, said House, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis as he recounted his latest Cuddy Woes to his poor clinic patient, “she told me that I’d better make up the hours I didn’t do last week or else.”

House huffed a sigh, and finally looked at the young man who was leaning on the medical bed. About 19; chin-length white-blond hair covering most of his face. House titled his head to the side and asked, “So, what’s wrong with you, anyway?”

The man seemed to fidget, as if embarrassed or hesitant. “I think my boyfriend might have HIV,” he said, and he looked up with defiance. “He wants to have sex, he keeps buying lingerie and tight pants and shows them off a lot-“

House stopped listening; in fact, everything stopped all too suddenly. Boyfriend. A boyfriend that bought lingerie, tight pants – specifically, new clothes – to impress his lover.

The answer, it seemed – after a whole week of bugging Wilson about his new love interest – had been right in front of him all along. He nearly cursed out loud; he hated it when the answers were the simple, sensible ones, and hated it more when they had to be pointed out to him. Not that ever happened.

“-really hesitant about coming in for tests, he always gets angry with me for mentioning it, is there-“

“Come back tomorrow with him,” House interrupted, his mind elsewhere, “I’ll test you both.” The doctor opened the door, paused, and thanked the man before leaving.

Wilson was already waiting in his office when he arrived there. “I take it you were still on clinic duty when you paged me,” his tone was amused. “How is that going for you?”

House frowned. “Don’t mock me, and technically I’m still on clinic duty, only there were more important matters to attend to.”

Wilson was curious, now. “Such as?”

“Such as informing you that I’ve figured you out, just like I said I would.” House tapped his forefinger lightly, accusingly, on Wilson’s chest.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Did you? And, pray, what conclusions did you draw up?”

The smile playing on House’s face was a quirked, sadistic sort of smile, and Wilson got the distinct feeling that House really had solved this one. He was proved correct; House hooked his finger in Wilson’s labcoat and pulled him close, leaning down just a little to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, a soft pull, a light scrape of teeth on his bottom lip, and it was over all too fast for Wilson’s liking.

He was too shocked to notice House making for the door, satisfied; by the time Wilson thought to follow House was out of sight.

3.

“But, Doctor!”

“No. It’s the only way.”

House never took his eyes off General Hospital when the door opened: his reasoning was simple. If he was needed, they’d interrupt him; if he wasn’t, then it would have been a waste of his time to look up, anyway. Then, there were occasions such as this, when even without taking his eyes off the television he could tell it was Wilson. Still, he didn’t look up, not entirely; out of the corner of his eye he could see Wilson pour a cup of coffee – one sugar, half-and-half – and hesitate before pouring a second cup, leaving it black.

Wilson, having remained silent, as had House, placed the cup of black coffee beside his friend. Only when he heard the door shut did House pick up the cup and drink from it; the cup was on his lips when he heard the door open again.

“House.” Only it was an abnormal, welcome type of interruption.

House shut off the television, turned to his friend, and Wilson could see the amused spark in his eye. The scheming one. “Can I help you, Doctor Wilson?”

There was a brief hesitation. “How about you come over for dinner tonight?” and they both looked surprised to hear the words. House’s lips twitched, though he’d never admit to it; Wilson, he noticed, and didn’t say anything.

“Won’t your wife mind?”

It was a simple question; it held weight, there was more to it than just four words. Wilson shook his head, looked away. “She’s. Out tonight. Something.” And it was all that needed to be said. House nodded, raised his eyebrows and looked up at Wilson, mischief and havoc in his otherwise unreadable face, and it broke the mild tension of the room. Wilson smiled at his friend. “Let’s go, then.”

It wasn’t as uncomfortable as either of them had feared; the kiss, unmentioned but not forgotten, did not affect their usual mannerisms or jokes or off-handed, overly-friendly remarks. They had ordered out – Cantonese – and it’s as it’s always been; they’re on the couch, take-out on the coffee table, but tonight they’re sitting closer together, hips touching, legs brushing, and though they both notice and though the couch is big enough, neither move as neither mind.

The television was on, playing a movie both weren’t entirely watching. “Luke and Han? Are so having sex,” Wilson wasn’t slurring, not yet, but he was a notch past relaxed, House could tell by the way he’d unbuttoned his collar, first button, second button; his tie was on the armrest of the couch; his words were open, perhaps more vulgar than House was used to hearing from Wilson, but these changes weren’t unwelcome.

“It’s warm in here. Do you think it’s warm in here?” House didn’t reply directly; his fingers reached up to the third button of Wilson’s shirt and he said, “Let me help you with that,” and Wilson nodded; the fourth, fifth, and the sixth button and the sleeves and Wilson folded the shirt, putting it next to his tie on the armrest.

“Hey,” he said; House muted the television absently. Wilson wanted to look away but couldn’t, like one of those times where you hate yourself for watching something terrible and awful but would hate yourself for missing it, too, and you don’t know why. “About today, and you-”

House interrupted him with a look; “You want clarification on that?” he asked, incredulous, and he only had to lean in a bit to kiss the other man.

It was rougher than their first, perhaps more insisting, deeper and then Wilson opened his mouth a little wider; their tongues met, and suddenly there was nothing remotely gentle about their kiss any longer; it was desperate, unforgiving.

House broke the kiss, looked at Wilson with his head titled, eyebrow arched. “Clarified?” and it was rhetorical.

4.

Wilson was a little shocked: prior to today he’d seen no signs from House of reciprocation in the attraction department, and still the man was more confidant about kissing than Wilson himself was. It didn’t seem fair, and Wilson smiled a little, mischievous smile as he decided to fix it. Looking up at House, their eyes locked for a moment, and House murmured, “What are you smiling at?” as if in anticipation. Wilson said, “You,” and it was simple; the guy’s night atmosphere, so to speak, had changed and it was softer, still friendly but warmer and hotter; Wilson grabbed House’s shirt and pulled him forward, towards him, kissed him while his careful fingers undid the buttons of House’s shirt. House shrugged off the shirt, said nothing because he was more than happy to have Wilson initiate their kiss, set the pace; he rather though it was wonderful to be kissed, though he’d never admit to it.

Wilson’s hands were roaming under the t-shirt House always wore under his button-down – today’s was dark blue under red – fingers memorizing and mapping and they brushed a nipple and he heard House gasp a little. They had to break their kiss to remove the shirt; Wilson took his time, running his hands up House’s sides and they were kissing until they couldn’t, and when the fabric was out of the way they were kissing again, neither and both initiating, no hesitation.

It wasn’t long before House’s hands were pulling Wilson gently down so he was lying carefully atop House, hips between his legs, and still kissing, tasting, sucking, nipping; wasn’t long before House’s curious mouth moved from lips to jaw to ear to neck to shoulder; wasn’t long before Wilson, shameless and quiet moans on his parted lips, found the clasp of House’s belt, and House, in turn, found Wilson’s. Pants slid to the floor, and boxers followed; the only pause came when, for the first time, they felt full skin-on-skin, all the way down: stomachs, legs, hips, cocks: House moaned, Wilson’s breath hitched auditable. Their eyes met. Wilson looked awed, afraid, euphoric, all at once; House’s lip twitched and he tried not to smile though it was helpless, and he slid his hand, palm open, down Wilson’s chest and stomach and navel and groin, and their eyes were still locked even as Wilson’s widened.

All Wilson could do as House felt and fingered and squeezed was dig his nails into House’s shoulder; House eyed him, brought his free hand to take hold of one of Wilson’s, and ran his tongue up the middle finger. Wilson moaned, louder than he had done before; House smiled wickedly against his hand before repeating the action, languid, thorough; he let go of Wilson’s hand and brought his own up to Wilson’s lips. Between his ministrations of the other man’s fingers and cock, he was almost surprised Wilson understood what to do with them, but he took the middle and forefinger into his mouth slowly, running his tongue between them.

House, ever competitive, brushed his thumb back and forth over the head of Wilson’s cock, and was rewarded with an almost-choke from his friend. Wilson tried to retaliate with his free hand, but House took his hand away altogether, a thing which Wilson vowed to never have happen again – thus, he replaced his hand onto House’s shoulder. “Keep sucking,” House said, rather hoarsely, “because I’m not leaving this couch for anything else.”

At first Wilson didn’t understand this; blame his naivety in House’s sex mannerisms, or perhaps blame his diluted, blissful state of mind. In his confusion, however, he stopped his play with House’s fingers – “Okay,” House was saying, “we can do it that way” – and they’d slipped down his shoulders, back, ass, and he gasped as one entered him. “Shit,” he breathed, though it wasn’t a bad thing. It was a rough pressure, dry, not quite comfortable, but it was House, fingers on him, in him; while he should have listened and kept sucking, it wasn’t a bad thing at all.

Belatedly, Wilson realized the fingers were gone – all of them; the ones from his cock went to his hip, steadying him; the ones from inside him, he felt those brush against his own fingers in House’s mouth, felt his tongue lave them, and when they were back inside him – there were two now – they were slick and easy. They teased for a while, scissoring, driving in and out; another went in; they pressed against his prostate and he shuddered and tried not to moan so helplessly.

“Gregg,” he said, and he wasn’t sure he’d meant to; at the same time he needed to say it again, “Gregg, stop fucking around.”

“It’s just nice seeing you so undone,” and the fingers were gone. Wilson nearly screamed. The sure fingers on his hips were moving to his stomach, chest, pushing him up until he was sitting, straddling House’s hips and lowering himself down onto his cock.

It was slow, careful, precise – the couch was narrow, after all – and it was uncomfortable only for a bit. House, too, was patient; he was still but for a steady hand on Wilson’s hips that helped guide his strokes. But slow can only last for so long. Wilson’s discomfort had turned to pleasure; he rode down faster, more firmly, with lustful urgency until he felt House ejaculate inside him, moan and jerk beneath him, and he, too, came, unmindful of the mess it would make on the couch.

They stayed still for a while, breathing heavily and watching one another, until House pushed lightly at Wilson’s hips, asking him to lay back down – and he did, for all he could he tried not to fall asleep on House, but it was late; they were tired; and the couch was exactly that, a couch. House said nothing, too, about the arm around his neck; Wilson smiled and tangled his fingers in House’s hair before he closed his eyes.

“Three? You’re taking three?” House glared at him briefly before popping the Vicodin.

“It seems,” he replied flatly once he’d swallowed the pills, “It’s worse than usual today. I suppose that happens, when people fall asleep on you.”

Wilson rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee; when he lowered the cup, his eyes were fixed on House. Specifically, his chest.

Wilson smiled. “Hey, is that a new shirt, Gregg?”

ryndy ficlet, K+

2005-01-04T01:05:45Z

I think I've avoided posting this long enough...For Hank, because she makes me love shows I refuse to let anyone else know I love in the first place. You either bring out the best or worst in me, I haven't figured it out, though judging by last night, I have an inkling it's the latter...*snerk* Anyway, I'll ditch the melo act, and here's the RYAN/SANDY!!! ps. No one else has a right to tell me that's I've fucked the original script. I know that, don't you worry. pps. Hi Mike. You're so the reason I'm in over my head, here, love, you and your Orange County childhood.

Things of Wonder

Ryan flipped through the pages of Sky Captain; walking to the kitchen, he was glad he wasn’t on his way to the cotillion. Opening the door, he saw Sandy – relaxed and at ease, food in hand.

“I though you were going,” he heard Sandy comment; all he could stutter was, “Yeah. No.”

The other man smiled warmly. “Me neither!”

“Follow me through the forest,” Sandy was instructing urgently, and Ryan smiled, thinking how involved the Cohen boys got into their video games. They were lost for a while, battling and enjoying newfound company.

“Didn’t feel like going?” It was said in unison. Ryan grimaced, “Not really for me,” and Sandy was nodding, smiling almost shyly. “What?” he kidded, “Waltzing and orchids? What could be more you?”

Ryan laughed and turned to look at the man – their faces were now closer than he’d meant to bring them. His laughter faded and his smile turned awkward; he bit his lip. “Uh – Sandy.” And suddenly he was terrified: looking into this man’s eyes, someone who’d done so much for him, he was sure and unsure all at once, and he almost looked away but found courage to steady his gaze until the courage grew, and then he found his lips against Sandy’s, gentle and strangely unwavering.

It was two seconds before he realized just what he was doing, and started to pull back until he felt lips moving, certain, against his own. It was hard not to freeze up, gasp, or pull away; he wanted this, felt right; he dropped his game controller to the ground and pushed roughly on Sandy’s chest. The movement startled them both, pleased them both – Sandy chuckled into the kiss and Ryan slid his tongue into his mouth, it was a thing of wonder.

They broke apart with Sandy’s fingers tangled in Ryan’s hair, Ryan grabbing Sandy’s undone shirt. Eyeing each other, they smiled, and Ryan leaned in again.

snarry vignette, A

2004-12-31T08:22:49Z

Typical Cranberry

Harry raised his eyes, looking up at Snape through long, think eyelashes. His small, nimble fingers clutched the dark hairs curling around the older man’s cock. “You’re beautiful, Sir,” were his only words; his lips, full and taut as he took as much as he could of his professor – a surprising amount – into his able mouth. He paid attention; knew to hum a little, to be careful of teeth, even how to take a cock deep in his throat without gagging. Snape couldn’t look down; his eyelids fluttered open every so often, watching, but he knew from experience that if he stared down at the sight of the fingers scraping his hips, the tongue swirling around his head, the lips kissing and sucking and tasting, it wouldn’t last. But for all he wanted it to last forever, the release was long, and painfully sweet.

At only eleven, he was the best cocksucker Snape had ever known. And that was saying something.

house/wilson vignette, K

2004-12-29T21:51:28Z

Mentions of a conversation from Fidelity; Wilson gets caught lying.

Something Orange

“Ah. Another new tie,” commented House, and Wilson wasn’t quite sure when he’d looked up from the chart long enough to notice. “Did you have lunch with the nurse again?”

Wilson just looked at him, confused; “What nurse?” and then he remembered the story he’d woven to get House to stop questioning him last week. “Oh,” he said, “the, the nurse. Yeah, we-“

House looked up at him with such a searching look he stopped talking, and couldn’t remember what he was going to say anyway.

“You’re a terrible liar,” House was shaking his head, putting away the chart. “And I’ll figure you out, you know. You can’t hide from me.”

“I await the day,” murmured Wilson, turning to follow House out of the clinic.

REM and Hank and Spe ficlet. K+

2004-12-28T21:37:04Z

Originally, only posted on rem100, but liked it well enough to post here, too. It was Hank's idea, lovely as it was, and it's about she and I and out adventures backstage with REM.

Flutterboard, I Carried Songfelt Language

1.

“I can’t believe it. Backstage with R.E.M,” breathed Spe, and Hank had, it seemed, long since stopped breathing, instead choosing to admire the walls and the roadies and the equipment and the floor tiles instead.

Then Hank was tugging at Spe’s sleeve. “Spe? Spe, Michael walked here earlier today.” She was wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and Spe looked down in awe and respect for the floor tiles.

“Michael Stipe walked all over you,” she whispered to the ground, before going to feel up the walls.

There was a cough, from somewhere to the left, and both girls whipped around to see none other than Peter Buck, a light pink towel tied around his waist, eyeing them wearily.

“Ah. You must be the contest girls.”

The two girls beamed at him, and Hank was the one to tacklehug him to the ground.

“Oomph,” said Peter, as gravity took him.

He opened one eye, and was met with Spe’s face, who said “Hallo, Mr. Peter Buck, absolutely lovely to meet you, it really really is.”

Hank nodded in her agreements. “Great job tonight, by the way, the concert just rocked.” And she unwound her arms from Peter’s neck to help him up.

He smiled a little at them, though his eyes were distinctly showing his hope of not being tackled to the floor again. His smile did get wider, however, when Hank and Spe presented him with a large, sealed box of sugar cookies.

“I love these!” he said, and his lips twitched. He gave the girls a hug. “Thanks! You know? These would go great with some coffee. Would you care for some?” Hank shook her head; after consideration, so did Spe. “Alright, cool- well, Mike and Michael are just over there,” and he waved a hand towards a door on the right, “if you’d like to meet them, too. I think they’re doing some late-night practise, those over-achievers.”

Spe and Hank eyed each other: even they knew what that was all about.

2.

There was a see-hole in the door on the right, but Peter was eyeing them, and they decided it was best not to spy.

They decided it was best not to knock, also, as they knew that whatever they were interrupting, they wanted to see, as well.

Hank twisted the doorknob, and Spe looked at her gleefully. They were careful, though, not to kill the surprise with a loud, nervous giggle. And so they pushed open the door, and peered inside. What they saw was indescribable, but in a few short words, Michael’s unmistakable head was between Mike’s legs, and Mike had his head thrown back, looking somewhere between heaven and hell.

“Ah. Yes, girls, that does happen sometimes,” said Peter, who’d appeared behind them more quickly and silently than is natural.

Hank turned to look at him. “Sh-h!” she whispered, and promptly trod on his foot. “We want to watch this!”

Peter nodded absently, and thankfully stayed silent.

After several long moments, during which Spe nearly began to cry of happiness and Hank just stood very still with her eyes wider than could be healthy and Peter looked on with a happy smile, there was a quiet moan from Mike and Michael got up, tracing his lower lip with a finger. They smiled at one another before Mike’s eyes shifted to the trio in the doorway; he rolled his eyes and stood up from the bed, nearly tripping over the pants that were around his ankles. When he righted himself, and had done up his pants, he was slightly red and a little flustered. Michael, on the other hand, had turned around when he saw Mike looking at the door, and put his hands on his hips and tapped his foot in mock-drama queen, before his lips could not longer suppress the grin.

“Hey, guys!” He grinned that sweet, little-boy grin, and looked shy for a moment, though unperturbed by the recent events that had just taken place.

Spe and Hank melted a little just then, surprised when no tangible bits of their hearts appeared in a small puddle on the floor, and certain they’d live quite a shorter life because of it anyway.

3.

Mike made a small cough-like noise from the back of the room. Michael turned to him. “Relax, Mike, love,” he said, cocking his head and grinning even wider. Mike flushed a deeper red. “The contest girls don’t mind seeing naked men getting off,” continued Michael, and then he turned back to said girls. “Do you?”

Both girls shook their heads so hard everyone was surprised they didn’t fly off.

“Not at all,” said Hank, and Spe nodded, adding, “It was lovely, really.”

Mike, having come up beside Michael, blinked, not sure of how to respond to something that outspoken. Michael saved him once more, however.

“So! Do the contest girls have names?” He glanced at Peter, at the sugar cookie in his hand, at the box of them back on the table, and then he opened his mouth widely.

Peter’s eyes shifted off to the side for a moment before pushing the cookie into Michael’s mouth. He chewed it thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Peter set out to introduce the girls to his bandmates.

“Girls, this is Michael Stipe-“ he explained, gesturing at Michael, who in turn tried to say ‘hello’ around the cookie, and it came out as ‘Hehwoahw’. Peter continued by gesturing then to Mike, and said, “this is Mike Mills,” and Mike smiled kindly, seeming to have forgotten all about the recent incident, and held out his hand.

Both girls stared at it for a very long time as if it were something as valuable as eternal life; Mike finally began to retract it, and Hank took the opportunity to tacklehug him to the ground. Spe grinned in such a shining delight it was nearly blinding, and nearly tipped over; Peter, however, was seen cringing at, we suppose, the memory of having been tackled to the ground earlier that hour.

Michael smacked his lips; he then crossed his eyes as he attempted to lick the sugar off his upper lip. It was a most amusing attempt. Finally, giving up and there being no Mike to lick it off for him, said Mike being pinned under Hank, he wiped it off with his sleeve.

“Say, Peter?” Mike asked, once he’s negotiated with Spe to give her a rehearsal tape if she made Hank let go of him, and was thence freed from her clutches, “Why are you wearing a towel?”

“Yes, but the real question is,” interrupted Michael, “why is it light pink? We all know the light pink one belongs to me.”

Peter looked very guilty all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” he said, “but I’d forgotten mine in my bedroom and wasn’t about to walk out of the bathroom to get it!”

Mike and Michael looked at each other as if this was as ridiculous an excuse as ‘the towel smelled better than mine’. “Peter, we’ve all seen you naked. Countless times, in fact, remember that one time,” Michael was saying, grin getting wider and now teeth were beginning to show, and he looked at Mike, who was nodding with a grin of equal size, “when we were all in bed and couldn’t sleep and-“

“No,” interrupted Peter, “I-“

“Oh, you have to remember it, Peter,” Mike had continued the story. “We all got out the rulers from that stupid tourist booklet from the lobby – that lobby had the best cookies – and then we measured-“

“NO!” said Peter, more urgently now. “I meant, I didn’t walk outside the bathroom because I didn’t want to get the floor tiles wet.

Hank’s eyes suddenly clouded over. “Oh,” she murmured, “yes, those were lovely floor tiles, weren’t they, Spe?”

Spe nodded. “Yes,” she said, “Wonderful, walked-all-over tiles, those were.”

4.

“Oh,” said Michael, seemingly disappointed that he and Mike had brought up the ruler incident for nothing. “Well, in that case, give my towel back.”

Peter shrugged. “Well, fine, I’m dry now, anyway,” and he undid the towel from his waist and threw it at Michael’s head. Mike pursed his lips, failing to repress a smile; his words, however, sounded serious.

“Peter. Not in front of the contest girls.”

Peter glanced at Hank and Spe, and the wheels could almost be seen turning in his head: he’s just successfully stopped his bandmates from recounting the ruler incident, and then proceeded to strip for them.

Hank was biting her lip, somewhere between trying not to laugh, and trying not to blush; Spe was blinking rapidly, her eyes shifting rapidfire from Peter’s nakedness to Michael’s towel-clad head to Mike’s overly large grin.

“S’okay”, Michael tried to say through a mouthful of towel, “Remember? The contest girls don’t mind seeing naked men.”

Peter looked a little put off, and slightly unconvinced. “Right,” he said. “Mike? May I borrow your pants?”

Mike stopped grinning, all at once, and looked at his friend as if he’d lost it. “I’m wearing my pants at the moment.”

Peter pointed to pair of khaki pants on the floor. “Ah,” said Mike, “In that case, yes, by all means put some pants on.”

Michael, having removed from his head the light pink towel, folded it up, then deposited in a laundry hamper and just having returned, said, “Ah, you found some pants, did you,” to Peter, who smiled happily, and then Mike piped in, “Perhaps we should take the tour now?”

Hank nearly drooled, and Spe was wearing an expression of such delight it was as if Mike had just proposed to Michael.

Michael scratched the back of his neck, and gave another of his shy grins. “I guess we’ll start here, then?” and he waved his hands eccentrically about the room. “This, this is Mike’s dressing room.”

Mike grinned. “Not much, but it’s tonight’s home.”

The quintet trooped out of Mike’s dressing room, and into the kitchenette. “This,” Michael announced, “is Peter’s dressing room,” and Peter looked slightly confused. “No, it’s the kitchenette,” he said, eyeing Michael.

“Oh,” said Michael, and he rolled his eyes. “So it is.”

snack drabble, K+

2004-12-28T21:30:29Z

Yes, this story is all over Crush with Eyeliner. And a little bit of it is for Steph, because I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me dressing Sirius up in makeup. Though my secret theory is, this song was written by Mike. For Michael. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.

Maybeline Eyes

Severus. Whether he’s laid out on his bed, fingers laced under his head, legs dropped carelessly over the sides of the mattress, gazing down at a crinkled color photograph; or he’s looking out over the frozen lake, it’s January, and he’s eavesdropping on Potter and Black’s muffled conversation; it never fails to sting.

It was all over school, that Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin once more this year. “Have you seen that boy with eyeliner?” mumbled a Ravenclaw in passing, “he’s the real thing.” Severus licked his lip unconsciously.

In his mind he smiled, Cheshire-like, and planned his unnecessary, meaningless revenge.

beetlejuice/lydia drabble, K+

2004-12-28T04:19:23Z

Let my distaste for the title be known; it’s too plebeian, a word which here means simplistic and simple-minded. However. It refused to go away, and alas, it works with the story.

Coming to Terms

“It’s the law, Beej! You’re – how old? Six hundred? I’m only twelve!” Lydia Deetz dropped onto her bed with a sigh, turmoil and confusion showing in her wide eyes.

Beetlejuice floated over. “Babes, you’re talking to a dead guy. I’m not sure the law would like that much, either.”

Lydia smiled a small, shy smile, and pulled her best friend down on top of her, laying the two of them across the bed. He kissed her, slowly, sweetly, the way she liked it.

No rules would come between them; Beetlejuice made Lydia’s world. She would come to terms with that.

mipest wip, A

2004-12-26T05:02:13Z

heed warning. began this for laughs, finished it for hank.

Videoplay

1.

Mike’s eyes widened. He stared at the shelf, and reached out to pick up the cartridge sitting on it. “R.E.M In Concert: Fun with Michael Stipe,” said the video game. He flipped it over and murmured the blurb to himself.

After lugging his new GameCube and game back to the hotel, he set it up, and turned it on.

And nearly drooled.

"They’re getting good with graphics nowadays,” he muttered, enthralled with how much it looked like Michael.

The game was simple, and a good thing, too, as Mike, in his current state, was far from coordinated enough to do anything tricky. The graphic of Michael moved and sang and tapped his foot and when Mike found out how to make him grind with the microphone stand, it was his undoing.

He had the surround sound on, was wrapped up in the music, didn’t hear the knock on the door, or when it opened and the object of his current infatuation strode in. He felt the quick play of fingers on his shoulder, though, and felt his heart stop when he looked up and saw the twinkle in Michael’s eyes and the half-smirk on his childish mouth.

“Whatcha doing?”

Despite the tint of red creeping up in his cheeks, Mike gave Michael a look, and it was likely the combination of both that made Michael grin impishly and hop up onto the bed.

“I’m, ah, testing this wonderful new video game of yours, Michael. You didn’t tell us you were, ah, making a video game.”

Michael shrugged. “I didn’t really think that the girls who offered to make one were serious. You looked like you were having fun, trying out my dance moves.”

“They’re nice dance moves, is all.”

“You made it seem like I was having desperate sex with the microphone.”

“Michael, you do have desperate sex with the microphone. Need I show you some rehearsal tapes?”

“You taped our rehearsals?”

“Yes. Fuck, Michael, it’s hot, what was I supposed to do?”

Michael raised his eyebrow, and they were quiet for a bit.

Michael put a hand on his bandmate’s shoulder, and the tints of red on Mike’s cheeks deepened.

“Had I known, Mike, I would held you back after rehearsal and sung my heart out, just for you.” With these words Mike was being pushed back, and then he was spread out on the floor with Michael straddling his hips, casually pulling off his shirt.

Mike curled his fingers on Michael’s stomach. “There’s a stand in the closet,” he said hoarsely, and Michael rocked back on his feet and went off in search of the thing, a satisfied smile playing his lips.

2.

There wasn’t just a microphone in the closet, it turned out.

“Mike?”

Michael cocked his head to where he’d left his friend and saw him lying helplessly on the floor, again watching the video game. Mike turned slowly, as if it hurt him to turn his head on such beauty.

“Mm.” He coughed. “Yes?”

Michael picked up three labelled tapes from the closet shelf and held them up.

“You have a VCR, right?”

Mike nodded slowly, and licked his bottom lip. He watched with rapt fascination as Michael strode over to the television, and his breath hitched when Michael ran his fingers through Mike’s hair in passing.

Michael laughed. “You’ve got it bad, Mike,” and then he cocked his head and gave Mike a long look. “Thought I would have noticed it before now.” He put the tape in the VCR, hadn’t yet pushed the button before he felt someone behind him, felt hands come up his stomach, inside his shirt, tickling a bit, mapping out his ribs and chest and sides. Mike tugged up on the shirt, and it was childish, having someone tug up his shirt, though when he saw it being tossed to the ground by agile, beautiful fingers, felt teeth scrape down his neck and shoulder gently, it wasn’t anything but erotic, and he turned.

“Mike,” Michael started, and didn’t get another word out. It was like everything good, ever, all at the same time, the lips pulling on his, soft and firm and warm; he wrapped his fingers in Mike’s hair and he kissed him back, slowly.

You taste like sugar cookies, Michael wondered, and sort-of smiled, and ran his tongue along Mike’s upper lip, who, in response, hummed or moaned quite softly before opening his mouth a little wider.

Now, Michael was neither forceful nor uncareful, but just now he needed more of this kiss, of Mike; he let his leg slip between Mike’s, and pushed his hips forward, just a little nudge, and as expected Mike stepped back until he hit the television cabinet. Still kissing, still tasting, his tongue flicked under Mike’s, and now he pushed his hips forward again – because Mike had nowhere to move, his hip was laid claim by Michael’s groin, grinding slowly, and Mike moaned just a little louder, biting down ever-softly on Michael’s lip.

There was a noise, just then, from behind them that flickered and fuzzed.

Mike opened his eyes slowly, as did Michael, upset by the intrusion yet curious. Mike leaned his head back against the television, consequently pushing his hips even more into Michael’s, who chuckled when he jerked upright again. And then the television was full of colors, a bit of static zapping slightly into Mike’s hair: Michael watched over Mike’s shoulder the ground of their rehearsal room, which panned around to all the crew, then was settled onto Michael. He watched himself with fascination scratch the back of his neck, hop about, being generally childish and as they watched, as the on-film Michael began singing, he really did fuck the microphone. He stepped back, pulling Mike with him and turning him around to face the screen.

“Can we watch this?” he whispered into Mike’s ear, tongue scratching its shell, and Mike’s breath hitched and he nodded.

3.

Mike was lying on the bed, between Michael’s legs and head resting on his shoulder. They’d rid each other of offending shirts – difficult thing, as they’d been desperate to taste everywhere in each other’s mouths – on the way to the bed, and Michael’s hands had soon found comfortable places on Mike’s naked torso: his left on his navel, lower fingers brushing lightly along the trail of light hair leading downwards; his right, fingering a nipple sweetly. Mike was loosing concentration, slowly, as his mind was repeating the mantra that was the notion of his best friend and bandmate wanting to fuck him. Bliss, thought his slipping mind.

Both their eyes were fixed on the television, which was playing the rehearsal tapes that Mike had filmed. They were enthralled with it for different reasons. Michael, he enjoyed watching himself, his technique; and perhaps he was enjoying being a voyeur of his – he’d come to admit – blatant sex with the microphone stand. He wasn’t enjoying it quite as much as Mike seemed to be, however: though he was lost in the feel of Michael’s fingers, he was growing hard from the combination of the touch, and the video, and he was starting to shift slightly, fighting the need to bring himself to release, as he wasn’t keen on doing so atop Michael.

Had Mike looked around, he’d have seen the twinkling eyes and hungry smile on Michael’s face; he knew Mike’s temptation, and decided against taking him in his palms, opting instead to wait and see if Mike’s reserve would crack. But Mike was a stubborn one, and as difficult as it was to keep his hands away, he managed; he balled his fists in the bedcovers, ensuring they stayed there, and began to rock himself back against Michael’s hips.

Michael’s smile showed teeth, now, and his attention was waning from the videos to the man atop him, rocking himself back and forth along his hips and groin and navel. He couldn’t help his actions; his hands moved of their own accord, the left down to Mike’s hip, steadying him and also pulling his closer, over the tightening in his jeans. Mike made a noise in the back of his throat, a deep sound; Michael sat up a little, ran his teeth up Mike’s shoulder, neck, and his fingers found the button on Mike’s tight denim jeans. He flicked the button open – “Like this,” he murmured, - and undid the zip, pulled them off over sculpted hips – “Beautiful,” – and his lips found Mike’s ear eagerly. His tongue touched the shell, licked up; suck, flicker, and Mike’s fingers were between them, clumsy as he couldn’t see, feeling over Michael’s cock through heavy fabric, making Michael arch up into the touch. Finally, he brought his hands between them, too, making Mike moan, a little louder each time, as Michael ran his fingers along Mike’s ass through the thin flannel boxers he wore.

HP - SoEU crossover, K

2004-12-26T03:37:15Z

Finished.

Seesaw

"I’m so sorry,” a feminine voice bubbled repeatedly after knocking over one poor Klaus Baudelaire. He looked up to see a girl dressed in a simple grey skirt and an oatmeal cardigan, much of which you couldn’t see through her waist-length, bushy brown hair.

He was startled when she stuck out her hand.

"I’m Hermione Granger,” she was saying matter-of-factly, “and, you are...?”

Klaus blinked once or twice before remembering his manners. “Klaus. Klaus Baudelaire.”

She beamed at him.

“I see you’re into reading,” and she was still going on, “you’ve got quite a pile of books there. Are you researching? I just love to research. Now, my friends, they never listen to me when I tell them it builds character, oh no, Ron and Harry – Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, you see – well, I’m just not sure how they get through the school years...look at me, going on like this. I’m here looking for books on Muggle music through the ages, or, your music, I suppose, they’ve got but one at Hogwarts and it’s missing half its pages and-“

“Ahem,” said Klaus bravely.

She stopped, briefly, her mouth still wide open, though for poor Klaus the silence was a happy, golden thing. He used it to continue:

“Do I even know you?”

Hermione frowned, slightly; her mouth closed slowly, opened again, closed; she shook her head almost violently.

Klaus smiled, one that didn’t reach his learned, shinning eyes. He picked up his books on Advanced Automechanics and nodded politely to her. “I come to the library for quiet; be seeing you, then.”

Hermione refused to be let down easily; she, at very regular thirty-nine second intervals, shot furtive glances towards the table at which Klaus sat, flipping pages sweetly, pointedly. She herself was standing at the bookshelf, still, leaning casually against it and her nose was in a copy of Beatles Anthology yet her eyes were flickering along the top of the book. When she finally pushed herself off the shelf, and sat down next to him, he seemed only mildly surprised.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Klaus twisted in his chair and raised an eyebrow at her.

Hermione looked to the ceiling and blew up at her fringe. “I think, Klaus, we began off on the wrong foot.” She paused as he nodded steadily. “I was also thinking we could, maybe, do our research together?” Being quite a stubborn thing, she proceeded by pursing her lips and sitting down in the chair next to him; then she flipped open the Anthology and set her notes off to the side, next to her quill.

It was an hour and a half before poor Klaus broke: he could no longer stand the merry scratching of her quill or the chipper turnings of her research.

“Miss Granger?”

She looked up and positively beamed at him, so brightly and happily it might well have been his eyesight’s demise. Quickly, he weighed the options; blinded by the light that is the girl’s sunshine happiness, or continue listening to her rapid scripture.

“Never bloody mind,” he said, deciding that scratches, he could bear; happiness, he could not.

Happiness, Klaus had decided long ago, was not a thing that belonged in his life. So when Hermione finally slammed her book shut, kissed his cheek low, just by his lips, and stamped off back to the shelf, he was dumbfounded, concerned, and without the faintest clue of what to make of this behaviour.

He’d never read a book about this before.

She came back, quite some time later, and Klaus remembered he was still staring at the spot just late enough for Hermione to notice it, too. She raised an eyebrow at him, delicately, yet daringly, and he turned back to his pages.

It confused him greatly, how in only minutes she’d gone from being an annoyance to Klaus, to being a sort of puzzle that he couldn’t decipher. After spending eighty minutes of doing nothing but look at the shapes of the text on the pages of his book, he decided that it was high time to return to his room at the Academy.

“I think I’ll be going now,” he said aloud, trying not to fidget. He gathered his books and pushed in his chair.

Hermione looked up at him, hints of the bliss and bubble that was her persona, but it was contained, too, now. She smiled, and turned back to her book.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, you know.” she said, and Klaus, strangely, was glad to hear this.

violaus drabble, K+

2004-12-26T00:45:41Z

I can't help the way I think of things; it's my nature. I've only read a book, and seen the film, but it was enough to convince my mind. Warning of incest.

Tongue; Thrice/Two.

Here we stay; I, Violet, have built a swingset in our back-yard in memory of our Sunny. He swings on it now; back, forth.

Now I am eighteen, he is sixteen, and it was one month ago I saw Klaus in new light. I told him then; his smile was of the kindest, most reassuring sort, and our first kiss was the first thing we’d shared in such a time without feeling the guilt of Sunny’s death. It was something all our own, perhaps this is why we cling to it.

Today, here, a-many kisses after; finally safe and content.

sirimus drabble, K

2004-12-24T17:23:44Z

For Stephy. Hope this helps.

Unaffect

“Sirius?”

Remus was biting his lip, not good. Sirius put down his book, and took his lover into his arms so that they were on the bed, Sirius’ hands drawing circles on Remus’ stomach.

“What is it, Moony?”

Remus looked at him wide-eyed. “You’ll be okay here alone, right? I mean, I’m only gone tonight, but you won’t do stupid things, right?”

Sirius looked at him flatly, but he played along with the desperation in his lover’s eyes.

“I solemnly swear. Now, run off to Dumbledore, you big bad wolf. I’ll be fine.”

“Goodbye, Padfoot,” and Remus left, still afraid.

sirimus drabble, K

2004-12-24T03:43:42Z

For Stephy.

Succour

Sirius kissed the last of the tears streaming down Remus’ face. “Sh-h,” he murmured, “it wasn’t real.”

Remus hiccoughed. “Felt real.”

“Dreams do that sometimes, Remy. You haven’t killed anyone. Not even the full moon for weeks.”

Remus was quieting, not sobbing so much onto Sirius’ chest, not pounding his fists so hard onto Sirius’ pillow. He’d crawled into his friend’s bed and put a silencing charm up, so the other seventh-year boys wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t laugh, and Sirius has woken the minute he felt the weight on the bed.

Sirius always knew what to do about the bad nights.

michaelmikemic vignette, K+

2004-12-21T17:30:23Z

For Meghan.

Inapathetic

There was just something about the hotel room that ruffled his metaphoric feathers. Perhaps the bathroom. Or the fucking itsy bitsy closet.

His bare feet hit the floor as he swung out of bed, and he padded over to said closet. He grumbled a little as he squeezed into the space, and shut the door behind him. His tugged the little string that turned on the dim, hazy light, and sat down with his pen, some paper, and began to play his fingers about his microphone stand.

After a while, he heard someone come into the room. “Michael? You here? The lobby has cookies.”

Michael didn’t feel like cookies, and stifled a giggle when he heard Peter tell Mike, “He isn’t here. Maybe he went to lunch?”

He stopped giggling when he heard Mike say, “Sure, maybe. Go down and check? I’ll check the ice machine.”

Light streamed into the closet as Mike opened the door. “Oh gee,” he said sarcastically, his eyes hinting a smile. “If I’d had any idea that you were here, playing with your microphone, I’d have never sent Peter away.”

Michael remembered to put away the pen and his scribbled beginnings of a song before Mike squished himself into the closet and shut the door.

moony x harry drabble, A

2004-12-16T15:12:31Z

Take a sip of wine for Of Wolf and Man, this one's for that brilliant fic. Warning, bestiality.

Soft Sips

It’s candlelight, same as moonlight for everyone but us. This slip-sweet serenade of shining is talking back to us, I shudder, your fingernails are the fragile ghosts of claws.

Tangibility, longing for, four days, three days, you hesitate to whisper numbers, too. Some nights I bow my head and swallow fruitless dignity to wish for you; others, my lips form to single hopes of tangibility for stingeless nights.

In this night, finally, your fangs are bared, no questions, within me in second, in me for hours. I know the scars will fade, because you’re always too careful when we touch.

R.E.M. drabble, K+

2004-12-15T14:48:46Z

For Meghan.

Cover

There was a pause. “What the fuck language is this, anyway?”

Mike hid a grin.

“I think it’s Latin.”

“You are Language Guy. Latin...” He said thoughtfully, and Mike got the feeling he could have claimed it was Slovenian and the results would have been the same.

“So, this is...the Latin version of ‘O Christmas Tree’, then?”

“Where did you get those cookies, Peter?”

“The lobby...”

When Michael returned, having had his fill of sugary snowflake-shapes, they played the six words once through, and gave up when it made no sense.

“Who the fuck sends us Latin song requests, anyway?”

beetlejuice/lydia drabble, K

2004-12-15T00:17:06Z

This is me shirking my duties of Michael mischief and Strianay schemes. Let’s hear the B word, ladies.

Drainslave

You know those perfect places with the apple grass and the water skies? I see that whenever you smile, and say and say and say my name.

Only, when we’re hand in hand across that apple grass, I can’t remember how to be the person I always want to be when we’re here.

There was that time you laughed and said you could almost kiss me, and now I wish you had. Maybe I can just reach across the pine-wood bridge that stands between us and assure myself of our friendship.

“Swish, swish,” said the skies, and all was fine.

ron drabble, K

2004-12-14T18:38:31Z

For Steph.

ribbon shot

Ron set down his cloak- this time, it wasn’t Harry’s, it was his, and he’d saved for forever to buy it. His reflection stared at him, afraid; he walked towards the mirror that had long ago claimed his dreams of Head Boy and Quidditch Captain.

It faltered.

He found himself staring into slitted ruby eyes. He saw a man with jet black hair and broken glasses on the dirt, blood dripping from his mouth. He saw himself take the wand from his hero’s feeble grip, saw himself flash green lightning at the Dark Lord, saw him fall. Saw himself glorified.

snarry drabble, A

2004-12-13T23:50:26Z

For Isabelle.

Eyelashes

“He’s brutal,” groaned Ron distastefully, “Thirty! Thirty inches of parchment!”

Hermione’s smile tugged into a grimace for half a second, as even she wasn’t the keenest on the subject of aphrodisiacs. She didn’t believe in love; not inflicted love, anyway.

Harry wasn’t present for this. He was still in the classroom, bent over the desk at the front, breathing heavily. Crack.

“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.”

“How many inches, Mr Potter?”

A shaky breath. “Thirty inches, sir.”

Harry had once feared his beautiful professor, cowered as only a child could, yet now, he was older, and knew the wide-eyed, swollen-lipped respect by heart.

snupin drabble, K+

2004-12-11T12:56:44Z

For Jessie. Obviously not one of my linguisticly accomplished ones, but it's spatish, if you think of all the words being spat out.

Spat

“Damn fucking no!” hissed Severus, his eyes narrowed into slits. Remus just sighed and dropped his head back against the wall.

“Damn fucking yes, Severus, it’s about time he learned.”

“No, it isn’t! It’s better he didn’t learn at all. Ever. And that’s fucking that, wolf-man!”

Remus glared. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. And it’s about time he did.”

“You’ve said that.”

“But it’s the truth!” Remus knew he was loosing this battle. He put down his last card. “Here, Severus, it’s your fucking queen-of-hearts. Can we tell him now?”

Severus eyed the man wearily. “Fine. Go.”