Dominique.

Il vous aime, c'est secret 4/4

dadomz — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 09:25:47 GMT

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Stéphane’s always been good at making promises but horrible at following through. This is why he avoids meeting Brian at the café for two weeks.

When he promised Brian in the hotel room that he wasn’t running away, he had intended to keep it. Or rather, he had intended to at the time. It wasn’t until three days into Moscow when one of the young ice dancers had drunk himself to an allergy-induced stupor (all because of a broken heart, bless him) that Stéphane had realized that love is a little bit too destructive for his liking.

Yet he acknowledges the fact that he feels something for Brian. No, it is not love quite yet, or at least not the type of love he feels for both Roger and Carolina. It is far too early and far too soon to be truly in love and perhaps that is a good thing because Stéphane has no desire for his emotions to burgeon into something horribly gargantuan.

So Stéphane spends his last remaining days in Moscow practicing the fine art of sublimation, willing (or tricking) his heart to stop feeling for Brian.

He comes back to France shortly and mopes around his apartment, fancying himself into a self-imposed seclusion that involves burrowing beneath piles of blanket fashioned into a makeshift fort and neglecting to answer his phone.

On a Tuesday however, Stéphane decides to stop moping. It would not be fair to either one of them if he deigned to vanish completely. He summons enough courage to visit the café. He lingers at their usual corner, nursing a cup of tea that eventually turns cold from neglect.

But like all predictable events, Brian arrives. He greets Stéphane with a cup of coffee (of suitable temperature) and almost, but not quite, hesitates to take a seat.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Stéphane fidgets a bit and readjusts the coffee cup’s disposable sleeve. He only hopes he isn’t transparent enough for Brian to see through.

“How have you been?” Brian asks, putting his hand on top of Stéphane’s. It is heavy and rough yet familiar and inviting all at once.

Stéphane pulls his hand away and drops it to his lap. “I am well, and you?”

“Anxious.” Brian’s never been one for pleasantries anyway.

Stéphane focuses his gaze to the floor. The eyes are the windows to the soul and it is much too early to reveal his thoughts. So he opts not to reply as it is pointless and cruel to append Brian’s statement. The man’s only getting himself settled, after all.

Brian takes Stéphane’s chin and turns his head to face him. “Is something the matter? Have I done something wrong?”

Stéphane, having always been a non-confrontational person, pulls away.

“No, you have not.”

Brian frowns. “Then what is bothering you?”

“I think I have feelings for you,” Stéphane blurts out and then buries his face in his hands.

“Oh,” he hears Brian say.

Stéphane does not pry his fingers away to look at Brian’s expression. Or well, not so much, he opens his eyes midway to catch slivers of images from the spaces between his fingers. He loses the courage to do so and squeezes his eyes shut.

It is slightly embarrassing, not being able to stop himself, not to mention the lack of self control is beyond appalling. At the same time, the entire sequence frustrates him. He had imagined them to settle comfortably in one another’s presence first, maybe lapse back into old dialogues, and be rid of the awkwardness.

Then the conversation would progress naturally and it would be more fitting to throw in his statement in a nonchalant manner without having to seem like he parroted some soap opera heroine.

“I apologize,” Stéphane runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “That was wholly inappropriate.”

There is a slight pause. “I do not understand. You’re avoiding me because you love me?”

“You misunderstand. I feel for you,” Stéphane corrects. Brian continues to look at him with a slightly puzzled expression. “They are of two different matters, varying in degrees of emotions. Also, I am not avoiding you.”

“Are you certain?” Brian asks. “I find your inability to look at me directly as avoidance.”

“It’s just habit.” Stéphane forces himself to look at Brian straight. He also suppresses the urge to scowl.

“I don’t know why you are so upset.”

Stéphane huffs. “I am not upset; I am merely distracted. I had a lot of things to think about these past few days.”

“What things?”

“This.” Stéphane makes a gesture with his hand to indicate the both of them. “Us. I think we should stop seeing each other. We both know it isn’t going to work.”

For some odd reason, Brian ends up chortling. Like everything is a big joke to him.

“I do not think it will work? You put words in my mouth. Why do you think it isn’t going to work?”

“Because you and I are different,” Stéphane sighs. “We do different things and are complete opposites of one another. It’s less likely to work out; it’s just the way things are.”

Brian exhales loudly. “That is an arrogant assumption; how can you tell for certain?”

“Maybe because I know myself too well,” Stéphane says softly. “Getting to know each other breaks the magic and I want to preserve our memories together when it is at its best. It will not be like before Brian, back when we knew nothing about each other. You will figure out all my flaws and wonder from time to time why you even bothered to put up with me. You will have to deal constantly with my erratic behaviour, and then you and I will get into fights because I am insolent, needy, and self absorbed and, God, things will be utterly horrid.”

It is the most honest Stéphane has ever been.

“You are a coward,” Brian enunciates each word slowly. “You run away from even the thought of possibly having to tackle future complications.”

The bluntness cuts through Stéphane like a knife. In hindsight, he knows he deserves it. It does not mean that the remark does not hurt, however.

“Now I remember why we can never be friends.” He grabs the strap of his bag from the back of his chair. So Brian has said his piece, perhaps it is time for him to leave before more regrettable words are exchanged.

“Why? Because I tell you the truth even when you do not want to hear it?”

Stéphane does not answer. He is not obligated to. He simply stalks out of the café knowing he will not be back anytime soon. Or maybe, forever.

*

Brian packs. He is done with his film, done with adopting a fake English accent, done with serene mornings sitting at a beautiful café, done with idle hopes, done with Montmartre and most especially, he tells himself, done with Stéphane.

It was extremely foolish of him to think that years of animosity and indifference could be erased by a few hours’ time together. It has always been a problem with Brian.

If the reader has yet to discern what this problem is, let us put it plainly: Brian is a romantic. He believes in love even when it seems the odds are insurmountable, when the likelihood of two souls ever joining in harmony is piteously infinitesimal, even when his parents divorced after years of marriage, Brian still believes.

But apparently, his conviction isn’t enough.

Not all love stories have happy endings, as a matter of fact, most love stories have horrid or gruesome or sad ends.

It disheartens us to think that this might just be one of them.

*

Stéphane goes about living his life like usual.

It is not a hard feat; a whirlwind of political galas, ice shows, press conferences, publicity stunts, and humanitarian efforts. Three months of nonstop subterfuge, charming the public with his child-like antics, and frolicking with big name personalities.

He avoids celebrity magazines; he does not even bother watching the local news anymore.

When all of it is over, he flies to Lausanne. For vacation, he tells Oliver. Oliver does not question his decision and merely cancels all of Stéphane’s appointments for the weeks to come. This makes Stéphane feel slightly guilty. After all, his plan of confining himself to his childhood home does not a vacation make.

After two weeks of moping in his room, Sylvia drags him by the collar to the Cine Qua Non to watch the latest movie in the Bond franchise.

Stéphane finds it ironic that even when Sylvia tries to make peace with him, she still ends up offending.

The next day, he leaves the house willingly—tells his parents that he’s meeting some old friends. He piles on heaps and heaps of scarves and sweaters and hats, and tops everything off with a pair of sunglasses. He walks around his neighbourhood then boards the metro.

He ends up in a tiny, obscure theatre and watches James Bond again for less than 15 francs.

*

Ironically, it is when Stéphane is bending down and grabbing his ankles that he realizes he has never stopped feeling for Brian. And all right, when pressed to admit it, he is also very much in love with Brian.

Because no one in their right mind would ever attempt to watch a James Bond film more than twenty-seven times. That is what Sylvia had told him when he dragged her to watch said film with him on five separate occasions. Especially after that one time when he had ended up sniffling on her shoulder and telling her how he ruined his life by being such a dense and egotistical prat.

Stéphane topples over and nearly hits his head on the bars of the inner-thigh machine. His fitness instructor, Grace, gives him an exasperated look.

He smiles at her sheepishly and declares, “I’m in love with Brian.”

*

Stéphane flies back to Paris the next day and rushes to the café immediately. He waits patiently and consumes three scones and four cups of coffee. He waits until Elsabeth shakes his shoulders and tells him they are closing.

Brian does not appear.

But Stéphane is optimistic; maybe Brian will be there tomorrow.

*

Stéphane visits the café every single day without fail. He spends an hour or two reading pocketbooks or staring off into space, whichever seems more appropriate for the day. He no longer invites friends to join him; he is selfish, he fears that building new memories on top of the old ones will allow Brian to completely slip away from him.

Today is day 189 for Stéphane.

Production for his morning show has just wrapped up and he is due for the Marriott gala in four hours. Instead of preparing or sleeping, he decides to spend the intervening hours eating croissants and drinking coffee, reading Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘L'Invitée’, a book he purchased a week ago at some rundown second-hand shop simply because the author’s name sounded smart and he was, admittedly, a very pretentious person.

Stéphane hears the door chime and pays it no heed. He’s tired of being disappointed.

He goes through two pages and stops completely. It is quite a depressing book but it does not interest Stéphane much; he has enough angst to deal with on a normal day, reading about it would be close to masochism.

Stéphane puts down the book and finds himself looking at Brian. Or rather, Brian’s crotch (he is seated after all and Brian is upright).

This is definitely not how he had imagined the scene to unfold in his head. But then again, he should be resigned to the fact that things hardly ever come out the way he wants them to.

So instead of greeting Brian with a warm “hello”, all he manages to say is a surprised: “You’re here.” Somehow, the phrase sounds accusatory and not modulated enough to sound sorrowful or passionate or sweet or dramatic or any of the emotions Stéphane intends to project.

Stéphane looks up and stares at Brian, still in disbelief—unable to reconcile with the fact that Brian is finally in front of him. Yet he is still so handsome, so very handsome.

So he tells Brian this because it might just be his last chance to do so or it might possibly help him along the line. He does not know.

Brian smiles at him and sits down. Stéphane still does not know what this all means; he also does not know what the future will hold but maybe this time he can welcome the uncertainty of it all.

*

Years later, when asked about his relationship with Stéphane, Brian will say that it was fate that brought them together. A nauseatingly mawkish answer, yes, but one he believes to be true nonetheless.

What else would have compelled Brian to eschew the restaurant in his hotel in favour of a small café quite a distance away, a café which just happened to be one which Stéphane frequents at nearly the same time?

That strange impulse one sleepless night to go to the café and try to lull himself into some semblance of relaxation by reading the newspaper only to find himself face to face with a distraught Stéphane and have their very first real conversation?

And how would one explain the strange compulsion Brian felt, eleven months after Stéphane had run away from him, while attending a movie premiere in Paris to decline invitations to the after party and walk the streets alone until he stumbled upon that very same café only to see Stéphane through the glass storefront?

Of course the story could have ended there, with Brian seeing Stéphane and making a hasty retreat but as proven time and again, Brian is a romantic and still hopelessly enamoured with Stéphane – has been for quite some time and though he may be an honest person, sometimes even the most honest person may find it difficult to be completely truthful to themselves.

What Brian had dismissed as a twinge of old infatuation at the beginning of this tale and thought to have been rekindled by constant exposure to Stéphane has actually been something that has been burning ever-present in the background of his consciousness.

See, he had never really fallen out of love with Stéphane – for while his head might have convinced him to give up on his feelings, his heart (convinced of its superiority in such matters) has never cried out its defeat.

Another thing about Brian; he is as stubborn as he is quixotic. (This is a bone of contention between Brian and Stéphane. Brian is stubborn while Stéphane is fickle and it only their shared conviction in their love that allows them to see past one another’s flaws and try to tamper their less than admirable qualities – and is that not what love does to all people?)

But do they live happily ever after?

Possibly.

As much as two people who are not characters from a Disney cartoon can live happily ever after (and no, Stéphane is not actually a Disney prince, no matter how many children – and Brian – claim him to be so).

Fin.

My Notes: After seven years of attempting to collaborate, i_l0ve_my_az and I have finally, finally completed a story. This is a monumental event as we've been through several fandoms together (consequently grown as writers as well, despite our disparate fields of study). We've poured in the same amount of dedication to finish this baby off--sat down in several restaurants and cafés to discuss (not to mention each other's houses when we felt too cheap to go out), and hell, even went to a Zipline and streamed through the sky in an attempt to come up with new scenes (I exaggerate, I did this purely to cater to my own whims and dragged her along because I'm an insufferable little toaster). Though we handled one character POV respectively, we tried to make sure each scene was threaded together so as to not sound too disjointed. We tried to adapt each others' tone as well, and even down to the posting, we've actually managed to equally divide work and load. So yes, wonderful experience, writing it is a reward in itself. <3

Il vous aime, c'est secret 3/4

dadomz — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 09:22:56 GMT

Title: Il vous aime, c'est secret
Authors: dadomz and i_l0ve_my_az
Rating: R
Pairing: Brian Joubert/Stéphane Lambiel
Summary: Futurefic. Two strangers (who aren't really unfamiliar to one another) meet at a café and improbably fall in love.
Warnings: Neither of us speak French and we've never been to France, so please forgive us for any errors.
Word Count: 18,400
A/N: We called this the Paris Café Futurefic while we were writing it. No, seriously. Heavily inspired by the narrators from 500 Days of Summer, Amélie and Pushing Daisies, which would explain the trippy 'voice-overs' at the start and end. Just want to add that dadomz convinced me to stop my relentless shipping of Joubert and Buttle by showing me YouTube vids of the Euros 2010 gala practise where Joubert was basically *__* and followed Lambiel around like a little puppy while Lambiel flirted with everyone but Joubert. Title taken from Quequ'un M'a Dit by Carla Bruni.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

A few days after, Stéphane is in the middle of telling a story about a horse, his production assistants, a table of flammable juggling implements and the disaster that ensued when a group of children in his audience mistook said horse for a unicorn when Brian comes to the sudden realisation that Stéphane is never still.

Brian, on the other hand, has always been a quiet person – both in words and in action. His mother can attest to this. As a child, Brian could sit still for hours at a time and stare at the subtle change of colours as the wind blew over the blades of grass in their garden. It used to worry his mother, who already worried more than enough about him, until his sisters convinced her that it was just his way.

Stéphane, though. . . Stéphane is constantly in motion. He fills silences with his words, forces his body into movement, fiddling with his sleeves, his scarf, the hem of his shirt. It seems as though his hands always have to be preoccupied with doing something, almost independent from the rest of his body.

Stéphane ends his story with the appearance of the police and the fire brigade. Brian laughs because he cannot help but mentally elaborate on the story with those firemen and policemen insisting on having their photograph taken with Stéphane. It would not be such a stretch from the truth.

Stéphane smiles at him, his hands busy with tearing his croissant to flaky pieces.

Brian unthinkingly reaches out to still his hands.

Stéphane looks at him with combined amusement and askance. Brian quickly removes his hand and clears his throat self-consciously. “Are you free this morning?” he asks, to distract from what had previously occurred.

“Sunday is my day of rest,” Stéphane replies, the very picture of curiosity.

“You have no plans today?”

“No,” said with a shake of the head and a smile.

“Good,” Brian nods, pulling out his wallet and paying for their meal. “I would like to take you someplace.”

“Where?” Stéphane asks but shrugs on his jacket nevertheless.

Brian smiles. “It is my turn to be mysterious now.”

Stéphane pouts but follows him out of the café, both of them calling out their goodbyes to Elsabeth.

“Tell me,” Stéphane commands, imperious as they walk past vendors selling flowers.

Brian turns and smiles placidly. “No.”

Stéphane responds with an almost sceptical look but subsides when Brian remains unmoved.

“Tell me, then,” he says instead, smiling and waving at a few vendors. “Do you really have the time to play games with me today?”

Brian shrugs. “I was not needed today.”

“Surely it must be different to work for such a big, international production?” Stéphane teases.

“Not very different,” Brian replies, touching Stéphane’s elbow to guide him down a corner.

Stéphane laughs. “I refuse to believe that.”

Brian smiles, conceding. “Everything’s bigger, yes, but my duties are still the same. I think there’s more pressure to succeed? That’s hardly new, though.” At this, they exchange looks of understanding and Brian is glad that even though they are different people now, something from the past remains.

“And what of the people?”

“You cannot help it, can you?” Brian laughs at Stéphane’s look of confusion. “I feel as if I’m being interviewed.”

Stéphane suddenly stops and mock gasps. “Are you implying that I am nosy?”

Brian holds up both hands. “I am saying you cannot help it.”

Stéphane slaps him lightly on the arm. “You do not have to answer if you don’t want to,” he chides.

Brian shakes his head, smiles, and prods Stéphane in the right direction. “I’ve been filming with Clémence, for the most part. The scenes where I interact with the other actors are being scheduled next week.”

“Oh!” Stéphane suddenly clasps his hands together. “Cleménce is lovely! Don’t you agree?”

Brian tilts his head in concession. “Lovely, yes. But odd. More odd than lovely, I would say.”

“People say that I am odd,” Stéphane says mildly.

Brian pauses at that then reaches down to brush his fingers lightly over Stéphane’s. “I did not say that it was a detriment to her character.”

Stéphane huffs out a tiny laugh. “All people are odd, I think. It’s what makes us human.”

Brian hums his agreement and they walk in silence for a bit until the spire of the Eiffel Tower rises in the forefront. Stéphane tugs at Brian’s sleeve and forces him to stop. “Is that where you’re taking me?” he asks, tilting his head in the direction of the tower. He raises both brows, the very picture of befuddled amusement. “How . . . quaint of you.” He squints at Brian, playing at reading him. “Or strange,” he amends, smiling.

Brian pretends to be offended for a moment before lightly urging Stéphane to resume their pace with fingers on his elbow. “No, that isn’t our destination.”

Stéphane allows himself to be herded, tilting his head to look at Brian’s profile. “Do we need a blindfold? Surprises usually do. I’ve a scarf in my bag.” Stéphane pulls out a ladybug-patterned scarf (clearly handmade) after a minute of rummaging through his bag.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Stéphane pouts and wraps the scarf around his neck while Brian navigates their way through the Trocadéro gardens. “Then it won’t really be a proper surprise, will it?”

“In my experience, the best surprises don’t need one. But if you insist. . .” Brian moves so that he’s behind Stéphane and reaches to cover his eyes with both hands.

Stéphane laughs, clear and bright, letting himself be led.

“Are we there?” he asks, breathless, when they finally stop.

Brian nods, remembers that Stéphane can’t see him, then says, “Yes.”

He removes his hands and Stéphane blinks rapidly at the sudden brightness before turning back to Brian, grinning. “The Cinéaqua!” He takes Brian by the wrist and tugs him to the ticket kiosk where Brian presents his annual pass and they have a minor argument over who will be paying Stéphane’s ticket (Brian emerges victorious) before entering the cool dimness of the aquarium.

They see a few children off to one corner gathered around a pool with glass sides. Stéphane immediately pulls Brian in that direction, throwing Brian a smile over his shoulder. Brian smiles, small and private, utterly charmed.

Stéphane kneels down in front of the touch pool between a little girl who is maybe four and a young boy who could be ten. They both turn to look when he dips his hand in the water. Brian looks around to see if any of the aquarium’s staff is in the vicinity because the touch pool is solely for children, though he does not doubt for a moment that Stéphane will manage to convince said staff otherwise.

When he has finished assuring himself that Stéphane will continue to remain unchastened, he turns to see that Stéphane has the little girl in his arms and is helping her reach farther into the pool. The boy is leaning against his side, talking about seeing the same fishes in his favourite Japanese cartoon.

“Have you ever had pet fish, Coccinelle?” the girl asks, looking up at him and clutching at his sleeve, unwittingly leaving a damp impression of her hand on the fabric.

“I had a cat,” he answers, bopping the girl on the nose with his finger. “And we all know what happens when a kitty sees fish, don’t we?”

The little girl giggles through her hands and the boy laughs. Behind them, Brian can see their parents exchanging amused glances before moving to relieve Stéphane of their children’s attentions. Stéphane waves goodbye to them and stands, moving to Brian’s side.

“What next?” he asks, just as a group of adolescent girls shriek past, exclaiming over the shark tunnel.

“Sharks?” Brian suggests blandly.

“Sharks,” Stéphane nods seriously before breaking out into a smile.

*

“I never would have taken you for a fish enthusiast,” Stéphane remarks once they are in the Pacific coral reef exhibit.

Brian observes his profile for a moment, exotic and strange in the shimmering blue darkness of the lights reflecting off the water. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t have the look of it, is all.”

“And what does a fish enthusiast look like?”

Stéphane looks him over once, quick and amused. “Not like you,” he quips then moves to place his hand on the glass partitioning of the aquarium, staring up at a passing school of surgeonfish.

“I like looking at fish,” Brian shrugs, unable to articulate his emotions and not feeling the need to defend himself.

“Hence the annual pass,” Stéphane responds, squinting at a mishmash of fish wandering close to where his hand is pressed.

Brian pushes his hands into his pockets. “It’s very . . . relaxing. Calming.”

Stéphane gazes, rapt, at a pufferfish that has wandered into his sightline. “They have nothing to worry about. They can just be.” He imitates the fish’s face, puckering his lips, cheeks filling with air and opening and closing his mouth in turn.

Brian grins. “Yes, especially in an aquarium.”

“It’s completely opposite to what humans experience, don’t you think?” Stéphane walks farther down the viewing area and Brian follows. “These fish are on display yet they can live freely without fear for their lives against some unforeseen predator. When we are put on display, we are less ourselves.”

Brian takes his hand and forces him to stop. “I think that only happens when we allow ourselves to live that way.”

Stéphane shrugs, pulls away. “When can we ever be true to ourselves? When we’re alone. People can’t help changing when there are others around to judge them.”

“Stéphane . . .” But he no longer hears Brian. He has crouched down beside a little boy and is pointing to a pair of clownfish while they both exclaim, “Nemo!”

*

The spring sun seems astonishingly bright after hours spent in the artificial darkness of the aquarium. Brian squints against the sunlight as he and Stéphane make their way through the exit. Their easy rapport had devolved into Stéphane telling amusing, inconsequential anecdotes after that honest conversation in the Pacific coral reef display where Stéphane had almost been tremulously vulnerable.

“And she said to me, ‘Uncle! That is not a ladybug! It is a red turtle!’” Stéphane concludes with a chuckle.

“Nieces,” Brian agrees, commiserating.

“Yes,” Stéphane nods. “I told her it would be the last time I baked for her and she said, ‘Thank goodness!’ I have never been so insulted in my life!” He grins and Brian smiles back. “And how is your niece?”

“She is almost a teenager now,” he says, fond, as he follows Stéphane down the path. He thinks Stéphane might be leading them towards the carousel. “I was anxious, thinking all she would talk about would be boys, but she is more in love with football.”

“Another sportsman in the family?” Stéphane teases.

“She is my niece,” Brian shrugs. “Of course I think she is very good.”

Stéphane laughs. “I think my niece is the smartest, most beautiful child in the world,” he says, throwing his arms wide in emphasis.

“So do I,” Brian nods. “It’s strange, though. Our relationship is different now, which is expected. Still, she becomes less open as she matures; more likely to keep to herself.”

“Ahhh,” Stéphane knocks their shoulders together. “Just like her uncle, it would seem.”

“You think I am moody?”

“I used to,” Stéphane nods, wrapping an arm around Brian’s and pulling him along. “You were very irritable during competitions and in press conferences. You seemed a very unpleasant person back then.”

“Is that why you avoided me back then?” Brian asks, very curious.

“Partly,” Stéphane replies, lifting his chin and eyes filled with amusement. “Now, I realise that you’re a very honest person. Frequently contemplative. You seemed such a brute when we were younger.”

“Because I had no artistry or grace?” Brian remarks, not at all offended. It is nothing he has not heard before and not something he hasn’t agreed with a million times over.

“No,” Stéphane says with a shake of his head, directing Brian to one side of the carousel where a busker sits, strumming his guitar. “Because you treated what we did as purely a sport when it isn’t. Not completely.”

They stand amongst a small crowd of people listening to the guitar player sing a strange English version of Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin. Stéphane hums along at first then starts singing along. Brian half-smiles when he taps a young woman on the arm and asks her to dance, making an exaggerated bow.

They start up a waltz, with Stéphane meeting Brian’s eyes every few steps or so. It is a spectacle, yes, but a very small one. Stéphane and his partner have the crowd’s attention but the busker does not seem to mind – he is smiling too.

Brian claps along with the crowd when the song ends. Stéphane and his partner bow; she is laughing and he goes to hug her, kissing both her cheeks after. She blushes, thanks him, and goes to hold her smiling boyfriend’s hand while Stéphane returns to Brian’s side.

“You’re a very good dancer,” Brian compliments. Stéphane smiles.

“Bonjour, my prince,” the busker calls out.

“Bonjour, Terry,” Stéphane returns, stepping closer to the busker’s open guitar case. “How are you this fine day?”

“Very well, thank you. Even better now that you honour me with your presence.”

“You flatter me.”

“No, you flatter me,” the man winks. “What can I play for you today?”

Stéphane grins, devious. “This is my friend, Brian,” he says, tugging Brian to his side. “He wants you to play Britney Spears.”

Brian pretends to splutter. “I asked no such thing.”

“Shh,” Stéphane mock whispers. “Play along.”

Terry winks knowingly. “Ahhhh,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “I see now.”

“So will you?” Stéphane asks, eyes wide. “For Brian.”

“Of course,” Terry nods. “For you and your friend, I will.”

Stéphane beams and Terry starts playing Sometimes, which sounds odd but not at all unpleasant to Brian’s ears. Stéphane sings along and tries to prod Brian into dancing with him. Brian demurs and Stéphane pouts at him, though he continues dancing along. When the song finishes, they clap and Stéphane drops ten Euros in the guitar case, telling Terry that he will see him tomorrow.

“You visit him here often?” Brian asks, once they are a few metres away.

“Not as often as I’d like to but, nevertheless, we see each other fairly often.”

Brian frowns. “How?”

“We are neighbours, of course!” Stéphane says, leading them towards a crepe stall.

“Unless you live in a hovel, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Brian replies as diplomatically as he is able.

Stéphane turns, confused, then bursts out laughing. “Oh! No! Terry only does this for fun on the weekends. He is an investment banker during the week.”

“That’s. . .strange.”

“Well, he loves music; surely there are stranger things in the world.” Stéphane tugs his sleeves over his knuckles. “You do like music, don’t you?”

Brian shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“Another reason I did not think we would get along,” Stéphane says quietly.

Brian does not think he should feel so slighted. “Because I am indifferent to music?”

Stéphane looks up, looks him in the eye. “Because you do not feel it. When you performed, it was as if you did not hear your song. That was strange to me.”

Brian holds his gaze for an infinite moment then looks away.

“Well, at least you don’t hate it,” Stéphane says, consolingly. “Else it would ruin my plan!”

Brian looks up, tilts his head in askance.

“Are you free this Friday night?” Stéphane smiles, mischievous.

Brian tries to recall his schedule. “No, not Friday. Thursday, though.”

Stéphane nods. “Better. Less people. All right!” He claps his hands. “Meet me at the café Thursday night at eight.”

Brian is sceptical. “Are you sure you will remember our appointment?”

Stéphane laughs and pulls out his phone. “I will call my Margaux now and have her remind me.”

*

And there they are at the Le Baiser Salé, listening to an amateur Jazz group doing a cover of Angèle Durand’s C’est si Bon.

This is how Stéphane usually spends his Fridays although today is a Thursday.

It is beautiful and idyllic; random strangers gathered around candle-lit tables, nursing a drink or two, humming and drumming their fingers to the song. Stéphane would usually just sit back and marvel, drown himself in the music and think about all these people – their pasts, their futures, who they are, where they’ve been, their dreams, their ambitions, their families, if they wore boxers and briefs, and he would amuse himself endlessly with the stories he fashions from his imagination.

Tonight, though, he does no such thing. He simply presses his cheek against Brian’s shoulder and closes his eyes. It is a little bit like sensory overload—listening to intoxicating music and drowning in Brian’s scent. It is pleasant, a mixture of coffee and musky cologne. Stéphane is unable to find a suitable term to describe how he smells.

With a contented sigh, he turns his head and rests his chin on Brian’s shoulder. “This is a lovely song.”

It takes a while for Brian to respond but Stéphane takes no offense. Brian is easily distracted and it takes a while for things to register. Or maybe things register quickly and his actions are delayed.

Brian is still holding on to an empty paper cup from the coffee shop, completely immobile and stiff. Stéphane blows hot air onto Brian’s neck in the hope of tickling him, loosening him up, but the act does not faze Brian and he remains completely impassive and still.

“I want to dance,” Stéphane whispers. “But there is no dance floor.”

Brian smiles at him. “It has never stopped you before.”

“That is true,” Stéphane says thoughtfully.

Brian settles back and looks at the band, then at Stéphane, back and forth intermittently. Brian likes to be the spectator, the observer, Stéphane thinks. It is just the way he is. He likes to look and he likes to think.

But Stéphane is not like Brian. He likes being in constant motion. So he stands up and grabs hold of Brian’s elbow, urging him to follow.

And like one of Pavlov’s dogs, Brian follows.

Stéphane wraps his arm around Brian’s waist and leads him through the maze of wooden chairs and the throbbing music, past the hazy lights, the obscure corners, the young professionals downing their glass of liqueur and spirits by the bar until they stumble outside in the middle of the street.

He takes Brian’s hand and laces their fingers together.

“Now,” Stéphane breathes. “Now we dance.”

Brian’s grip is surprisingly strong. His hands are also sweaty. “But I do not know how to dance.”

“Nonsense.” Stéphane puts his hands on top of Brian’s, their hips parallel. He steers Brian’s movements, backwards, and forwards. Slowly at first. “Let your body do what it wants. Just feel the music; don’t think too much.”

And so they proceed, gliding in the middle of the street; faster, and faster, until the world blurs around them in rough Technicolor. Like transients and vagrants, moving and moving and holding on to vestiges of stolen music. And they dance in reckless abandon, like Hollywood clichés and old movies.

They dance as if no one is watching, dance under the light of a lamppost, bodies mere inches away from one another. Brian’s hand is light at the small of Stéphane’s back, fingertips brushing against his spine. They move around in quick succession, swiveling, and touching.

Stéphane laughs gaily, throwing his head back and holding on to Brian’s shoulders.

And they don’t stop. They don’t stop even when rain starts to fall on Stéphane’s cheeks, little by little at first, hanging on to the tips of his lashes.

The rain eventually starts pouring; the sound of spatters hitting iron roofs and cemented pavement overwhelms the music. Even then, Stéphane does not let go; he simply backs Brian up against the lamp post and leans forward slightly for support and for warmth. They are drenched right now, and their clothes are clinging to their bodies.

He looks at Brian, who is looking down at him, smiling, and he is once again at a loss for words (this is no surprise; it is a recurring realization).

He leans closer this time, hands holding onto Brian’s arms for leverage. Standing on his toes, he no longer thinks about anything and just presses his lips against the corner of Brian’s mouth.

Hesitantly at first, until Brian’s hands are cupping his face and positioning him correctly, and they continue. Things become frantic and torrid after, until they mellow and break apart when they’re both short of breath and shivering.

Stéphane is the first to pull away. He looks at Brian shyly and thinks that Brian is still so very handsome. The thought never gets old. He rests his cheek in the crook of Brian’s neck until the rain stops.

*
They go to Brian’s hotel.

He does not know what he’s doing, is unsure of this course of action, certain only that Stéphane’s eyes are filled with dark promises. Or so he likes to tell himself. It is not so much self-denial as it is a particular kind of blankness where one does not try to think too much as to prevent oneself from daring to hope.

They walk through the lobby, damp shoulders brushing, Brian nodding amicably at the attendants on duty and Stéphane taking in the understated old world elegance that many establishments in Montmartre aspire to in blatant contrast to their relatively new edifices.

By some unspoken agreement, they choose a lift empty of people. When doors slide closed, Stéphane crowds Brian against one wall, enigmatic and pleased at the same time. Brian opens his mouth to speak – what he plans to say, he does not know but it becomes moot when Stéphane presses a finger to his lips to silence him. He takes Brian’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks, breathing in Brian’s exhales.

The doors ping open and he pulls away, pulls Brian out of the lift, their hands clasped together. Brian allows himself to be led along by both hands, subtly steering Stéphane in the right direction.

Brian stops him when they’re in front of his door and goes to pull out his key from his jacket pocket but Stéphane is impatient and pushes Brian up against the door, pulls his head down and kisses him hard and hungry, open-mouthed and all tongue. It takes Brian by surprise – it does not seem to suit his perception of Stéphane – but it does not take him long to return the kiss, shoving his hands in Stéphane’s back pockets and pulling him closer.

Stéphane makes a pleased noise and insinuates a leg between Brian’s, writhing, and providing them with much needed friction. Brian spurs into action and switches their positions, pushing Stéphane against the door and grabbing his free leg and hitching it up. They part for air. Stéphane wraps his leg firmly around Brian’s waist and arches his neck, moaning, while Brian presses wet, sucking kisses to his neck, pushing his hips up as he pulls Stéphane’s down.

Brian is mouthing at Stéphane’s collarbones when he gasps out, “Brian!” and pulls Brian’s head away with a hand fisted in his hair. He looks gorgeous, his mouth red and used, pupils wide and blown, skin flushed and sweaty. “We should go inside,” he says, running his hand down the side of Brian’s face, bringing his thumb to rest on Brian’s bottom lip, eyes following the movement of his hand, assessing.

Brian lets go and Stéphane slides down the door. Their eyes lock and hold while Brian turns the lock and Stéphane presses the lever open, tugging Brian into the darkness of the room with the hand buried in his hair.

Brian tries to lead them to his bedroom, relying purely on memory; Stéphane does his best to make things more difficult, pushing Brian’s jacket off his shoulders and toeing off his own shoes. He presses Stéphane against a bookshelf, stilling his hands where they’re trying to divest him of his belt.

“Bedroom,” he whispers. Stéphane merely nips his chin and resumes his task. Brian resigns himself to this lack of cooperation, clutches at Stéphane’s hips and firmly walks him backwards in the general direction of the bedroom.

He feels a tug as Stéphane pulls his belt free of his jeans, dropping it to the floor. He pushes his bedroom door open just as Stéphane finishes unbuttoning his jeans and sticks his hand inside, palming Brian through his underwear.

“Fuck,” he curses, unconsciously squeezing Stéphane’s hips hard.

“Oh,” Stéphane breathes, still for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Brian takes this opportunity to pull Stéphane’s sweater over his head and toss it to one side of the room before they’re kissing again, Stéphane’s fingers buried in Brian’s hair. Brian undoes two buttons on Stéphane’s relatively dry shirt until it becomes too complicated a task without the help of his eyes and decides to divest Stéphane of his trousers instead, sliding down Stéphane’s chest and mouthing at one nipple through his shirt.

Stéphane moans, hugs him close and steps out of his trousers and socks with Brian’s help. Brian licks a path back up to his mouth and kisses him deep, fingers hooked into the band of Stéphane’s underwear. Stéphane grabs both his hands and takes a step back. Brian makes a confused noise and tries to follow but Stéphane is adamant.

“Brian,” he says, voice low but firm. “Have you done this before?”

Brian licks his lips, hesitates, then answers. “Not like this.”

“What have you done? Hands?” At this he squeezes Brian’s hands. “Mouth?” He runs a thumb over Brian’s lips.

Brian nods and Stéphane moves closer and brings their foreheads together. “Would you like to be inside me?” he whispers against Brian’s mouth. “I want you to have me.”

“Yes,” Brian breathes, heart pounding wildly in his chest, hands unconsciously tracing the ridges of Stéphane’s hipbones. “Please.”

Stéphane kisses him, soft and sweet, and they tumble into bed.

Brian divests himself of his T-shirt, jeans, pants and socks and, while Stéphane runs his hands over his newly bared skin, he pulls off Stéphane’s underwear and slides his shirt over his head and onto the floor.

“How do I . . .” he trails off and Stéphane chuckles, pulling him down into a kiss.

“Do you have any lotion?” Stéphane asks when they part.

Brian nods and reaches out to fetch the complimentary bottle of hand lotion and a condom from his nightstand. He drops the items on the bed and they resume kissing lazily, rubbing against each other.

“Here,” Stéphane says, taking Brian’s right hand and bringing it to his mouth, sucking at two fingers obscenely. He releases them with a lurid pop. Stéphane spreads his legs wider and drags Brian’s fingers up his thigh to rest them against where he is hottest. “You can use your hand.”

Or he can use something else, he realises, suddenly understanding Stéphane’s fixation with his lips. “Can I use my mouth?” he asks impulsively.

Stéphane’s breath stutters and Brian takes it as assent and goes to follow the path his fingers took with his mouth until he’s opening Stéphane up with his lips and tongue.

*

Brian wakes in the middle of the night, confused and disoriented. He blinks away the hazy could of sleep and sees Stéphane’s body curled toward his, hand resting under Brian’s cheek. The covers are a tangle at their feet so he goes to pull them over both their shoulders. Stéphane huffs and stirs but does not wake. Brian wraps an arm around his back and presses close, their faces touching.

It’s been too long since he’s shared his bed with a person and it’s strange and blanketing but, surprisingly, not at all constricting.

Brian falls back to sleep, content.

*
The next time he wakes, his body tells him it is morning. He spares a bleary glance at the clock on his nightstand and sees that it is an hour before the time he is accustomed to rising. He does not understand why or what has caused him to jolt out of sleep at first but things slowly come into focus. First, the warmth of his sheets, the pleasant ache in his limbs, that heady rush of satisfaction over a night well spent.

Then he remembers. Stéphane.

He looks around his bedroom and there is the source of his interrupted sleep. Stéphane is partially dressed in his slacks and button down, and is picking up his sweater from the carpeted floor while whispering in a frantic tone into his phone.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I completely forgot! No, no, I did not lose track of time this time. Yes, I know it’s either the former or the latter; I can’t help it. You know how I am. Please extend my sincerest apologies. Can we take the next flight? I’ll be there in an hour; I’ve to pick my suitcases from my apartment. Oh! You have them? Alright, half an hour then. I’m sure I can persuade the taxi to hurry. I’ll be safe, I promise. Alright. I’ll see you. Again, so sorry.”

“You have to leave, I take it?” Brian says insipidly.

Stéphane looks up from his phone and gives Brian a complicated look. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

Brian waves a dismissive hand.

“I have to go,” Stéphane says needlessly, eyes on the floor, hands fidgeting with his sweater.

Brian studies him for a moment before getting to his feet. “Come here.”

Stéphane shuffles close and Brian tilts his chin up and kisses him, soft and unhurried. Their lips part but their foreheads remain pressed together.

“I promise I’m not running away,” Stéphane breathes across his cheek.

Brian does not know if either of them believes that.

Minutes pass but they remain unaware, counting time by their heartbeats and shared breath. Stéphane breaks away reluctantly. “We need to talk,” he says, breaking the tenuous silence. “When I get back.”

Brian nods and Stéphane smiles tentative and unsure before turning to leave.

“Stéphane.”

He turns and Brian walks to him and hugs him until he feels Stéphane hug back. He lets go when he does not think he can stretch the moment any further.

Stéphane turns and walks away.

Brian thinks he is becoming maudlin in his old age because it feels like goodbye.

Part Four

7 Days and a Lifetime with Mr. Arrogant

dadomz — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 08:45:22 GMT

Title:7 Days and a Lifetime with Mr. Arrogant
Author:dadomz
Rating:~~PG13~~ R18
Characters/Pairings:Puck/Kurt
Notes:To get a glimpse of how the Puck/Kurt dynamic worked, I had my 6’5 boyfriend kiss my 5’5 self—that made for good research. Thank you byte366 for the thorough beta work and the useful insights.
Warning:It’s R18 for a reason—so err, swearing, innuendoes, and mentions of alcohol will be present (if not, rampant). Also, for the benefit of everyone else, I’ve included several mentions of High School Musical characters in this story. Crossovers are usually not my “thing” and they may not be yours too, so I’ll totally forgive you if you decide to not bother (reading).
Disclaimer:Don’t own anything, not even those cheap Jeffrey Campbell, Balmain knock-offs.
Summary:Armed with nothing but a Louis Vuitton suitcase, a Goyard Weekender, and an obligatory vacation leave to nurse a broken heart, Kurt Hummel is now back in Lima, Ohio.

7 Days and a Lifetime with Mr. Arrogant.

NEW FIC!

dadomz — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 08:36:41 GMT

Hey guys, make my life awesome by reading this entry!

I recently participated in the hd_worldcup and wrote a story. Please read, review, and comment on my fic + all the participants' fics. The recent entries are wonderful.

Thanks!

Title: Hi, My Name is Harry and I'm an Alcoholic! (Or the story in which Harry thinks Draco is parading around in New York as Simone, the existentialist philosopher in disguise)
Genre: Dark Humour
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of sex, alcohol, mild exhibitionism, absurd metaphors, crude and creative profanities; manifestations of fragments, compound-complex sentences, and maybe necrophilia—so no cops hightailing me for voyeuristic exploitation of prepubescent minds, okay?
Summary: Circa 2004. Please view title.

Hi, My Name is Harry and I'm an Alcoholic

JOIN FAS!

dadomz — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:10:36 GMT

I know specifically that everyone wants a little excitement in their lives. Well, see, allow me to go around talking about what's going to happen next week as opposed to what usually happens to me a few weeks prior. So next week will be Ateneo's Recruitment Week for Unaccredited Orgs--this will be held at the Colayco Pavilion from June 26 - June 27, 2008 (Thursday and Friday) and FAS or The Freelance Artists Society will be there to open its doors to possible new members.

8D

Of course, we won't be alone, there'll be other orgs trying to recruit others based on their vested interests so please, please, please, allot at least, five minutes of your to check the entire scene out. I swear, it will be fun and it will be worth your while--so okay, it might not be mind-gasmic or anything numinous but I mean, seriously, if you guys have nothing else better to do in between breaks and you just want to bum out or be productive, head over to our corner! There, you will most likely:

1. Be able to view tons and tons of beautiful artworks showcased by previous FAS members.
2. Play Tekken side by side with our officers via PSP! You can try kicking their asses, seriously, they're that good!
3. Play Cooking Mama via Nintendo DS (or well, any possible games but you know, that's my top pick)
4. View laptops and play WoW or DoTA or just watch DVDs--we've got an impressive collection!
5. Or just sit down on one of our cushions, talk with us, listen to musics blaring from our ipods and go on to a vanilla-laced, rainbow-filled daze.

FAS started out as this vision to cater to all artists in Ateneo--or hell, even beyond Ateneo. It's a haven started out by my dear friend Mye Chung and through compounded efforts, we were all able to come up with an organization that allowed people to freely express their creativity and keep their creative juices running around the mill. Last year was quite a year for us, it was fun-filled and informative--we even had quite a blast concocting Fuzio.

So this year, FAS would like to continue providing itself as an avenue for creative self expression.

For some strange reason, I just wound up being the president--I swear, they had to tie me up and club my head repeatedly with croc prima flats just to get me to agree. That aside, it really was an honor, FAS has opened so many opportunities to everyone--we've hooked budding photographers up to intern under great geniuses, allowed traditional artists to explore beyond their fields, and showcased a variety of talent from all other visual arts field. I mean, I, for one, was considered and accepted to every single internship position I applied to prior to senior year just because of FAS' Fuzio event.

And so I want to keep the tradition alive--like, allow the legacy to live on. I want to provide people with the same opportunities--I mean, we'll have talks and workshops geared for the improvement and additional experiences in which ever field you excel in or would like to give a shot. We have little parties and fun-filled activities (like photo shoots, photo booths, art contests) that will allow you to meet people, produce something artistic, and just be in a society where it's okay--no, praised, even--to be bohemian, to be weirdly creative, to spout artistic jargons once in a while! To be in a place where you can belong and where you can find an outlet to share and showcase your talent!

Admittedly, I'm not a good artist but I think I'm a passable designer. Of course, being a designer entails work and logic but not too much of creativity--although creativity is a crucial point. FAS has helped me develop my creativity--where it allowed me to explore, push my capabilities further than I thought possible.

What more? This year, FAS' goal is directed more towards social involvement. THe first list on the agenda is to meet people, get to know people you share a common interest with, and build connections you will surely find crucial in the future. After that, we want to go by Ateneo's adage of being:

"MEN FOR OTHERS" or something of the same effect.

As artists, we need an audience. So okay, some of us are romantic in ideals and that we do "art for art's sake" but let's face it, for us to grow, we need people to see our work and we need them to tell us what they think of it, what emotions are evoke, how it changes the world.

Good design changes the world.

Ninety-Eight Percent Complete, Titanium-Lined Android

dadomz — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 13:34:29 GMT

Here's the premise:
So I Xander enrolled me to this creative writing workshop for my FA Elective--it's a play adaptation class under Sir Glenn Mas. Basically, the goal of the course is to come up with a one-act play adaptation worth 30 - 35 pages.

To be honest, I haven't the faintest about plays--I've watched a couple, read a few, hell, I think I've gone as far as knowing the technicalities but I'm not well-adversed when it comes to writing them. I've written short stories for cathartic purposes but I've never tried writing for an audience--so I hope you see my dilemma. That aside, I've always written my stories under the context of a screenplay, not a stage performance.

When I presented my outline to the class, I literally heard crickets. I had this sheepish smile on my face because I knew I was a tad bit too tedious. Everyone had interesting stories--most of them satirized fairy tales (with a bit kinky quirks here and there) and so you know, I think they were expecting something funny from me (since I often suggested perverse plots and made tons of innuendoes).

So my primary concern is if it is a tedious plot, if there's a possibility I can work my way around it. I think it's a niched topic--like, it's not something you'd decide upon watching unless necessary.

Gah, I'll leave that to you guys to decide.

So please, I need all the constructive criticism you can muster--and suggestions too. XD

I've attached both the short-story and the outline for the play.

Title: Ninety-Eight Percent Complete, Titanium-Lined Android
An Adaptation of: Ovid’s Pygmalion
With slight references from: Sir Thomas More’s Utopia
By: Dominique Marie M. Tiu
I would like to dedicate this to (in no particular order): My mother, my father, my grandmother, my grandfather, my best friend, my roommates, the rest of my ancestors, my fag, my hag, the children I will most likely not have, my dog Bea, my hamster Johnabehl, my boyfriend, my girlfriend, my goat, my turkey, and my professor Glenn Mas.

I.

In the near future, they say anything is possible.

II.

Change is inevitable.

Change is the only thing constant.

The dawn of a new government will take precedence over the entire world: a technological Utopia where the field of Science has left no question unanswered.

With industrialization at the cusp of global evolution, trivial prejudices are eradicated—gender, religion, geography.

There will be no room to practice self-expression; every citizen is geared towards the stability of the civilization.

Mediocrity will no longer exist; any form of anomalies will be eliminated as well.

An individual’s goal is to immortalize his or herself; their worth, gauged by the notable achievements accomplished within the given lifetime.

Virtues are blurred, judgments are reserved, and the only thing constant will be apathy.

They say: “Change is good.”

III.

Will you remember?

IV.

If I may allow myself to recall, I believe it has nearly been three years since I last left this lead-lined hangar.

Five since I left the Academy.

Twenty-six since I last came into existence.

Zero since I made a name for myself.

I am citizen number 00010038808.

I am the ninety-ninth roboticist granted a position within the Earth’s science council.

I had worked incessantly, day and night without fail for the past three years just to gain such recognition.

But I come from an illustrious family, a lineage of prominence that dates back as early as the twenty-third century. My father is currently the syphogrant of Cypriot, the twenty-eighth city—he was formerly a famed nuclear chemist that was able to isolate several compounds, inducing an atomic fusion using quasineutral, anisotropic plasmas.

My mother, on the other hand, worked as the head engineer for the Saturn Consolidation Project, stabilizing the planet Saturn’s gravitational field and making it inhabitable for human utility.

It was about time I created history for myself.

V.

I also go by the name: Olivia.

VI.

The opportunity came sixty-three days after my twenty-sixth birthday.

It came in the form of a tiny black box.

“I would like for you to create the perfect human.”

VII.

The request reverberated incessantly without the need of the black box.

“I would like for you to create the perfect human.”

“For you to create the perfect human.”

“Create the perfect human.”

“The Perfect Human.”

VIII.

She was the epitome of perfection.

The image of Alexandra materialized in my mind like a turbulent onslaught of reality; individually, her features were quite plain and predictable but perhaps, as a whole, they complemented her like a trochaic octameter in a poem.

We lay next to each other in post-coital silence whilst counting numerous fissures in the ceiling as if they were stars arranged into a constellation; she puffs perfectly shaped smoke rings in tangents—how strange, even those are complementary to her universe.

“What is?” Alexandra asks as she inconspicuously stubs the cigarette butt against the edge of the metal table.

I turn my head towards the right, facing her fully. For that brief moment, I don’t mind the strong scent of nicotine. She continues to look at me passively, ambivalently—perhaps in a manner that suggests scrutiny.

I can feel the tiny jut of bone on her left wrist digging against mine.

“What is what?” I ask, slightly a bit disinterested.

She pushes herself elegantly upright in one fluid motion; her hair draped over the expanse of her back. She gathers them loosely with both hands raised slightly above her head thus revealing the exquisite curve of her nape.

My eyes trace over the smooth muscles outlined by her glistening skin.

She tilts her face carefully, hooded eyes lazily doing a gradual once-over.

“Complementary to my universe?” She asks nonchalantly, her voice smooth and slick, rich and deep.

Everything, I responded in my mind as she lowers down her head slightly to engage in what is said to be the most classic form of intimacy yet for me, will always remain the most sensual.

I kiss her back with much fervor and my universe shatters into tiny, fragmented pieces all over again.

IX.

I named her Elizabeth.

X.

I felt lips pressed against the back of my neck.

“Those seem familiar.”

Nimble fingers working their way around my right bicep, flitting light against the skin of my arm, slowly trailing down to my inner wrist.

I arched my back against her and shivered.

The air seemed particularly cool that day.

I pried her fingers away gently, setting it against the surface of the metal table. Now was not the time to engage in such absurdities.

I went on to massage the android’s artificial skin, which is made out of tinted porous polymer film implanted against its titanium framework.

The texture similar to that of human skin.

So much like human skin.

“Those are my breasts,” Alexandra states plaintively.

“Those are your breasts.” I mimic.

She steps back abruptly, an influx of air rushing in between the formerly occupied space.

“I should get going.”

“You should.”

XI.

“You have become quite attached to your work.”

Alexandra loomed over Elizabeth, examining her progress. I paid no attention to her histrionic claims—sometimes, ignorance is the cure for envy.

I lifted the android’s fingertips, watching them spasm underneath my gaze. This is a breakthrough—her sensory perception and kinesthetic functions are working extremely well.

Much akin to a human being’s.

“Alexandra,” I lifted my head and looked up to her, “You are blocking my light.”

She stood motionless, challenging me with her stony countenance. Alexandra abhorred having her authority being challenged; this was something I had become used to upon dealing with her, I had come to admire it at times even.

Today, however, it annoyed me.

“You have become attached to your work,” She continued monotonously, “gravely attached to your work in a manner that is more than necessary.

“It cannot be Olivia, do you not see the irony of your task? A robot can never compare to the sublimity of a human being much less aspire to be a perfect one.” She bit out viciously, taking a step towards the lifeless Elizabeth, lifting her chin and shifting her face roughly from one side to the other with much less solicitude than I would have preferred.

I grabbed her forearm and pried them away from the possibility of creating damage.

“Please leave.”

She pulled her hand back with brute force.

“She is but a cheap imitation.”

Sometimes, I can no longer tell whether she’s envious of me—my passion, my depth, my success—or of Elizabeth—certainly because she has the very characteristics Alexandra lacks.

She stalks off without so much as a word.

XII.

That was the last I’ve heard of Alexandra.

XIII.

When I began teaching Elizabeth the foundations of speech and phonetics, she suddenly interrupted my discourse by asking what love is.

What is love?

For a while, I could not answer.

It was not because I did not know but more of the fact that I was unfamiliar with it. There are seemingly endless translations of various synonyms and descriptions as provided by the world however, nothing could accurately suffice—even to a human being, what more an android, who is, for now, designed to be human?

For the remaining weeks to follow, I could not answer still.

“It is complicated,” I started, “but I think my relationship with you pretty much encapsulates the concept.”

Elizabeth looks up at me with child-like curiosity ready to absorb every inch of knowledge I could provide. “Then why do you love me?”

“Because I created you,” I said simply, dissatisfied with my own answer.

It only served to heighten the confusion and inquisitiveness in Elizabeth’s expression.

XIV.

It came about to the moment that I had to let her go.

I cupped her on the cheek in a rather intimate manner, boring her seemingly vapid eyes into mine.

“Do you love me?” I had asked hesitantly, desperately.

For a fleeting moment, she looked at me in what I had possibly imagined as tender yet filled with pity.

“I am sorry,” she said out of propriety as I had taught her to do, “I still do not know enough to answer your question.”

I had not realized when my hands had dropped to my sides.

XV.

I have succeeded in so far as I have failed.

XIV.

And so I let it go.

Title: Ninety-Eight Percent Complete, Titanium-Lined Android
An Adaptation of: Ovid’s Pygmalion
With slight references from: Sir Thomas More’s Utopia
By: Dominique Marie M. Tiu

Characters
Olivia – A roboticist, relatively 26-27 years old
Alexandra – her lover, 30 years old
Elizabeth – Android, seemingly between 25 – 30 years old
Benefactor – Anonymous

Time and Place
The play is set in the future in an atypical Utopic society with fifty-two cities; it is in Cypriot, the twenty-eighth city. The environment will not look any different from the contemporary world hence time is of no value however, it is important to point out the predominance of industrialism. The play transpires particularly in a whitewashed office encased in glass; it has a distinctly large metal table in the middle with a workstation, which is cluttered with office paraphernalia, computers, and numerous wires.

Outline

Scene 1
Alexandra pays her colleague Olivia a visit in her office; she presents to her a task of heading a project from an anonymous benefactor. She hands Olivia a tiny black package before leaving to attend to her own projects; Olivia, in turn, opens the tiny black box and receives a recording of the benefactor’s request to fashion a perfect human out of an android.

Scene 2
Olivia sits at the edge of the metal table, playing with shadows cast by the lone-desk light on her workstation. Alexandra lies down next to her, puffing smoke rings. It is implied that Alexandra and Olivia had slept together. Alexandra talks about Olivia’s blueprint for the android, pointing out the resemblance between her breasts and the proposed ones for the android. As Alexandra succumbs to sleep, Olivia stares at her intently before proceeding to her workstation to create the blueprint of the android’s face. Ever so often, she looks at Alexandra’s face intently and inputs several characteristics.

Scene 3
The android is nearly complete; it lies on the metal table lifeless but very much akin to a human being. Alexandra is in the room, observing Olivia flit about and examining the robot for any possible imperfection. The conversation starts out lightly with Alexandra comparing the characteristics between her, the robot, and Olivia. The topic escalates to the robot’s mode of assimilating information—Olivia prefers giving her merely sensory perception and kinesthetic functions while taking a personal approach in education; Alexandra, information-ready microchip software. Alexandra makes a move to examine the robot closely but is put off by Olivia with a sharp slap on the hand; Alexandra stalks out of the room without so much as a word.

Scene 4
Olivia breathes life into the android.

Scene 5
Alexandra examines the android from a distance; Olivia is ecstatically teaching the robot basic language. Alexandra accuses Olivia of being too involved with her project, pointing out the lack of communication and goes on a vindictive tirade about how a robot can never be a perfect human. Olivia becomes slightly agitated; the robot senses her discomfort, acts on its primal kinesthetic functions as inputted by her creator and lunges towards Alexandra. Alexandra grabs the nearest object and makes a swift cut across the android’s face thus revealing titanium metal underneath. Olivia and Alexandra get into another fight, which results, to Alexandra permanently signing off the project.

Scene 6
Olivia repairs the android’s face, going off to a monologue involving the need to immediately repair imperfections. She is interrupted by her own answering machine; Alexandra has left her a vague apology. Olivia deletes the message.

Scene 7
Olivia stresses the importance of the classics and enunciations; she goes on to a lesson of phonetics with a poem by Jean Leon-Gerome (Pygmalion and the Statue):

Pygmalion loathing their lascivious Life,
Abhorred all Womankind, but most a Wife:
So single chose to live, and shunned to wed,
Well pleased to want a Consort of his Bed.
Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,
In Sculpture exercised his happy Skill;
And carved in Ivory such a Maid, so fair,
As Nature could not with his Art compare,
Were she to work; but in her own Defence,
Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleased with his Idol, he commends, admires,
Adores; and last, the Thing adored, desires—

She is interrupted in mid-tirade by the Android (to which she fondly calls, “Elizabeth”), thrown off by a question about the meaning of love. Reluctantly, Olivia parallels her relationship with Elizabeth as an example of the concept. Elizabeth states her incapability of comprehending. Olivia assures her that it is perfectly human to do so.

Scene 8
Elizabeth examines Olivia’s naked body, curiously touching several parts and lapping up each and every reaction elicited. Olivia explains to her the need to engage in sexual actions to achieve a certain level of intimacy and at the same time, derive pleasure. She explains, it is what people do at times, to express their love. Olivia proceeds to spread Elizabeth’s legs open to demonstrate.

Scene 9
Olivia primps Elizabeth up prior to shipping her off to the original benefactor; she works her way around hesitantly, slightly a bit edgy, moving around with less ease. She fixes the pod used to host Elizabeth on while engaging her in small pep talks. She finally confronts her robot, telling her frankly that she is capable of not sending her off to the benefactor and is torn between an internal battle of wanting to keep the android for herself and wanting to fulfill her role as a mere roboticist at the edge of a scientific breakthrough. As a sort-of ultimatum, she asks Elizabeth if she loves her—to which, the robot apologizes with propriety, telling her that she does not comprehend the concept fully to attest to it. Olivia kisses the robot on the forehead and unwires the robot’s system, allowing it to slump limply against her.

Scene 10
The entire scene changes, the blank wall behind the workstation is filled up with newspaper clippings of the android and the special benefactor. The metal table is filled with spare robotic limbs, several are scattered around the floor. Olivia is slumped on her workstation, drawing sketches and blueprints, examining it, and then hastily crumpling it. On the background, the answering machine chimes on an eleventh message from Alexandra.

I would like to thank:i_l0ve_my_az,archangel_dream, ravyn_ashling, and ~~Reis' friend Jeremy~~ plapla_lord.

High School Musical Slash,Whoot!--(Roughly UNBETA-ed)

dadomz — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 17:30:58 GMT

TITLE: Welcome to Hollywood, Baby, There Ain’t Nothing Like it. (1/3)
RATING: R18
PAIRING: Troy/Ryan—their non-existent tandem on-screen blew my mind away.
SUMMARY:

WARNING: Gay Disney—if you say nay to thwarted childhood stereotypes then I suggest you close this window. Trust me, this won’t be your cup of tea.
GENRE: ~~Light Romance/Slight(ly Unwanted) Humour~~ CRACK!
WHY NOT CHAD/RYAN? Simply because I don’t thrive on sadism—it’s like, two rocks drooling on each other. So okay, maybe a little bit of Chad and Ryan because they’re just too cute to ignore.

As told by i_l0ve_my_az:

NBA superstar Troy Bolton had everything going for him: looks, talent, money and a wonderful girlfriend--that is until Gabriella decides to break off their engagement. Sharpay Evans is on the cusp of Hollywood superstardom, but she needs that extra something to separate her from the rest of the pack. A whirlwind romance between Troy and Sharpay is just what both their careers need. While they are hounded by the paparazzi and all the pitfalls of fame, Troy finds himself strangely drawn to Ryan, Sharpay's brother and publicist. Will the succeeding media frenzy be enough to boost Troy and Sharpay's flagging media cred?

PART 1

When Ryan reluctantly crawled out of his generic Martha Stewart brand salmon-coloured comforter, he knew instantly that it was a quarter past two o' clock PM (call it a hunch for the lack of a better term). Letting out a muffled groan, he attempted to disentangle himself from the offending cotton fabric wrapped around slinkily on his jaunty hips.

He made a mental note of making a quick trip to Ikea next week, most definitely before dropping by the local deli to pick up Sharpay's pasramis--that and to never again crawl into bed at five AM after bouts of animalistic partying, mixing gin tonics with cranberry vodka, and downing an entire bottle of Xanax (more like two pills tops).

“RYAN!” Exclaimed a flurry of fuchsia and blue boas, shiny blonde hair, glittering crystal Swarovski embellishments, and blinding flash of bright white enamels obscenely bleached to perfection (bursting uninvited, mind)--yep, definitely straight out of a Grade B, low-budget sixties horror movie.

“Oh Lordy, too early to be dealing with you.” He muttered as he dove right into a mountainous pile of pillows.

"Ryan," the creature decked in pink whined as she tried to unearth Ryan from underneath the valley of comfortable cotton fabric, "There's something important I need to show you about Troy Bolton!"

“Leave me alone, fiend, you’re too shiny.”

Brandishing her newly painted claws, she grabbed the neckline of his mangy cotton shirt and forced him to sit upright, “Listen to me you little shit, in case you've forgetten--or haven't gotten it past your thick skull--you are in my payroll ergo, I am your employer and you are my employee. It is your job--no, duty, obviously, to cater to my every whim."

"God, you're such a bitch." He huffed, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "It's not as if I don't get any work done--I am, after all, responsible for the last three roles you've landed. Where's my effing Macchiato? You know I can't think without my non-fat Macchiato venti from Starbucks."

“Up your ass ducky,” She smacked him upside in the head with a copy of People Magazine, "Shut up and turn to page forty-three."

"You know princess," He smirked at her as she handed him a cup of piping hot black coffee and three Splenda packets, "this idea of yours isn't half as bad as I thought it would be--hell, it's actually pretty decent."

“Of course.” She flipped her hair haughtily.

"Yeah, yeah, you've always been the smarter twin." He emptied the last packet of condiment into his drink before heaving out a dramatic sigh, "Oh why, why did I have to be the prettier one?"

"So, how're things?" Chad asked hesitantly as Troy faked a pass and proceeded to dunk in front of him in all his testosterone-laden glory.

“Huh?” Troy frowned, wiping sweat trickling down his temples, secretly not wanting to be caught off-guard just in case a stray paparazzi chanced upon him playing one-on-one at such an exclusive suburban neighbourhood.

“Since, you know, you and Gabi called it quits.” He dribbled the ball lazily and attempted a three pointer (and failing miserably), “Fuck, bad shot.”

“Oh.” Troy picked the ball from under the ring, “I don’t know, a bit strange I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve last been single.”

Chad made a move to steal the ball, “You don’t seem bothered.”

“Well, I guess I’ve seen it coming.” Troy shrugged as he held the ball close to his chest, “We both led separate lives and compromising’s a bitch. I loved her but I guess I didn’t love her enough to marry her.”

“Ouch.” Chad ran a hand through his hair as he watched the ball go past the hoop smoothly.

“Nah, she called me up last week to thank me.” Troy grabbed the ball and passed it straight to Chad, “Said she figured out what was wrong, how there was this certain conflict of interest between us—she didn’t say what though but she did say she was seeing someone from the Air Force.”

Troy neglected to mention that she told him flat-out that unlike him--Ted--yeah, that was his name, found it very strange that Troy liked to fuck her from behind.

“You know what I think?” Chad released the ball from his grip and pumped his fist in the air as it went through the net, “I think you need to have a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. You’re a bachelor now and the first thing you have to do is to drown the remnants of your last relationship in the sink and venture to more risqué conquests.”

“Risqué conquests, huh.” Troy let out a derisive snort.

"Yeah man, like, you need to get your head back in the game, Captain ball," Chad smirked at the rather skeptical expression Troy was currently sporting, "Come on man, show them what you've got! Come with me this weekend, let's have fun at Koi with a couple of friends and dance the night out at Fuse! Convincing, huh?”

Troy rolled his eyes, "Yeah, very convincing."

“Eliza Bynes? Yes, yes, this is Ryan Evans, Sharpay Evans’ publicist, thank you so very much for returning my call. I’ve been meaning to grab a hold of you for the past few weeks already but yeah, I know you’re busy. Ugh yeah, I can so sympathize I mean, I know I’m just handling one rising star but she’s been a handful now since her career skyrocketed but of course, nothing compares to your work, you are handling four powerhouse celebrities after all, I’d be surprised if you’re able to get the recommended eight hours of sleep.

“Oh my, I don’t think I can handle that. God, I’d probably kill her if she decides to venture into music—I mean, you do know how hard it is to get there, right? I mean, God, I’m such a skeeze, of course you do but I’m sure you can’t help but agree when I say that the music industry’s a different story. It’s all dirty business, how they have specifications and how everything there is sort of a gamble. You have to be cookie-cutter to fit the mold and you know, contact building’s a bitch especially if you’re a freelance publicist.

“Oh right, right, no, no, of course not, I’m just trying to set up a meeting between Troy Bolton and my charge. Well, not really set up per se seeing as the date had been set by a mutual friend of ours. Well actually, we’ve known Troy way back in High School. Yeah, we sort of went to the same school, East High. Yup! Small, small world indeed.

“So yeah, this mutual friend of ours, well, I think you know him, Chad Danforth—he owns danceforth studios—yeah, he's a star in his own right but for all it's worth, I taught the kid how to dance. Right, yeah! He is Troy’s best friend!

"Yeah, well, we’re all going out to Koi for Dinner tomorrow night and I’d love to invite you over. Oh no, nothing too heavy but we really do have to talk business--I have a little proposal of my own that might get Troy back on track.

“--Not that I’m saying he’s losing his touch or anything but I heard from random sources that Calvin Klein isn't renewing their contract with him--what a pity, he looked smokin' hot donning their briefs. Yeah, you know how, before you turn left to Rodeo drive, you'd see his huge billboard? I usually take that route instead of the easier one from where we live just so I could see his half-naked form.

“So, do you think you can make it? What? You Can't? Are you sure? Oh, you have a prior commitment? Well, okay, I'd be a bit uncomfortable discussing things with you in public but here it goes, well, in a nutshell, my plan is relatively simple and it's to get my girl to date your boy. He came from a tragic breakup, she's the new media darling--hey, hey! They'll be the next TomKat!"

“Look dude, they’re going to show up, I swear. I know these guys and they might be a little bit over the top but they get things going.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Troy grumbled as he stabbed the baby tomato right in front of him with his salad fork, “Some blind date this one’s turning out.”

It wasn't apocalypse or anything, probably a minute or two past nine, more than an hour since their supposed dates were to arrive but--hell, who was he kidding?

Man, they sure did make bad first impressions--that's for sure.

Troy just hated having to wait for anything. Yes, it was pretty much bad diva behaviour and he's quite sure he's been told off for more than a hundred times already by his agent and team mates but it didn't change the fact that it was still quite a rational request.

Well, to him, anyway--what was the point of having to wait for anything when it was possible for the aforementioned to arrive promptly?

That's just sheer bullshit, in his honest opinion.

It's no secret that Troy's spent a good decade or so being one of the top endorsers, having created a niche for himself. He was an A-list celebrity-athlete who knew the advantage of focus, discipline, and promptness; Even on his prime, (soon-to-decline), he hasn't stopped applying the very values that had brought him to his current position (Hollywood, tabloid-fodder-wise).

It was just--

“--S'about time, that's what I think!” Chad pushed his chair backwards with a halting screech as he made a move to stand.

Yeah, it's about time. Troy craned his neck with a blatant scowl writ on his face.

"Over here!" Chad waves his arms about enthusiastically for the blond, by the entrance, to notice.

Said blonde (in skin-tight denim jeans, leather boots, and dove-grey overcoat) seemed to have caught on to the (rather) vivid (and embarrassing) display of gesticulations.

Everyone's eyes were on him, and By God, he knew.

How could he not? The guy shimied like there was no tomorrow, hips rolling like as if he owned the entire world--he looked so polished, so cultured, and just so sexy that it was near impossible for anyone to peg him as an outsider to Hollywood.

Troy sighed contentedly, this night was starting to have potential.

“Surprise, surprise!”

Ryan dropped his Louis Vuitton speedy monogram on the empty seat across Troy. Truth be told, He really wasn't one for Louis Vuittons. Yeah, he loved designer handbags, man purses, wallets, and leather goods--(Balenciaga as one of his top picks) but the Louis Vuitton brand always appeared too tacky and desperate to him--and they stank heavily of the noveau-riche.

But! Rachel Zoe did tell him last week that after Chanel's quilted creations from last season tanked, the Louis Vuittons were back in season and that, for the moment, they were currently the shit of all bags.

"God, it's freezing." He rubbed his mitten-less palms together. "Hey Troy, I haven't seen you in like forever."

Troy stared at him, seemingly dumbfounded and definitely speechless.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Ryan laughed awkwardly as he checked his Philip Stein watch, “God, does it actually take more than ten minutes for the paparazzi to snap a picture? How embarrassing, to think she wore that top twice already.”

"Please speak in English." Chad glared half-heartedly at Ryan, "What took you so long?--'I'll see you at eight PM sharp, Chad, don't be late,'" He voiced in a falsetto, "eight PM indeed."

"What crawled up your ass and died," Ryan smirked at him, "We just saw each other this afternoon, I didn't think you'd miss me that soon!"

“--RYAN! HELP!” A disgruntled Sharpay called out as she burst through the entrance, the hem off her white coat stuck to her left boot’s zipper.

“God, be a little bit more discreet, why don’t you.” Ryan sighed as he rushed up to her, grunting as he tugged at the wooly hem until it began to unfurl. "The next time you have technical difficulties, don't go around shouting for your entourage," He hissed, "We can't exactly afford to let anyone see a less than stellar performance--that defeats the purpose of my job."

"Oh shove it." She waved him off as she approached the table, "It's not like it'll be your face on tomorrow's tabloids, God, do you think they'll notice my huge zit--oh my God, Hi Troy!"

Ryan looked at Troy pitifully--yep, this was definitely going to be a long, long night.

Yeah, yeah, it ain't one of my best but I had fun doing the graphics. XD

GIFT ART!!!

dadomz — Sat, 10 Feb 2007 16:34:40 GMT

Based on my new fanfic (Rock Hard Vice (or Twelve Days ‘til Boxing Day or In which Harry Denies He’s Gay Eleven Times)), the talented ravyn_ashling a.k.a Teh Bomb gave me this gift art! And I thought I'd pimp it out!

(although there's not much use since she and I share the same friends XD)

LOFFJOOOO ravyn_ashling, I shall shower you with a gift fic once my hell week ends.

Happy Holidays crumbfreebread

dadomz — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 13:23:23 GMT

Title: Rock Hard Vice (or Twelve Days ‘til Boxing Day or In which Harry Denies He’s Gay Eleven Times)
To: Cait or crumbfreebread
From: Domz or dadomz
Rating: NC17
Warning: Sex, Alcohol, Mild Exhibitionism, Absurd Metaphors, Crude (and not artistic) sex descriptions and lotsa’ swearing—not a very good combination, I reckon.
Genre: (An attempt, rather, at) Slight Humour/Utter Cra(p)ck
Summary: Just how many times can you read the word sex?
Note: This is my first try at porn and humour—surprisingly, I’ve managed to come up with more or less twelve sex scenarios (most of which being connotative). I am not held liable for brain cell deterioration.
Tenchu: My respective beta-readers and guinea pigs, you’re all loffly.
++: This was posted on time however, I'm not quite sure as to why it only appeared now. Either ways, posting access is granted and I thought--Hey, I worked for this fic, so why not post it? It's horrendous, I know, but give me a break, I'm on my temporary leave from the fandom (just couldn't resist).

I5, December

Draco steps into the office bearing a large, awfully-wrapped box. He looks infuriatingly impeccable considering the abrupt drop in temperature and the ongoing snowstorm that can be seen raging outside the third floor Ministry window.

He drops the package on top of his desk and heaves a loud, dramatic sigh. “Reading the sports section again, I see. It’s not going to make you straight.”

The room’s other occupant lowers the Prophet. “It’s not going to make me straight because I am straight—-by the way, where are my cranberry muffins?”

“Ask one of the interns to get it for you, you straight man,” Draco sits on his chair primly, shrugging off his coat and pulling out a packet of postage stamps.

“I recall myself hiring a secretary to attend to my everyday needs, not to sit pretty and do his nails.”

“Oh please, you’re Harry Potter,” Draco pulls the topmost drawer of his desk open and starts shuffling through the enormous pile of rubbish. “Everyone’s dying to attend to your every whim. You don’t even need a secretary for that. Now, where are my bloody scissors? Have you seen them?”

Harry shakes his head, offering Draco his own pair. He watches the blonde snip away at the topmost part of the plastic; pulling out sheets upon sheets of stamps.

“My father wanted a shovel for Christmas; said he was going to dig a hole deep enough to reach the Isle of Wight.” Draco starts tearing the irregularly punched holes. “By the way, the paperwork for the Trafalgar Square incident is on your desk along with a memo.”

“Really?” Harry starts rifling through the towering pile of paperwork and invoices sufficiently covering every inch of the desk’s surface. He looks up at Draco and states, “I can’t find it.”

Draco sighs as he licks a postage stamp; he flattens it meticulously on the box’s top surface. He pulls out another one and licks it as well, then catching a glimpse of Harry’s desk, “Considering your table’s current disposition, I doubt you can find anything at all.”

Harry scowls and shoves everything off his desk in one fluid motion. “There,” he lets out a satisfied grimace and observes Draco. “You do know that you can purchase stamps corresponding to whatever amount you want, right?”

Draco ignores him and licks the back of the fifth postage stamp, pink tongue darting in and out, a glistening sheen on the tip right before slapping it on top of the colourful wrapping paper. “I have to send this all the way to the Gobi Desert.” He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment before popping a finger into his mouth.

Harry’s eyes linger on to the slender index finger.

“It’s to avoid Wizard Customs, Muggle postage. Then from there, they’ll ship it off to Iceland and smuggle it all the way into Azkaban.” He rubs his finger on the stamp’s back and puts it on top once again.

Harry unfastens his own belt buckle; his pants feel tight. He wipes the offending droplets of sweat from his brow and fans his flushed face.

“This seems to be the only probable solution—-I mean, if I had to send it by Wizarding Post, I’ll have to bribe an officer for them to loosen the security check. It would take around fifteen days for this present to arrive and then another year for my father to dig a hole deep enough to get to the Isle of Wight and—-Harry, what are you doing?”

Harry looks up from under Draco’s desk and tries to look sheepish. “I’m trying to sate my heterosexual desires by using you as a substitute?” Draco did not look amused. “Which translates to I want to pull down your pants, shove you up against my wall, and fuck you.”

“Do you have any decency, you horny bastard? We’re in the middle of work.” Draco stands up and crosses his arms. “And besides, your cubicle wall is made of glass, Harry. Where’re your work ethics? People will see my arse from the outside.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the free show.”

Draco rolls his eyes and makes his way across the room, leaning against the glass panes and unbuttoning his trousers. “I demand a pay raise.”

16, December

“So you decide to just drop by my flat unannounced at eleven fucking pm so you can shove your cock up somewhere warm, you bloody wanker?” Draco yawns and props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “Why don’t you just go fuck some rent boy like every self-respecting fag on the planet and leave me the bloody fuck alone?”

“I’m not gay; I just have needs.”

“Like Keeping your dick warm.”

“Hey, I didn’t make the rules.” Harry deposits Draco’s heating blanket straight to the floor. “You did, the moment you took the job—-now, roll over.”

A sigh. “Do I really have to do this?”

“You are my secretary after all.” Harry states matter-of-factly.

“If I’m not mistaken, office hours are from 9 am to 5 pm.”

“You’re working overtime today then.”

“That’s fifty galleons per hour,” Draco mumbles as he presses his face against the pillow. “Fuck my arse all you want but I’m going back to sleep.”

“Sure.” Harry unrolls a packet of Trojan. “Where’s the lube?” He watches as Draco grapples for an economy-sized vat of lubricant from the top of his bedside drawer. Harry rolls his eyes as he makes a grab for it, uncapping the bottle instantly and squeezing a generous amount onto his palms. Running his middle and index finger gingerly over Draco’s crack and dipping in slightly at his entrance.

“You know, I’ve been rutting here for the past five minutes, the least you can do is scream your head off.”

Draco raises his head and grumbles flatly, “Yes, Oh Merlin, More, Faster, Harder, Oh God—-did I leave anything out? No? All right, don’t wake me up when you’re done.”

17, December

Draco is seated on a Piccadilly park bench at six am, clad in Muggle sweats and a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.

“Morning,” Harry sits next to him, decked out, head-to-toe, in plebeian orange Nike sportswear.

“You’re oddly cheerful in the morning,” Draco offers a half-hearted glare. “And horrendously dressed.”

Harry ignores the latter statement. “Right before the war, everything was getting on my nerves: the coffee not black enough, the water not cold enough, the lack of alcohol in the camp, the loud sex noises Ron and Hermione made, the possibility of Voldemort murdering me in my sleep with a toothbrush, your father trying to molest me in the heat of battle, Dobby leaving cryptic little messages in my sock drawer--”

“Now that I think about it, you are awfully bitchy when they add more than two lumps of sugar on your coffee.”

“Irregardless,” Harry glares at Draco for interrupting him mid-tirade. “Seamus advised me to run laps to release endorphins, you know, the happy hormones. So when I run in the morning, I’m pretty much pleasant the rest of the day. So I was thinking, since you’ve got an awful temper yourself, I decided to wake you up and make you run with me.”

Draco makes a move to stand up, “Thanks but no thanks, I don’t date mentally retarded war heroes who’re perpetually confused with their sexuality—-that and I hate getting sweaty early in the morning.”

“This is not a date.” Harry glares at him, tugging on to the sleeve of Draco’s sweatshirt.

“I’m still not running.”

“Don’t be petulant, Malfoy. We can run for at least five minutes and go at it by the bushes.”

Draco pauses slightly and peers at Harry over the top of his sunglasses. “Not gay, huh?”

18, December

“I just learned this new missionary position using arm rests,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear, arms encircling the blond’s slim waist from behind.

“That’s nice,” Draco mumbles as he sifts through an array of official records. “Lovely, I think I lost the East Edinburgh case files.”

Harry frowns at the various envelopes strewn about the tiny desk. “Don’t stress on it, I’m sure we can postpone the hearing until next Tuesday.”

“I want to get the Lethifold incident in East Edinburgh done as soon as possible.” Draco grunts as Harry tugs his pinstriped trousers down to his knees. “Just so that bitch Chang won’t have a reason to drop by.”

“She has been dropping by more often than not.” Harry rests his chin on Draco’s shoulders, hands fiddling the waistband of Draco’s silk boxers. “Jealous much?”

“Me, jealous of a straight woman hitting on a straight man?” Draco scoffs, pushing Harry down on the leather armchair with light and playful pressure. “Oh please, I wouldn’t go that low.”

“Damn right you are,” Harry grins as Draco straddles him. “Because she does nothing for me.”

Draco laughs faintly and kisses the corner of Harry’s lips. “Of course, you’re a heterosexual man with homosexual tendencies. And besides, Chang looks like a cross between Cher and Michael Jackson.”

“Right, so I was thinking, I’ll sit right here and then you’ll raise your leg and prop it on top of the armrest—-position the tip of my cock right before your hole and then you’ll gradually lower your arse down…yes, like that. Then you’ll ride it slow at first, then faster, and then slow once again; you can shift your pace and oh! That’s nice, you can, you can try gyrating your hips—-yes…”

19, December

“So hypothetically speaking, you brought me out on this little non-date get together just so you could have me, a fervent homosexual, blow you, a sexually repressed heterosexual, under the table.”

Harry’s eyes glaze over. “Absolutely.”

“And you’re telling me,” Draco smirks as he crosses his legs, punctuating each and every syllable, “That if I were to blow you off, say now, you’re going allow me to do anything—and I repeat anything—that I want.”

“Yes.”

“Anything, anything—-just to blow you off under the table.”

Harry suppresses the urge to moan. “Say blow again.”

“Blow.”

“That’s so sexy.” Harry licks his lips as Draco makes a move to crawl under the table, his fingers bumping slightly against Harry’s shins.

Harry parts the cascade of soft linen tablecloth by his midsection, “You all right down there?”

Draco tugs the zipper down gradually, eyes heavy-lidded, “Spit or swallow?”

“Your call,” Harry heaves partially, before abruptly seizing the blonde’s chin towards him. “Just don’t stain my shoes, I have to wear them again to Ron and Hermione’s wedding tomorrow—-make sure to find your own pair as well.”

Draco’s eyes widen as he cocks his head to one side, a small smile quirking on the corner of his lips. “As your date?”

Harry looks mildly flustered. “As my secretary.”

Draco rolls his eyes as he strokes Harry’s member to full erection. “Secretary with benefits, you mean.”

“Secretary nonthe—-God.” Harry moans as Draco pulls back the foreskin, blowing on to the tip languidly. Draco proceeds to cup Harry’s balls, stroking it deftly with his left hand before guiding the entire length to his mouth.

Harry grunts (much to Draco’s chagrin) like a pig. He tugs on Draco’s hair, twisting it into a tangled mess and pulling at it like a centurion with his stallion. Draco whinges (or neighs) indignantly, slapping Harry’s wrist to loosen his grip.

Draco withdraws for a moment with a scathing glare, “Tug my hair one more time and I’m going to bite off your dick.”

Harry raises both his hands up to his chest in mock salute; the lack of any witty repartee as an indication of his haste. Draco does not hesitate to take the entire length back into his mouth, bobbing his head in a steady rhythm and managing to hold on to Harry’s twitching thighs.

Harry continues to moan softly, slamming his hips thoroughly on to the slick and inviting heat engulfing his member. He continues to do so hastily, welcoming the imminent orgasm building up from the adept fondling of his balls and his member.

With a muffled cry and a final snap of his hips, Harry comes.

After a minute or two of partial recovery, he draws the tablecloth upwards only to be greeted by Draco’s menacing glower.

“Fuck it Harry, you’re going to knock my teeth out,” Draco hisses as he wipes a trail of come dribbling down his chin.

“Chalk it up to the ministry’s health certificate,” Harry grins as he shoves his flaccid member back into his boxers. “By the way, the waiter’s asking whether you want a cosmopolitan or a martini.”

Draco blinks back at him. “I don’t know; ask him which tastes better after giving someone a blowjob.”

20, December

Draco leans slightly against the wooden bedpost half-asleep. He has been trying to ignore Harry’s indiscernible murmurs from across the room however, catching stray fragments about the responsibility of marriage, living a lifelong dream, having children, building brick houses and wooden porches, a Volvo, Tahiti, and white picket fences—either that or a flat in Chelsea Burroughs with five million cats.

“Oh Harry, I can’t believe you’re poking fun at my blatant anxiety.”

Draco stifles a snort.

“It’s a life-altering decision—-I can’t pepper it with candyfloss and pumpkin pies.”

“Yes, just like taking the initiative and admitting you’re gay.” Draco smiles widely, eyes still closed and shins still propped on top of a suede ottoman.

“You know Harry, Malfoy does have a point.”

“Let’s worry about my sexuality once we dispel your pre-marriage doubts.”

“If I were marrying the Weasel, I’d have doubts as well.” Draco opens his eyes and smirks slightly, swinging his Prada-clad foot down on the wooden floorboards. “Thank God I’m gay.” He grins and adds in an afterthought, “Just like Harry.”

Harry glares at him half-heartedly—-or in a manner, rather, reserved for someone you’re determined to not like (and failing quite miserably).

Hermione sighs. “Thank you Malfoy, your opinion has been duly noted—several times, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m just saying,” Draco fingers his boutonnière idly, “You should turn the other direction and run off to the mountains while you still have the chance.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just jealous you’ve got a cunt and he doesn’t.” Harry dodges a tiny glass figurine hurled at his head. “Touché.”

“Oh please, not every gay man on the planet wants to be a girl—-stop stereotyping my fellow openly gay comrades just to make yourself and the rest of the closeted humanity look good!” Draco retorts albeit indignantly, arms folded across his chest.

“Just looking at the both of you makes me want to get married.” Hermione fixes the straps of her gown.

“I’m glad our complicated unrestrained sexual tension slash non relationship based on my compromised worked ethics and his sexually repressed dick is amusing you to the point of helping you make your life-altering decision,” Draco bites out.

“No problem.” Hermione gathers the folds of her frock as she manages to stand up. “You can both use my bathroom provided you don’t stain the walls—-or your trousers, especially you Harry and don’t think you’re not getting your own Draco, because I would really appreciate it if you didn’t play with the bidet; you might destroy my plumbing. Oh, and be down in thirty minutes, the ceremony will have started by then.”

21, December

“So about that promise…” Draco fingers dance lightly over Harry’s abdomen.

Harry takes a drag of cigarette, “What promise?”

“If I’m not mistaken, quote: ‘You know Draco, if you blow me under the table, I promise you anything you want--’ —end quote.” He smacks Harry hard on the chest.

“Oh, that.” Harry deadpans. “What do you want then?”

Draco smirks triumphantly as he moves on top of Harry. “So I was considering the prospect,” he pauses, trying in vain to conceal his excitement by biting on to his lower lip. “Of you bottoming for me this time around.”

There is a moment of silence before Harry lets out a loud snort. “You’re delusional.”

Draco pouts, “I’m not delusional—-bottoming is quite a powerful role! I mean, look at you, you were straight and then you’re gay, all because of my pert bottom.”

“Oh no, straight men don’t bottom.”

“Oh, so you think you’re straight because you don’t bottom?” Draco raises his eyebrows, “Fuck you Harry, you said ‘anything’.”

“Anything has its constraints.”

“Come on, just this once?” Draco nuzzles against Harry’s cheek.

“Fuck no—-your dick’s not going up my arse and that’s final.”

Draco sighs theatrically, “Fine Harry, you win but don’t blame me if I hand in my resignation tomorrow—-that’ll mean no sex in between lunch breaks, no sex between coffee breaks, no sex between meetings, no sex between bathroom breaks, no sex during overtime, no sex during company outings, no sex during Christmas parties, no sex in the alleys on the way home, no sex in the boss’ office when he’s out, no sex--”

“Fine,” Harry mumbles.

Draco looks at Harry, surprised. “I didn’t think I heard you right.”

“Fine.”

“Just a little bit louder and--”

“I thought I said it loud and clear enough.”

22, December

“You got her a Cartier bracelet; you got her a fucking Cartier bracelet?” Draco shoves the credit card bill at Harry’s chest, openly fuming right in front of a posh bistro on High Street.

“Well, yes; it’s a worthless little trinket.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, skimming through his invoice. “Is there a problem?”

“For starters, yes, there is a problem. A problem concerning you, specifically. I mean, what were you thinking! A stint like this will land your arse straight in the Daily Prophet’s front page with a whopping headline that goes: Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, Good as married-—expecting triplets and currently in Fuji for their honeymoon right after battling controversial allegations about being a shirt lifter and fucking a former Death Eater cum secretary—I repeat, what the fuck were you thinking!”

“Don’t get excited,” Harry tries to console him slightly as he holds on to the hem of Draco’s coat, gently guiding him inside a Hugo Boss store. “It’s only a bracelet.”

“It might as well be a diamond encrusted ring from Tiffany’s,” Draco sniffs, leaning against the discount rack with his shins crossed and his back slightly arched.

Harry looks down at Draco, fiddling the hem of the blonde’s cream scarf. He leans slightly towards him, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist; I’m not going to get married, I’m still bloody twenty-one.”

Draco looks coyly up at him, “I’m not concerned about that.”

“So what are you concerned about?”

Draco looks around slightly and then encircles his arms on Harry’s neck, standing in tiptoes. He can feel Harry’s warm breath tickling his cheek. “You’re getting her an even more expensive present.” He sidles up against Harry, trailing his hand slightly on top of the evident hardness in Harry’s midsection.

“She may have gotten something expensive,” Harry grabs Draco’s fingers, “But she’ll never get this.” He brings them down to his crotch.

Abruptly grabbing his bicep, Draco drags Harry to the nearest fitting room, mumbling to the clerk, “If you don’t disturb us, we’ll get the entire winter collection.”

23, December

Harry fingers the lacy black corset, marvelling at the illusion of milky white swells it has produced. He runs his fingertips faintly on the tight concave crevice in the middle, clearly astounded--his eyes glazing over and his breathing shallow.

“If you are projecting any of your latent heterosexual tendencies on me, I am going to cut off your family jewels and feed them to Longbottom’s niffler.” Draco slaps Harry’s fingers away from the bodice, reaching from behind to unlace the strings holding the entire garment. “God, I can’t breathe in this bloody thing!”

“Auto-asphyxiation, try it, you’ll love it.” Harry shoves the satin frock upwards, fingers trailing faintly on the lacy thong he had originally purchased from La Perla for Ron’s stag party. “I’ve never tried fucking a man wearing a skirt before.”

“Me neither.” Draco says breezily, his breathing a bit laboured. He squirms slightly and grabs Harry’s wrist. “You know what’s worse? I’ve never tried fucking a man who’s entertained thoughts of fucking another man in a skirt—-until you came along.”

“You told me to indulge in my bisexual tendencies in order to tire of it and settle on a single sexuality.” Harry pauses thoughtfully, “I’m multitasking in a really smart way, you know.” He yanks the underwear down to Draco’s knees.

“Why do I have to wear the dress?” Draco whines indignantly.

“Because that’s Ginny’s dress and you think I’d fit in to her clothes? Besides, even if I dress up like a woman, I’d still end up looking like a man—-not a drag queen but just a man in a dress. You on the other hand, with your light colouring and your dashing features, you’re sure to wow any outfit—“

“Hold on right there before your bullshit flattery gets me into trouble again.” Draco holds a finger against Harry’s lips. “Now, before you fuck me blind in the female Weasley’s skirt, I daresay, what happens in this bedroom stays in this bedroom.”

Harry nods enthusiastically, bringing up Draco’s legs to his shoulders. He bunches up the mauve skirt over Draco’s waist, smirking as he looks up, “Wizard’s honour.”

“Then fuck me straight,” Draco says simply as he grips hard onto the wooden posts on Harry’s bed. He opens his mouth slightly and cranes his neck wantonly, eyes partially hooded and blond lashes fluttering faintly against his angular cheekbones.

Harry bends down slightly, pressing his lips lightly against Draco’s. He gradually pries it open and slips his tongue, kissing him languidly as he lines up his member against the blonde’s taut entrance. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle; pondering for a tiny second at how welcoming it was to plunge in yet how tight it was for him to enjoy every moment of it. He rests his forehead against Draco’s, his sweat dripping slowly down Draco’s face and scalp.

He pulls back slightly and raises Draco by the small of his back, angling his thrusts deep and hard. Draco lets out a soft gasp, biting down on to his lower lip and eyes screwed shut. Harry pulls back repeatedly and slams all the way in, grabbing Draco’s hands and guiding it to the blonde’s member, pumping it fastidiously. Draco brings down his legs to Harry’s waist, lifting his arse in hopes of bringing Harry closer than possible.

“You’re so hot.” Harry whispers as he buries his head against the crook of Draco’s neck.

Draco mewls in response.

“I’m so close,” he mumbles against his shoulder as he thrusts in and out fast.

“Please,” Draco whimpers.

After a couple of thrusts, Harry final pulls all the way out and slams back in, hitting the spot directly and bringing the both of them to the pinnacle before coming successively. With a final groan, Harry settles his dead weight on top of Draco’s chest.

Harry lets out a throaty chuckle. “Do you notice that the more we have sex, the less we have to talk to each other?” He proceeds to roll off Draco.

“That’s ‘cause we do it so often and everything we say seems stale and half-hearted. Either that or the sex is just too good to not enjoy.” Draco gets up slightly and unties the laces of the corset. “You know Harry, I don’t know how you’re going to explain to Weasley about the stain here.”

24, December

“So how do you like my present?”

Incoherent mumble.

“Malfoy, listen to me, put the headset against your ear and talk--”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

“Gently, yes. It’s a mobile.”

“A WHAT?”

“Dammit, are you planning on getting me deaf before thirty? It’s a mobile phone.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a portable telephone, it’s like firecalling only without the image so I can contact you whenever and wherever.” A momentary pause. “Cause you’re my secretary and all.”

A snort. “Where are you?”

“At home.”

“This is very odd Harry, a black chunk of plastic emitting your voice. I would’ve said thank you only I don’t really like your pathetic excuse of a present. It’s intrusive and very unprofessional. You just don’t call your secretary anytime you want just ‘cause--”

“Are you going to the company party?”

“No, I’m busy tonight. Mother’s coming over and I’m trying to prepare a variety of Jewish Christmas Eve dishes and my right ear stings from holding the phone too close to my ear.”

“Why Jewish?”

“I don’t know; that’s what she said. She’s bringing a young Jewish friend of hers—-you know how she is. Ever since I waved my gay pride banner, she’s been trying to set me up with all her high-society gay friends. Apparently, Gay is the new black and having a gay son is beyond fashionable.”

“Sounds boring.”

A smirk. “At least they’re not closeted.”

“Ha, Ha, That’s funny. Let’s not go over this again; I am straight.”

“Very straight, like obscenely straight you know. It’s like pussies and tits for you and not arses and dicks and giving presents to hot little assistants.”

“It’s a nifty present useful to our managerial-employee dynamic.”

“Nifty?”

“Yes, nifty! We can do business transactions without having to do it face to face. We can yell at each other, and most of all, we can have sex!”

“Sex?”

“Yes, sex.”

A whisper. “We can have sex through this thing?”

A (manly giggle) chuckle. “We can have phone sex.”

“How?”

“It’s pretty simple…”

25, December

“—And as the queen mum coddled him on to her supple bosom, he latched onto the rhinestone tiara with his nimble fingers and pulled it off her coiffed hair. The only way we could appease young Draco was to promise we’d procure for him a better Tiara made of rubies and emeralds and amethyst. That was when I was certain that my son was gay.”

Draco rolls his eyes as he shoves a scallop into his mouth. “You know mother, I never really got that tiara.”

Pansy smiles wryly. “Neither did I, Draco, neither did I.” She proceeds to pour an ample amount of gravy over her pot roast. “Come to think about it, I never received the white Shetland pony I wanted for my birthday when I was eight.”

“Oh you know how our fathers felt about us being potentially soft. I mean, how would that look like to the future founders of Death Eater Inc. Empire and I suppose that—-Ow!” Draco protests indignantly as Narcissa stabs at his elbow with her salad fork. “Bloody hell mother, that’s going to leave a scar!”

“Scars and bloodied forks are the least of my concerns. Where is the Jewish dinner you promised me?” Narcissa levels a cool gaze at him. “I’m utterly sorry Robert; how unfortunate of you to not even have a Jewish meal for Christmas.”

“It’s Roger, madam,” the man who was formerly-named Robert politely corrects the overly fashionable dame.

“I like this guy.” Pansy stage whispers, pointing her fork directly at the guy named Robert.

“I was busy with work mother; you know I tried my best.” Draco wipes at the corner of his mouth primly. “By the way, I wonder if your ensemble was picked by a blind man—-saffron and yellow do not go together. You’re like poster child for fashion victims.”

“Why you ungrateful little--”

“I like the scallops,” Roger conveniently interrupts.

“Really?” Draco brightens up. “I didn’t make them.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you make a wicked pot roast then.” Roger offers a dazzling smile.

Draco props his chin on top of his upturned palm. “They’re actually from Philippe and Marcus, that new Italian restaurant on the corner of Chelsea.”

“Might I commend you for your choice then?” Roger replies, his shins bumping faintly against Draco’s.

“Well, if you stick around long enough, I might be able to show you-—Ooh, uh, hold on.” Draco grabs hold on to the contraption tucked snugly in his pocket as it vibrates profusely and emits an irritating rendition of some neo-hippie Bon Jovi song.

He looks apologetically at everyone and flips the black object open, “You better be spewing your intestines out lest I’d shove my fist up your arse so hard you’d be coughing up my fingers.”

“I’m at your door.”

Draco frowns slightly, “I thought I heard you say you were at my door?”

“I fucking left the Weasley’s three hours early just to check up if you don’t have that Welsh guy buggering you on your bed so I suggest you open the door before I blow it to pieces.”

“Excuse me; he’s Jewish not Welsh and will you please stop concerning yourself with my life? I’m having a luxurious and peaceful dinner inside the house with expensive Italian food and I’d appreciate it if you go back to the hole you came from or at least leave my door intact and not resort to other juvenile means.” He stands up for a moment. “Excuse me mother, my homophobic straight boss is outside and requires my presence for something he says is obscenely important.”

He turns the phone off and makes his way towards the door, jamming it open slightly. “What, in God’s name, are you doing here, you drunken buffoon?”

“Send your mother off, I’m horny.” Harry states simply, hands fidgeting with his maroon sweater.

“I can not just send them off! It’s Christmas, you ingrate!” Draco seethes as he proceeds to close the door. “I do have common host etiquette stored in my system despite the fact that my best friend is fattening herself up by three stones per meal and my mother looks like she got run over by a turkey and a lemon.”

“Sounds fun,” Harry stops in mid-motion. “Can’t we do it here? Or perhaps inside your bathroom?”

A slight pause. “You know, I have got to stop giving in to you.”

26, December

With a final groan, Harry collapses on top of Draco completely drained.

Within an interval of a minute and a half, Draco shoves Harry off the floor with a simple “Geroff.”

“Thanks a lot.” Harry rubs his freezing hide.

“I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag. No wait, I can’t believe you made me send off my guests for a quick shag on Christmas, you bastard.” Draco sits up and crosses his arms. “You are always responsible for my irrational actions, you twit--those that are clear signs of abysmal judgement that may end up as a subject for regret as soon as the sex is over.”

“You can’t help it if the sex is good.” Harry shrugs, kneeling on the wooden floors with his elbows on top of the bed.

“Oh please, it’s not that good.” Draco perches on top of a huge bolster pillow. “I can’t believe I’m spending Christmas with you.”

“It’s no longer Christmas, it’s Boxing Day.” Harry grins wryly, standing up gently and making his way towards the coat rack.

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to your own flat.” Draco swings his legs to the edge of the bed. “You made me spend Christmas alone so you better accompany me in the wee hours of Boxing Day morning.”

“Relax, I’m not leaving.” Harry starts fiddling with his pants pocket.

“You better not be.” Draco sighs as he leans against the bedpost, ignoring the fact that he was just whinging like a little girl a few seconds ago.

After a few seconds of waiting, a bright red coloured packaged is dropped into his lap.

“Happy Christmas.”

Unwrapping it hastily, he smiles at the Cartier bracelet in his hands. “So you’re not straight anymore?”

“No, not anymore.”

You never said you loved me for my sense of humour XD.

Bunch of Textures!

dadomz — Fri, 21 Jul 2006 18:00:57 GMT

Domz: *is online chatting with mar_kie about the upcoming Asian History report.*
~Message Pops Up~
Domz: wtf?!
Dad: Guess what! I'm on line!
Domz:... since when did we chat on line?
Dad: Since today! I just figured out how to work this wonky contraption--pretty slow.
Domz: You mean the computer or the messenger?
Dad: : The messenger, duh, I'm not a retard. Anyhow! I received the Macbook prices--and oy! What the hell are you doing up so late?!
Domz: Going over my Asian History research... what's your excuse?
Dad: Oh nothing! Just decided to check my mail after a month of leaving it idle.
Domz: ... ANYWAY! About the macbook...
Dad: Would you look at that! I think it's time to go! *mysteriously signs out*
Domz: *headdesks*

Set One: Cotton Candy Textures
>> The dominant colours are basically pink, purple, periwinkle--all those gay pastel colours that you may associate with candy. It's abstracted and then given a full-blown sepia wash effect.

Set Two: Meditteranean Textures
>> Remnants of the Croatian sun--dominant colours are blue, green, yellow--abstracted once again with a mild exclusion effect.

Set Three: Retro Textures
>> Well, basically, all of them are given the retro-ized effect however, the colours here are more vibrant as opposed to the other two.

Credit: dadomz
Is it necessary: Let's put it this way, I'm fine whether you credit me or not--if I chance upon credits, I'm usually very flattered but if I don't, I'm too much of a dipshit to notice either ways. I'd love to hear feedbacks though.

dadomz — Fri, 07 Jul 2006 14:58:18 GMT

dadomz — Thu, 06 Jul 2006 11:28:39 GMT

Title: 20 Episodes within the Nest of Falcons
Author: dadomz or Domz
Pairings: H+D
Rating: PG13
Genre: General/Romance
Disclaimer: You know the drill. + Credit for Stock Image
Summary: Post-war era: Boka Kotorska, Montenegro. Impulsion leads to coincidence.
Note: Thanks to i_l0ve_my_az, my designated beta reader for this ficlet and yukitsu for reading it beforehand. Might not catch the interest of a lot but I write to feed my soul.

I.

He wakes up one day with a sudden impulse to get out of this hellhole.

II.

He puts on a ratty grey shirt, threadbare underneath the sleeve’s hem. It stinks heavily of stale whisky and Cuban cigars, a clumsy spatter of curry smack-dab on the centre. He makes his way towards his tiny desk, trampling on empty take-out boxes and bottles of firewhisky.

Pocketing his keys, his wand, and an assortment of Muggle and Wizarding currency, he proceeds to Apparate to the nearest airport terminal.

III.

He transfigures a packet of catsup into an adequate replica of a passport.

There is a woman at the front desk, hands busy pressing random buttons on a keyboard. She smiles amiably at him as she verifies his passport. “Where to, sir?”

He runs a nervous hand through his unkempt mop. “Wherever.”

The tapping sound of the keyboard stops; she looks slightly baffled. “Where do you want to go?”

He shrugs faintly, “Somewhere far—I, I need a vacation.”

“Oh, um,” she frowns as she taps a button on her keyboard. “Well, do you want to go to the Mediterranean? Greece? Croatia? Corsica? Montenegro?”

“Yeah.” He nods dumbly.

IV.

“Mister, Do you want some of my candy?”

A little five-year-old girl offers him a packet of Jelly Babies. He shakes his head and turns away, desperately ignoring the little girl’s incoherent babble. When he turns back, the mother smiles apologetically at him, offering to switch seats with her troublesome daughter.

He tells her through gritted teeth that she’s not bothering him at all.

His grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles white throughout the duration of the trip.

V.

He ends up at some shabby hut after three hours of wandering. He nurses a lager, wincing as he takes a sip of the bitter liquor.

He’s given up trying to ask people whether they can point him out to the nearest hotel, much less speak English.

By sheer dumb luck, he manages to catch the eye of a tourist.

“You’re not from here, I presume?” the man asks in heavily-accented English.

He shakes his head.

“You speak English?” the tourist asks.

“Yes, I’m from England,” he replies.

“France. You are lost?”

“Presumably so.”

“You are in Boka Kotorska—Kotor area.”

He lets out a chuckle, “I still don’t know where that is, unfortunately. What about hotels?”

“Yes, yes. Hotel Splendido, I can bring you there.”

VI.

He wakes up the next day with a serious hangover, throbbing agonizingly against his skull. He rolls away from the French tourist—Giuseppe, Grosvenor, Guilliame, whoever—noting his lack of clothing and the other man’s rug burns.

He shakes his head as he walks towards the bathroom.

VII.

He examines his reflection on the mirror.

It’s been nearly two weeks since he’s last seen himself—and about a month since he’s shaven. He rubs his face gently, feeling the prickly stubs underneath his fingertips.

He decides not to shave.

VIII.

He leaves the hotel room with a bag of chips and a bottle of soda water.

He meanders through cramped and dingy alleys, past Mediterranean houses built too close to each other. He walks through the cobblestone pathways, declining street vendors as they try to sell him tiny trinkets made out of shells and molluscs.

He finally reaches a dead end—a crag formed out of limestone deposits, half its mass submerged in water. He seats himself on a rock-like pew, enjoying the overlooking seascape.

IX.

After tossing the bottle into the sea, he turns to leave and notices a lone blond figure sitting on another stone bench across his.

The blond barely notices him.

He shakes his head and leaves anyway.

X.

Before he leaves the hotel room, he manages to charm the colour of his eyes. He brings with him two cans of soda and two bags of chips.

He arrives deliberately late, stalling his pace along the way.

The blond is there, his hands folded neatly on his lap. He’s a complement to the blue and orange hues of the sea and sunset.

He sits silently next to him.

The blond neglects to acknowledge his presence yet again.

He pops a bag open and offers it to the blond. “You want some?”

The blond looks surprised. “You can speak English?”

He laughs as he tosses a can of soda in his direction. “I’m speaking to you, aren’t I?”

XI.

And he goes off to see the blond the day after.

It’s the same routine, he sits next to the blond and coerces him into some sort of conversation.

“Draco.”

“Harry.”

Draco looks slightly alarmed at first, eyes wide and expression indiscernible. He looks away and stares pointedly at the horizon. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

“Running away.” He smirks, offering Draco half his bagel.

“From what?” Draco’s lashes flutter as he looks inquisitively up at him.

“From my responsibilities,” he shrugs noncommittally. “What about you?”

“Hiding.” He responds. “Hiding from everyone.”

And they regress into comfortable silence.

XII.

This time, it’s Draco who offers him a miniscule serving of seafood salad packed in rectangular Tupperware.

It’s a particularly breezy day as he watches the loose strands of Draco’s flaxen hair flit about.

Draco turns lazily towards him. “When are you planning to go back?”

He looks pointedly at Draco. “When are you planning to go back?”

Draco shrugs, “I asked you first.”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Soon, maybe.”

“I don’t think I’ll be going back,” Draco answers meekly.

XIII.

“So where are you from?”

“England.”

“I meant, which part of England.”

“Surrey.”

“Oh, I’m from Scotland.”

XIV.

“Why are you running from your responsibilities?”

“Because I can.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why are you running?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s not a valid answer.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

“Because I’m in trouble.”

XV.

“I miss Scotland.”

“I thought you were from England.”

“I studied in Scotland.”

“Oh, me too.”

“I know.”

“But I was actually born in Venice.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“No.”

XVI.

“I’m leaving.”

Draco looks up at him, slightly taken aback. “Already?”

He looks away and straight to the horizon, “I can’t keep running away.”

“I’ve been hiding forever and I haven’t been found, I think it’s quite feasible.”

He shakes his head and looks directly at Draco. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think what? I can hide forever? I can be found? That it’s unattainable?”

“Yeah.”

Draco rolls his eyes and crosses his legs, left palm flat against his left thigh. He shifts his gaze from the sea and back at him. “So this is it?”

He looks away. “I guess.”

Draco scoots closer, pale fingers trailing lightly on his bristly face. He applies pressure with his fingertips and forces his face to him.

Draco’s face is too close; he leans forward slightly, eyes heavy-lidded.

XVII.

He pulls away abruptly, ignoring the feel of disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach. Draco looks equally stunned.

He backs away from the pew like a coward, looking apologetic. Draco looks hurt and, at the same time, angry.

“I’ll be here, tomorrow,” he says lamely before walking away.

XVIII.

He arrives at his hotel room shortly after.

He shakes his head as he locks himself in the bathroom, stripping away the ratty clothes he’s bought from a cheap stall in the flea market.

He twists the knobs of the faucet, watching as the water rushes down to the sink. He scoops up a handful and splashes it on his face, rubbing. He stares at his own reflection, water dribbling down to his collar bone.

He spells away the glamour charm, watching as his eyes revert back to their original colour. He grabs the complimentary razor from the tiny tinder basket by the sink and starts shaving the hair from his face.

XIX.

He waits for Draco to arrive nervously, sweaty hands gripping a bottle of water. He’s rehearsed for this moment practically the entire night.

Draco arrives. He’s decked comfortably in a white summer sweater and thin denim jeans. Draco rests a hand on his shoulder, moving from behind the pew to sit beside him.

He turns away and closes his eyes.

“You’ve shaved.”

“I know.”

“You look different.”

“Different?”

“Yet familiar.”

“I know.” And he opens his eyes.

XX.

“Potter.”

He grins wryly and looks away.

Draco lets out a bitter laugh, “I can never get rid of you now can I?”

He shrugs.

Draco makes an attempt to leave before Harry grasps his wrist. “I didn’t come here to look for you.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Draco bites out sourly, pulling his wrist away from him.

He follows him past the barred entrance and to a tiny brick tunnel. Mustering up his usual courage, he grabs Draco by the shoulders and pushes him up against a wall, cupping his left cheek before moving forward and plundering his mouth.

“Come with me,” he gasps hoarsely as he pulls away.

Draco looks up at him, elbows still resting on his shoulders.

“Yes.”

~fin

dadomz — Thu, 22 Jun 2006 10:40:16 GMT

: : 16 Stages of Brian Mix : :

Character Persona: Brian-centric.
Pairings: Brian/Justin
Interpretation: I've been meaning to do this for a long time--most especially after the last scene of the last episode of season 5. Anyhow, it has evoked conflicting emotions and I've decided to psycho-analyse Brian--I know, no life right? Anyway, I believe that there are around more than a hundred emotions he's gone through however, I've segregated them into 16--it's an outtake of how he felt when he met Justin, had to put up with Justin, being with Justin, and being left by Justin--or you get my point.
Added Note: Interpretations are interpretations, do not take the song literally as I am not reinforcing the idea that my songs are perfectly suited for the idea of your Brian.

Tracks:

1. Honestly, Trudy - Femme Generation (#)
Honestly Trudy, This isn't the movies.

2. Love Comes Tumbling - U2 (#)
I forget that you can stay and so i say that all roads lead to where you are.

3. Every Picture Tells a Story - Rod Stewart (#)
I firmly believe that I didn't need anyone but me. I sincerely thought I was so complete, look how wrong you can be.

4. I love you - The Dandy Warhols (#)
You make me feel really unsure, but that should only make you feel secure.

5. Friday, I'm In Love - The cure (#)
Always take a big bite, it's such a gorgeous sight to see you eat in the middle of the night. You can never get enough, enough of this stuff. It's friday, I'm in love.

6. Wonderwall - Oasis (#)
Because maybe, You're gonna be the one who saves me? And after all, you're my wonderwall.

7. Space Between - Dave Matthews Band (#)
The wicked lies we tell to keep us safe from the pain.

8. The Perfect Drug - Nine Inch Nails (#)
Turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky, the more I give to you the more I die.

9. I want someone badly - Jeff Buckley (#)
I want to know, If you're leaving just do it tonight . Now I want someone badly to burn in here with me.

10. My Own Worst Enemy - Lit (#)
My car is in the front yard and I"m sleeping with my clothes on. I came in through the window last night and you're gone.

11. Love and Destroy - Franz Ferdinand (#)
I'm not used to living alone, I have to learn how to live or I'll die.

12. Maybe Tomorrow - Stereophonics (#)
I've been down and I'm wondering why, these little black clouds keep walking around with me.

13. Darkness - Third Eye Blind (#)
I want you to love me like you did before you knew me and I never thought there’d be any help for somebody like me.

14. You're all I have - Snow Patrol (#)
You're cinematic razor sharp, a welcome arrow through the heart.

15. Leaving New York - REM (#)
You might have laughed if I told you, You might have hidden the frown, You might have succeeded in changing me, I might have been turned around. It’s easier to leave than to be left behind, Leaving was never my proud.

16. Perfect - Smashing Pumpkins (#)
But please you know you're just like me, Next time I promise we'll be Perfect, Perfect, Perfect strangers down the line.

Zip For all the songs is now available.

If you're interested, I have another Harry+Draco sound track entitled Flagellations as well.

dadomz — Thu, 22 Jun 2006 10:09:24 GMT

: : Flagellation Mix : :

Character Persona: Draco-centric.
Pairings: Highlighted with preslash Harry + Draco connotations.
Interpretation: This is my own interpretation of Draco's emotions in HBP and in the post-HBP era--towards his life, what the future has in store for him, the whirlwind of emotions, what he could have, what he couldn't have and... Harry.
Added Note: These songs do not wholly coincide with my interpretations, I'm not reinforcing anything so I hope neither of you chastise me for the lack of mainstream music moreover, the seemingly non-existent connection to the song and to Draco. I also hope that there would be little to no repeats on my song choices.

Tracks:

1. Everybody's Changing - Keane (#)
You're aching, you're breaking, and I can see the pain in your eyes.

2. Falling Man - Blonde Redhead (#)
I am what I am, and what I am is who I am,I know what I know and all I know is that I fell.

3. Personal Jesus - Marilyn Manson (#)
Your own personal Jesus, Someone to hear your prayers, Someone who's there.

4. How Soon is Now - The Smiths (#)
I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does

5. Splinter - Sneaker Pimps (#)
You’re like scissors in my coat, You’re like splinters in my cup, I know you couldn’t care me less.

6. High and Dry - Radiohead (#)
You'd kill yourself for recognition.

7. How to be dead - Snow Patrol (#)
Please take it easy it can't all be my fault, I haven't made half the mistakes that you've listed so far.

8. Everyone is Totally insane - The Dandy Warhols (#)
Hear me out, for I have everything in deep, Hear me out, I must have changed.

9. Dirty Little Thing - Velvet Revolver (#)
But you're a dirty little liar with a message of obsession to come

10. Innocent - Fuel (#)
While confessions not yet stated, Our next sin is contemplated. Never did we know what the future would hold or that we'd be bought and sold.

11. Tourniquet - Rasputina (#)
Take your hatred out on me, Make your victim my head. You never ever believed in me, I am your tourniquet.

12. Selling the Drama - Live (#)
I've willed, I've walked, I've read, I've talked, I know, I know, I've been here before.

13. Mad World - Gary Jules (#)
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow, No tomorrow, no tomorrow.And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad, The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

14. Pure Morning - Placebo (#)
A friend in needs a friend indeed, A friend who'll bleed is better.

15. Stand By Me - Oasis (#)
Said I would and I believe in one day, before my heart starts to burn.

Thanks to: i_l0ve_my_az for introducing me to several of the bands (of course, I won't have to tell people you listened to NSYNC back in 6th grade) and to izkariote for happily handing me songs out of her own monolithic music database.

and this be my QaF mix album, which features the ultimate love of Brian and Justin (lol) in case if you're interested. AND IT NOW WORKS--well, to my knowledge, it does.

I've finally managed to upload my .zip file.

dadomz — Sat, 03 Jun 2006 16:05:15 GMT

I would like to thank archangel_dream for relaying the information.

dadomz — Wed, 24 May 2006 10:06:10 GMT

Lo' and behold, the Damien/Az sound track--with explanations from dadomz and i_l0ve_my_az.

Album Cover and Back Cover

Explanations:

dadomz — Wed, 24 May 2006 09:48:44 GMT

Still a part of the: First Class Ticket To Nowhere (Title Patent: theladychia) saga.

Author: dadomz and i_l0ve_my_az

Notes: First time collaboration.

It’s like rain on your wedding day
--Alanis Morisette

i. The First Time It Happens. ( by: dadomz )

It happens one night right after they were served the first course of their meal at a posh Manhattan restaurant.

Damien holds the wine flute delicately by its thin stem between his thumb and index finger. He proceeds to swirl the red liquid in its container, looking over at Az hesitantly before settling it back onto the table.

Az stares at him with his arms crossed. Damien looks uncomfortable under his scrutinizing stare, hands trembling as he cuts the butter prawn delicately with his table knife.

It’s been a month since ‘the incident’ occurred; both of them avoiding each other in order to deal with the aftermath of their actions.

“I met a friend of mine yesterday,”

Az starts the conversation by making small talk. Damien nods for him to continue.

“She’s from Romania—Marya.”

Damien musters a small smile, “From your travels?”

Az nods despite the waiter’s hand blocking their view of one other. Damien stares at the bowl of salad in the middle of the table before deciding to shovel a small portion onto his plate.

Az takes the rest of the salad. “She’s looking for a job.”

“She’s moving here?” Damien feigned interest, fork by his mouth.

Az shrugs, “I let her stay with me.”

Damien swallows the suddenly stale lettuce; he refrains from replying—he’s torn between saying something snarky or saying something fake.

“She asked me a favor.” Az pauses for a minute, waiting for Damien to finish chewing. “She wants me to father her child.”

Damien nearly drops his salad fork. “What?”

“Marya asked me to be the father of her child.”

The waiter arrives with the next dish--an entire ham loin glazed with sweet pineapple sauce. He situates the carving knife near Damien.

“Did you say yes?”

There was a slight quiver in his voice.

“I said what I had to say.”

Damien shakes his head, “Did you say yes?”

Az sighs and looks away. “How could I not?”

“How could you not—how could you not?” Damien asks in utter disbelief. “What about me? What about us?”

“This isn’t about you.”

“The hell it’s not.” Damien wills himself not to cry—it’s pathetic and it’s childish but this was unexpected and he didn’t know how to react otherwise. He knew something like this was bound to happen, or something equally absurd—but not this soon and definitely not this way.

Az stays silent; he wants to shake Damien and tell him to suck it up, to leave him the fuck alone, to move on, to just stop caring—for what happened to have never happened.

“Please say no.” Damien looks up at him in desperation, trepidation—Az didn’t know anymore. “I love you.”

Az shakes his head.

“I love you,” Damien whispers.

Az is suffocated, mentally, emotionally--fuck, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to deal.

“I never really loved you.”

Az tries to block away his thoughts—he didn’t want to feel remorseful, didn’t want to feel perplexed, didn’t want to feel anything—anything at all.

Damien stares at him.

Confused. Hurt. Shocked. Determined. Hopeless.

After a few minutes, Damien nods numbly.

He gets up from the table and walks out of the restaurant, never once turning back.

ii. The Second Time It Happens. ( by: i_l0ve_my_az )

It happens one night after a party Juice and Jessica have hosted, when everyone’s gone to bed.

Damien comes down to get a glass of water when he sees Az sitting in the living room, the television throwing a near eerie light over his form.

Az is wide-awake and looks up as Damien passes by the couch. He nods at Damien and Damien musters up a smile.

It’s probably the first time they’ve been left alone together since the encounter at Damien’s studio—neither of them is sure of what to do.

Az makes the first move; he always does.

And Damien acknowledges the gesture, seating himself beside Az and tucking his feet under him. He accepts the proffered beer and they drink in silence.

“How have you been?”

Inconsequential small talk wasn’t really what Damien imagined when he’d thought of this moment.

He answers easily enough, because the answer is easy. “I’m fine. Better.”

Az nods.

“Alex is wonderful. He’s good for me.” Damien has never really lost his habit of filling stilted silences with nervous prattle.

Az shifts on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “I’ve always loved you, you know.”

Damien gapes. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve always loved you.”

Damien continues to stare. Of all the things—

“I don’t know why you never got that.” Az looks at him, shrugs and turns back to the television.

Damien’s flabbergasted. “Of course I’ve never known that!”

Az raises an eyebrow at that, and turns to give Damien his full attention.

Damien puts down his beer and rubs at his face with both hands. “How could I have known? How could I have known, Az? You’ve never told me. You’d never given any indication that you’d felt anything more for me!”

“I’ve shown you in every possible way.”

Damien is frustrated. If he’d known Az for a millenium, he still probably wouldn’t understand the way Az looked at the world. “You’ve done sweet and wonderful things, yes, but you’ve always add on statements meant to stop whatever meaning I could associate with them.”

Az continues to just look at him.

“Az, you’ve never told me. How could I have known?” He’d finally said it. Given voice to the thing that had been hanging over their heads for years.

“I’m telling you now.”

Damien lets out a huge sigh and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Az…” He lays a hand on Az’s knee. Az doesn’t move. “It doesn’t change things. I don’t love you anymore.” He looks Az in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

With that, he gets up and goes back to the bed he’s sharing with Alex.

Az doesn’t move.

dadomz — Tue, 02 May 2006 15:32:18 GMT

Still a part of the: First Class Ticket To Nowhere (Title Patent: theladychia) saga.

Notes: Thanks to i_l0ve_my_az for beta-reading my work. For this story, I wanted to focus more on Zeke and Cy but seeing as they're not exactly my forte, I decided to craft a story that would best suit my interests.

To Right a Wrong

He woke up sprawled on the couch, greeted by the scent of freshly brewed coffee—that, and a motherfucking headache.

The light from the television momentarily blinded him and he blinked furiously to clear his eyesight.

“Take some of this.”

He snapped his head up, trying in vain not to wince at the stabbing pain in his head. He stared at the blurry sight of a proffered hand; he honestly didn’t know what to make of it. He was groggy, tired, and clueless—dying would’ve honestly been a better option.

He stifled a yawn and leaned against the armrest, eyes drooping slightly.

A huge sigh, “It’s Codeine and an Advil; it’ll do you good.”

His brows furrowed slightly as he tried to make out the pills. A hand shot out and deposited a capsule and a pill into his upstretched palm. He sighed gratefully as he popped the pills into his mouth, wondering whatever possessed him to finish that entire bottle of vodka.

He shifted gradually, biting his lip as his entire vision spun in an array of dizzying colors. He shut his eyes tightly and returned to his previous position, hoping to God he wouldn’t throw up on his carpeted living room.

“What time is it?” His voice cracked; his mouth and throat were as dry as cotton balls—and if he weren’t mistaken, stank of stale liquor.

“It’s two pm.”

“Shit.” He’d missed an important lunch date with Celine and her parents.

“Shit doesn’t cover it—get up, you and I need to talk.”

He cracked his left eye open—a bright blond thing invaded his vision.

Oh Shit.

He let out a muffled groan and closed his eyes once again. He was in deep shit if they sent Damien, among all people, to see him. Damien was great, he was sweet and he was cute, and he loved the boy dearly like a brother but noting the tone he was using, Damien was currently growing scales and sharpening his claws.

“Zeke, I said, we need to talk.”

Zeke sighed deeply and cradled his head. “Not today Damien.”

And he meant it. He had too much for one week, with all these preposterous issues piling up. He didn’t want to deal with just about anything as of the moment—didn’t have time to, didn’t have the will, either.

“Would you like some bagels?” The blond asked patronizingly. Zeke opened his eyes and stared at the package from Starbucks. He didn’t feel like eating—in fact, he’d really rather throw up.

He shook his head gently, resting his cheek against the sofa’s cool vinyl coverlet.

“Zeke, why don’t we talk about Cy?”

“I don’t need a psychiatrist.” He bit out softly, not wanting to recall the succeeding dramas in his life. He scrutinized the blond as he bit onto his bagel primly, looking unfazed and uncaring as he sipped coffee from the Styrofoam cup.

“Of course not.” Damien licked his lips as he pushed an extra cup in Zeke’s direction. “It’s Green Coffee, it’ll make your head feel better.”

Zeke nodded as he took a quick. The coffee was rich and delectable; although scalding by nature, it proved to be a good distraction from his throbbing migraine.

“I want to get my words in quick and precise,” Damien brushed the crumbs off of his black pea coat. “Get back together with Cy.”

Zeke spat the coffee back into the cup—the coffee was definitely bland. “Fuck you.”

Damien grinned and settled both his hands on his hips, “Stop being delusional Zeke—you’re pathetic. You threw Cy away like he was some used condom just ‘cause you think you want to give pussy a shot. News flash, it’s not going to work.”

He growled furiously. “Who are you, the fucking Dalai Lama?”

“I represent the voice of a million people who didn’t have the balls to express their opinion.” Damien glared, “I mean, Celine—I would’ve thought you to have better taste.”

“This is none of your concern.”

“Oh yes, this is very much my concern.”

But of course!

This was only his business because word got around that Az fucked Cy. The whole idea must’ve threatened his whimsical fantasies of gold bands, white picket fences, and Azrael Mortensen.

Damien snapped his fingers sharply, “Hey! Would you honestly have someone who can’t tell Mozart from Iggy Pop? Someone who’d rather go to a PETA meeting than be at a rock concert?”

Zeke scowled, “There is more to life than rock music.”

“Then clearly you know nothing of life.” Damien set the cup gently on the table, “For someone like you, music is an important aspect—it’s your passion. All your life, you’ve been playing the guitar, preaching information about rock legends.”

“People change.”

Damien looked at him coldly. “You think you can throw away music like you threw away Cy?”

Zeke crossed his arms and proceeded to glare at the coffee table.

“You’re lucky to have someone like Cy, someone who understands your passion—someone who practically shares your passion. Unlike Celine, Cy is more than just a commodity, he’s your fucking soul mate.”

Zeke shook his head, “Soul mates don’t exist in real life Damien,” He looked up and smiled wryly, “You’re seventeen, you don’t know shit.”

“I sure know better than you, if that’s what you mean. You have this history with Cy—and a future that’s been written out. It’s rare and it’s one of a kind, a lot of people would kill to have what you both have. It’s right in front of you, how can you be so blind as to not take it?”

He honestly didn’t know what to say.

“Zeke,” Damien’s tone softened. “You’re a mess—the sooner you get back to him, the better.”

The thin line between sanity just snapped, “He seems to be getting along just fine without me!”

“If you call a drunken mess, fine, then hell yeah, sure.”

“What does he need me for? He’s got Az.”

“Yes, ‘cause Az is so perfect, so morally upright, so handsome—Az doesn’t give a shit about Cy, not like you do!”

Zeke shook his head in utter defeat.

“It’s not worth it Zeke, if you let him go now, you’ll surely regret it someday.”

Zeke nodded in slight apprehension and submission. He knew Damien was right, knew he was wrong from the start—he’s not entirely stupid. He knew he had dug his own grave and knew well enough the consequences of his mistakes; however, to hear it from someone else? It was just mortifying.

Well, it sure did snap him back to reality.

He raised his eyes to meet Damien’s, “So… what do you get out of this?”

Damien tried to suppress a smirk. For the longest time, they stared at each other. Damien shook his head and strode towards Zeke, kissing him full on the lips.

“I’m doing this for me.”

dadomz — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 15:04:35 GMT

Still a part of the: First Class Ticket To Nowhere saga

Thanks to yukitsu for doing the beta-reading my first draft ~~so sorry, I kinda' trashed the first draft~~.

I would like to thank i_l0ve_my_az for beta-reading my work--I loff you studddieeeee!!! <3333333

Thanks to both ravyn_ashling and clarz_yen for bopping my head and chastising me just cause it wasn't of usual quality (Like Quality? What effing Quality?).

Oh, the title FIRST CLASS TICKET TO NOWHERE was conjured up by the ~~anal~~ lovely theladychia

Damien looked elegant as he stood gracefully on the stepladder’s twelfth tread. He had his right palm poised against the canvas, pressed against a protruding lump of blue paint. The blonde’s long and willowy fingers were a pale contrast against the sea of green; dried acrylic stuck in between the crevices of his fingernails.

He looked quite at home despite the fact that he was standing on tiptoes, his white, satin dress shirt splattered with a spectrum of colors. Damien’s shoulder-length blond hair was fastened into a tiny secure stump, several loose locks framing his face.

He looked completely at ease as he bobbed his head and hummed along with the rhythm of Jack Johnson’s single, “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.”

Grabbing a brush from the bucket situated on top of the ladder, Damien proceeded to dab the dry tips onto the damp blue paint. He bit onto his lower lip in concentration as he tried to smoothen the painting’s texture.

A crisp hard knock snapped him from his reverie.

The sharp electronic buzz that followed elicited a groan from the blond as he dropped his brush in surprise. “Hold on!” He yelled as he turned around slightly to check if the door was unlocked, “Come on in, the door’s open!”

He immediately resumed doing his previous activities, pulling the metal lid off a can of paint. Damien then proceeded to dip his fingers on the bright red paint, watching as the thick and luminous liquid dripped down his fingertips.

A tall man entered, his footfalls faint against the cement-lined floors; he wore a vintage AC/DC rock shirt underneath a russet colored leather jacket. He ran a hand through his coffee-brown hair, standing aloofly behind the counter. He proceeded to take in the scene, watching as the blond continued to spread a smidgeon of red paint on the upper right corner of the canvas.

“That shirt looks awfully familiar,” the brunet smirked as he leaned towards on the mahogany counter. “Could that be mine?”

Damien’s hands froze instantly against the portrait, an indiscernible expression crossing his features.

“Az?” he asked in utter disbelief.

“The one and only.”

The blond closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to block out the string of thoughts currently bursting through his head. In an attempt to distract himself, he gradually started to move his hands back and forth across the canvas.

They were silent for quite a while.

“So, what are you doing here?” Damien sighed, his voice laced with defeat.

“Is that how you greet your guests?”

“Answer the question.”

Az raised both his eyebrows, “Why good morning to you too, princess.”

Damien sighed in exasperation. “Let’s give this another try—what are you doing here in New York?”

“So I’m no longer allowed in New York.” Az smirked as he took a pear from the fruit basket.

Damien rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest dishtowel from the ladder’s fifteenth step; Az watched intently as the blond wiped the red paint off of his hands.

“So what are you doing here?” Damien reiterated as he reached for the gleaming chisel beside the towel. “If you don’t answer the goddamn question, we’ll never get through with the this conversation.”

The brunet tossed the pear halfway across the room, “Supporting Zeke and the band with their humanitarian prospects.”

“So you just thought that—Hey! Sending a million to Ethiopia seems really boring, why don’t I see how miserable Damien’s life is? That’s bound to be more interesting.”

Az looked slightly taken aback, “I can always leave.”

“Yeah? So why don’t you?”

They were once again greeted with a pregnant pause; Damien looked at the bruised pear underneath the ladder.

“Look,” Az sighed deeply, “I actually came here to give you something. I have no intention of prolonging my stay whatsoever, so will you spare me your theatrics?”

The blond flushed slightly as he reverted his gaze back at the canvas. “Whatever, just leave it by the counter.”

Az fumbled for something buried deep under his right jean pocket. “This will only take a minute of your precious time.”

Damien stabbed the chisel on the canvas, “I don’t have a fucking minute!”

The brunet’s expression hardened; his posture immediately turned rigid. Without any hesitation, he turned around and left the studio.

Damien flinched as he was met with the resounding thud of the door closing; he looked down at the clutter guiltily, staring at the fruit on the floor and the newspapers strewn about.

With a sigh, he carefully climbed down the ladder one step at a time and trudged towards the counter, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he spotted the beige envelope on top of it. With trembling fingers, he pried it open.

Damien read the letter once.

Then he reread it again.

Damien felt his inner reserve tumble.

Clenching his jaw, he fisted the parchment brutally before hurling it across the room. He slid down on the floor, left hand pressed firmly against his mouth. He looked hard at the fissures on the concrete, willing to distract himself from the multitude of emotions swelling inside him.

He desperately wanted to express himself.

Boundless options crossed his mind—from screaming himself hoarse to grabbing a packet of Xanax…

But giving into the thoughts meant that he was willing to give up, and after undergoing and surviving a lot of shit, he just couldn’t imagine himself giving up that easily over something so trivial and insignificant.

Damien looked up at his painting with bleary eyes.

Pushing himself off the ground, Damien looked up at it—it dawned upon him that the painting didn’t look quite right. In fact, it looked somewhat bland and wrong—liked it lacked a vital fragment.

Spotting a can of white paint, he proceeded to tip the lid and stare at the glossy liquid.

He wasn’t quite sure on what he was planning to do with it but he had a vague idea.

Closing his eyes and acting on impulse, Damien threw the entirety of the paint onto the canvas. He stared at the upshot of his actions dazedly, trailing his eyes on the white paint dribbling down the edges—watching as it fell in splashes, pooling on the floorboards.

He pressed his hands against the white paint, spreading it all over the previous painting—effectively covering the dark colors.

Maybe he should start on a new painting.

dadomz — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 17:02:07 GMT

Thanks to my one and only: ravyn_ashling and to clarz_yen for the ECONOMIZING segment, she was my inspiration.

An arc based from the "First Class Ticket To Nowhere" saga:

This is a part of the: "Smile Like You Mean It: The Damien and Dr. Alex Chisholm Courtship" arc.

001: The man bench-pressed a total of one hundred and fifty pounds

Damien adjusted the pin of the “Low Row” device just so it would specifically carry fifty pounds worth of iron wedges. He positioned himself across the contraption and tugged onto the extension of the synthetic pulley; the plastic encased rope moving back and forth smoothly on the first few times.

Right after the eighth repetition however, Damien could feel the strain building on his back muscles directly underneath the shoulder blades—a sharp recurring pain.

“I think you should straighten your back a little more.”

Damien looked up to see the reflection of a tall and burly brunet on the gym’s mirrored walls—and for that fleeting moment, he thought that the man very much resembled Az.

Damien scowled and tugged onto the rope harder than he had expected himself to. He plummeted towards a stack of rubber-encased iron barbells—tipping the rack forward and sending the objects in total disarray. He flushed slightly as the brunet sported an amused expression; scurrying towards the weights strewn on the floor, he picked all of them up and returned them to their position.

“I don’t need an instructor,” Damien snapped at him, throwing a glare at the man.

Much to his displeasure, the said man pretty much continued grinning gallingly, leaning against the stationary bikes and tapping his rubber clad Nikes against the linoleum encased floorboards. He wore a sweat-soaked NYU shirt and a pair of Nike jogging pants; a starch white towel hanging on his neck.

“I’m sorry.” The brunet ran a hand through his hair and continued to grin. “You’re right—your flying across the room is obviously no indication of you needing an instructor.” The man winked at him as he bent forward to retrieve a pair of leather gloves.

“I’m pretty sure it’s gym policy to mind your own business,” Damien retorted as he returned the last piece of dumbbell on the floor.

The man shrugged. “Just helping.”

“Why, thank you very much,” Damien bit out sarcastically as he crossed his arms petulantly across his chest.

The man ignored him completely and started lying down on the padded bench. He settled his palms against the metal bars and lifted it with much ease. Damien watched—mesmerized—as the man’s biceps swelled twice its size as he pushed the bar off from the threshold.

Around the fifth repetition, Damien snapped instantly back to reality. He huffed and then left the gym.

002: Fountain of youth—better than BOTOX.

“The Art of Getting Over Your Greatest Love.” Claude stated as he tugged a thin paperback book from on top of the shelf. He examined the short synopsis on the book’s back and deposited it direction into Damien’s open hands. “I think you’d enjoy that.”

Damien stared at it and rolled his eyes, “Remind me again why we’re in the romance section of Barnes and Nobles?”

“Gen’s bridal shower,” Claude shrugged as he scanned for more books.

“Why don’t we just get her something useful and homey like an oven toaster or some juice blender?” Damien whined, “Why an effing book?”

“Because it’s low-cost.”

“ I know the times are hard and we have to be more practical but come on, one book and two people?”

“We’re economizing.”

“You do take economizing to a serious level, huh?”

“Economizing.”

“What I meant about economizing is that we don’t get Gen a Coach bag or a cache of wine for her bridal shower.” Damien sighed deeply as Claude tapped his Prada clad foot against the linoleum tiles.

“What do you propose then?”

“I don’t know… sexy lingerie? I’m sure Maddox would love that.”

Claude shook his head vigorously, “Hell, no. Remember the time when we decided to buy Claudia those Victoria’s Secret thongs? The sales rep practically asked us if they were for our kinky pleasure.”

“Oh yeah.” Damien winced at the memory.

“Let’s just go for the blender.”

“So much for economizing.”

Leaving the aisle and walking towards the nearest exit, a huge familiar poster caught Damien’s eye. Slowing down, he proceeded to examine it.

“Oh, God! This was the idiot I met at the gym!” Damien exclaimed as he pointed at the brunet’s grinning face on the poster.

“The asshole who bench-pressed one-fifty? Fucking Unlikely.”

“No, seriously!”

Claude rolled his eyes. “That’s Dr. Alex Chisholm! You know, the famed cosmetic surgeon. “

003. Third rock form the sun

“This place is a complete dump.”

“If you don’t like it, you can get a reservation at the Hilton Hotel.” Damien lugged three of his mother’s huge Louis Vuitton cases towards the living room with mustered effort. The woman had arrived unannounced, armed with more or less, fifteen packages filled with god-knows-what.

“That’s funny, considering I’m paying for this place.” His mother retorted as she settled herself on a beat-down sofa. “I am jetlagged—don’t ever fly coach.”

Damien rolled his eyes as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Would you mind telling me why you’re invading my personal space?”

“Would you mind explaining to your mother why you’re being such a bitch?”

A smile crept up Damien’s face; his mother grinned back.

“Welcome home mum.” Damien beamed at her, “So would you care to regale me as to why you made a trip halfway across the continent?”

“I am having a doctor’s consultation.” She shrugged and crossed her legs primly. “He’s probably coming anytime soon.”

Damien frowned, “Anything serious?”

“Quite,” she paused dramatically, “As you know, I’m pushing forty—“

“Forty-five.”

“Forty,” she glared at him, “And I think I need a face lift.”

Damien slapped a hand onto his forehead at this. “I do not know why I even bother.” His mother did not look old—in fact, she didn’t look like she was forty-five years old, or forty, as she so put it. She looked not a day over thirty, which was understandable considering the multitude of beauty products she’s applied on her face.

The doorbell chimed.

“That must be my doctor!” His mother exclaimed enthusiastically and rushed towards the entrance, ushering a familiar brunet towards the living room. “This is Dr. Alex Chisholm—he’s the most sought after cosmetologist in Hollywood. He did Kate Bosworth’s nose.”

Damien rubbed his ear and feigned a smile. “Pleasure,” he said a tad bit too forcefully through gritted teeth.

The brunet smirked at him. “You’re the guy from the gym.”

“Yes,” Damien crossed his arms, “I am the guy from the gym.”

“You thwart out the fun,” his mum pouted, “I take it you’ve both met?”

“Unfortunately.” Damien mustered up the fakest smile he could procure.

“It’s a small world, Mrs. Felton.”

004. You can liken him to Picasso

“I love the vibrant colors—vermilion red against the canvas. It’s filled with such raw emotions, like it’s about to burst forth; a mixture of seething, rage, and anger swallowed up by the canvas’ linear pattern,” Mrs. Bradford, one of New York’s biggest art critics, exclaimed.

“Yes, like impressionism meets art deco,” Mr. Romano, another art critic, piped up. “What do you call this, son?”

Damien smiled demurely as people started contributing their positive opinions, “It’s entitled Novocain in my system however, I wasn’t quite sure about it so I refrained from putting it on the plaque.”

Mr. Romano nodded his head in concurrence, “I think it’s perfect.”

The art exhibition was going better than expected—he had fifteen works being auctioned and from the reports handed to him by Gen, nine out of them were already considered sold. He knew he was going to get good raves in New York Times’ art section and he was extremely pleased.

“I say it looks more like a giant red blob against a batch of puke green lines. Very kindergarten.”

Damien’s eyes widened instantly as he heard the comment—he was beyond flabbergasted. Whirling around to defend his work, he was greeted by Dr. Alex Chisholm’s smug smirk.

“Like you can tell the difference between Krandinsky and Warhol.”

“Touché.” Chisholm raised his glass in mock-salute.

“How’d you get in here—this show is exclusively for the members of The New York Art Circle.”

“Funny story—my mom’s father, my grandfather, Mr. Aulden is the head of the Aulden Art Foundation.” The brunet looked thoughtful for a moment. “And since my granddad died three years ago, I took over the foundation.”

Damien tried to suppress a smile. “I’m beginning to see a pattern here, are you sure you’re not stalking me?”

“Me? Of course not! I just couldn’t help myself when they settled an envelope requesting for the funding of Damien Felton’s gallery auction.”

“You never cease to astound me.”

“I know, right?” Chisholm grinned at him cheekily before turning around and indulging in a conversation with an old and barmy art fanatic. An hour and a half later, the crowd dispersed spasmodically.

Fifteen minutes later, Damien decided to do the final inventory and closing down of the gallery.

“Congratulations! We sold all fifteen portraits—that’s exactly six hundred twenty six thousand in revenues.” Gen informed Damien as he approached.

“That’s ground-breaking!” He hugged her tightly.

Gen withdrew from the embrace and handed him a piece of paper, “Well, I can tell you one thing though. The highest bidder of Novocain in my system wasn’t just interested in the painting.”

“What do you mean?”

“He left a note.”

She handed him a folded scrap.

He frowned and opened it:

005. Company Outing: 12/19/31

Cyrus settled eight bottles of Heineken on the table counter, settling them right on top of Zeke’s lap. Everyone on the table was already drunk and laughing their asses off—mothers telling enchanting tales from the past, and children retorting with much spunk.

It was definitely a fun-filled reunion—as per usual.

“Fucker, can you remember the time when we all got late for Damien’s graduation?” Az’s mother swigged a gulp from her bottle.

“Cy practically drove off the cliff, scared the shit out of me.” Juice thumped his brother Claude, hard on the back. Claude coughed and glared at his brother.

“I told y’all you shouldn’t ride with a student driver,” Cy grinned cheekily. “Right ma’?”

Cy’s mother winked back at him.

“We arrived late for Damien’s graduation already.” Claude deadpanned.

“At least we arrived.” Az shrugged as he dangled his car keys in front of baby Holden’s face. “So where is Damien anyway?”

“He’s at St. Bart’s.” Damien’s mum stared hard at him.

“Something came up.” Genesis added.

“Right, something came up at St. Bart’s.” Az smirked.

Claudia decided to break the tension, “Awww! He broke traditions! He’s going to get a noogie when we see him this Christmas!”

“It’s his loss.” Az’s face contorted slightly, “I mean, this is the best fucking party in the whole wide world.”

“I beg to differ.” Claude said innocently as he opened his third bottle of Perrier, “I think he’s having the time of his life with Alex—you know, Alex Chisholm? They’re spending a romantic weekend.”

“Oh how sweet.” Az replied sarcastically.

"You wouldn't know sweet even if it bit off your dick." Claude continued to smile. "Actually, Damien's planning to introduce Alex to the rest of you--even you, Az."

Everyone at the table fell silent.

Az scowled, “Fuck you all, I’m going to get myself a lager.”

dadomz — Sun, 12 Mar 2006 10:05:55 GMT

QaF Icons AGAIN.

Teasers:

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6.7.8.9. 10.

dadomz — Tue, 07 Mar 2006 07:27:10 GMT

Title: Morning Showers
Challenge: Rain
Disclaimer: The thoughts are mine; the characters aren’t.
Notes: This is my pathetic attempt in sating my desire to write fluff; based loosely on Maroon 5's "Sunday Morning"--on second thought, not really. I was just singing it while writing. O_o
Additional: Italics and Bolds for effect.

And he stood there, looking absolutely ethereal—bathed in soft hints of sunbeams, skin sinewy and glistening, eyes closed in elation, and lips slightly parted.

My icons.

dadomz — Mon, 06 Mar 2006 10:50:22 GMT

Another set worth of five.

teaser:

1.2.3.4.5.

First (COLORING) Icon Tutorial Ever!

dadomz — Wed, 01 Mar 2006 13:49:07 GMT

For the vintage feel! Dedicated to: kate_mc

Transform from THIS to .

1. crop image to 178x100 from 774x435
2. duplicate base twice and set both to softlight, 100% opacity.
3. duplicate the base again and set to screen, 100% opacity.
4. Flatten image.
5. Sharpen once, fade sharpen 50%.
6. Create New Layer, color fill #003663 at 100% opacity.
7. Create Another Layer, color fill #c69c6d at 69% opacity.
8. Create Another layer, color fill #6dcff6 at 66% opacity.
9. Do as you wish with your own brushes, textures, and whatnots.
10. Merge all layers, sharpen once, and then fade 80%.

*PS: Opacity levels are your choice alone, if you want to touch the curves for a little brightness and contrast, the choice is yours. If you want to sharpen, likewise. I did my changes based on my picture as I deemed it fit.

As for the text:
1. "Done with everyone, moving on to" at size 4 Arial, spaced once each. Blended to 100% opacity, drop shadow, and outerglow.
2. "Nascar Racers" at Century size 12, Blended to 95% opacity, drop shadown and outerglow.

I hope I made it easy enough for you!!!

dadomz — Wed, 01 Mar 2006 02:09:53 GMT

Title: Paradox
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: Promise
Disclaimer: The thoughts are mine; the characters aren’t.
Notes: Not one of my best, I’m not so fond of this one.

Draco never understood why Harry had wanted to save him so desperately. He had never promised anything at all.