C6D Fic Exchange of \o/

not inactive!

mergatrude — Mon, 09 Sep 2013 03:45:17 GMT

[text plagiarised from catwalksalone]due to me finding out that ds_match has been deleted and purged due to inactivity, I'm just posting this so this comm appears active and will be left alone.

I'm doing to do this for the communities I mod, so apologies for the spam.

YAY!!!!!!

mergatrude — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 05:01:35 GMT

YAY!!!

YAY!!!

Everyone, you are absolutely awesome and have made fandom a richer place. There are SIXTEEN fabulous new C6D stories in the world. I am just over the moon with joy!

Thank you, atrata, china_shop, clionaeilis, exeterlinden, isiscolo, lamentables, lucifuge5, petronelle, qe2, sageness, sionnain, slidellra, spuffyduds, tharaist and waltzforanight! *twirls you all*

Very many thanks also to those people who helped me run this thing: brooklinegirl for letting me take it on, sageness and malnpudl for giving me advice and comfort, sionnain for graphics advice and being boundlessly enthusiastic, and aingeal8c and isiscolo for beta testing. Thanks to isicolo and sionnain for pinch hitting! And most especially to china_shop for encouraging me to run this, giving me loads of advice about running challenges, helping me draft the form and notice, answering emails when I was absent from LJ, and holding my hand and making soothing noises. A lot! *gives out virtual bouquets and chocolates*

YAY!!!!!!!!

Time After Time, for Petra

clionaeilis — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 02:58:25 GMT

Title - Time After Time
Fandom - Twitch City
Recipient - petronelle
Author - clionaeilis
Rating - PG
Length - 2500-3000 words
Summary - Picking up immediately from the last scene of Twitch City (early 2000), a series of vignettes leading up to just past present day (late 2009) reveal the continuing adventures of Curtis, Hope and Newbie.
Notes - Twitch City is a cracked fandom, that does funny things to my head when I write it - I hope you like the way TC twisted my brain this time around!

Ten Seconds After
Curtis leaned over and popped in a video. Hope watched him as she sipped her cooca. "I thought maybe we could watch that safari documentary? The one with the lemurs?" Curtis shook his head as he settled back under the blankets. "The chase scenes are cliched and derivative. Can't complete with classic Rex. 'I Love My Limbs, But Not My Lover'? Come on, it's no contest." She gave him a half-smile and nodded her head. "I suppose. The lions always win, it's true." Hope looped her arm around his and snuggled closer.

Ten Minutes After
"Hey, special delivery!" The flapdoor clattered open and Newbie's head popped out from the top of the attic ladder. "Wow, love what you did to the - yeah, yeah, quit your whining, I'm going, I'm going!" He skidded a small cardboard box across a beam and pulled himself the rest of the way through. "Man, your landlady is, I don't know, permanently cranky or something." Newbie scooted over to sit cross-legged in front of them, right in between. "Ooh, this is a good one - wait, did you pick it?" He turned towards Hope, waggling his eyebrows. "Ssshhh! This is the best part," Curtis snapped. Hope shook her head no, then gesticulated towards Newbie's gift. He reached without moving his eyes from the screen, and deposited the box in her lap. "The usual - cereal, some canned food, bottled water, cat food - figured you might need it." Hope looked around. "Where is Lucky?"

Ten Hours After
Hope woke up with a shiver and a sleepy scowl. "Of course Newbie is a blanket hog," she thought to herself as she fixed the covers, then turned over to face Curtis. He sighed and drew her closer, still deeply asleep. She tucked herself against his chest and placed her hand above his hip, just below Newbie's pinkie finger. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Curtis was right, it was like having a life-sized bed warmer - tomorrow, if they could convince him to stay another night, she was going to make sure Newbie spooned behind her instead. She stretched out her left leg, and felt a weight at the bottom of the sheet. "Lucky?" she mumbled. Her toes found a damp spot, and she craned her neck to glance down to make sure the cat was alright. Instead Hope found a two inch drift of snow. She looked up and watched as more flakes tumbled through a small gap in the roof. "Oh, my god."

Ten Days After
It took several hours of intense negotiation, but Hope was finally able to strike a deal with Mrs. Chintro. Later that night, she and Curtis moved down from the attic and into Hope’s old room. The next day she reported to work, down the hall in the illegal daycare set up in the living room. Within three weeks she had been vomited on five times and peed on once, had combed banana, oatmeal and jellybeans out of her hair, and changed 47 diapers. By then Curtis had cycled through the entire Rex Reilly catalogue. What happened next was inevitable.

The Chintros were devout Catholics. So when the convulsing began, they called their church. Hope tried to get them to understand that it wasn’t demonic possession, but then Curtis started bellowing in the hallway for Father Mulcahy, which happened to be their priest’s name. Newbie only made things worse when he showed up and started wrestling Curtis down. This combined with his all black wardrobe led the Chintros to believe Newbie was an exorcist, even though he would pause every now and then and tell Hope that he "shot a man in Reno” or he “fell into a burning ring of fire”.

That’s how Hope found out Newbie had been using country music to kick his TV addiction, with the side-effect of developing an obsession with Johnny Cash. (Later he would expand that to include the entire Cash and Carter families, because he wanted to broaden his interests.) Things finally started looking up for Hope when the wall by the dryer started thumping. She smiled and breathed a sigh of relief – Lucky had slunk out almost two weeks ago, and Hope had been sure she was gone for good. “Curtis, you hear that? She’s come home!” Mrs. Chintro backed away from Hope and crossed herself, then barked something in Portuguese which made the whole family scurry into their bedrooms. “Who’d have thought believed ya, right here where we need ya,” Curtis gargled out as he writhed under Newbie’s half-nelson grip.

Two things about the move would always stick out in Hope’s mind. The first was how much stuff the Chintros had managed to cram into the place, on top of the eight family members and the 11 babies and toddlers during the day. It was like every room was a clown car, with more and more jammed behind each successive door. The second thing that amazed Hope about that move was how quickly all those people, with all that stuff, managed to clear out of there so fast. That night Newbie made dinner in the kitchen while Hope moved the bed back to the big room, and then they sat in the hallway eating tuna surprise on rice cakes until Curtis screamed himself to sleep.

Ten Weeks After
"Curtis. The room doesn't have a door. We can't - wait, how about, I'll keep the closet, but I'll pay you, okay?" Hope stood in the living room, well into the negotiation phase of another argument. "But that defeats the purpose, " Curtis sighed a few moments later, placing the empty cereal bowl down on the overturned crate. "I'm trying to build a life for us, the best I know how - and if we move in here, we can rent out a third room. New revenue stream." Hope let her arm fall back against her side. Late winter was a bad time to be looking for work, and she had had little success. It was hard to argue with Curtis' relentless logic. "But what about privacy?"

Newbie looked up from the monitor he had set up perpendicular to the television and scratched his stomach. "I can grab one tomorrow - they got a stash of old doors, in the store, in the basement." He suddenly pulled at his t-shirt. "All our base doors are belong to you," he cackled. Hope threw up her hands in surrender. "Ever since you got that thing, you make less sense than Curtis," she said. "Fine. We'll move into the living room, but - But." She paused until Curtis looked up from the TV. "I do this only if Newbie moves in, too." Both men startled, all attention now on Hope.

"I didn't want to have this conversation quite like this," she began, "but, okay, you know Curtis - you've said this yourself - you're not the best boyfriend, all the time. And Newbie, I know you like me, and lately you're here half the day everyday, and that's good, it's fine, I like you too." Her voice softened as she spoke, looking into one then the other's eyes. "I just think, together - you're my ideal man," quickly adding, "and you know, now that Newbie's got his computer you two never fight anymore - admit it, you're both each other's best roommates, right?"

Curtis looked at Newbie. Newbie looked at Hope. Hope focused on the water stain over the couch. Newbie looked at Curtis. Curtis looked at Hope. Hope decided the stain wasn't from a leak but poorly done faux finishing. Curtis and Newbie looked at each other. "Well," Curtis started. "Cool. Does that mean I could cook sometimes, too?" Newbie asked. "Sold," Curtis said. He stood up and leaned over, extending his hand to Newbie. "Welcome to the family."

Ten Months After
For once, Hope would not budge on her position. Losing Steph so quickly had been a blow, and she was not going to let either Curtis or Newbie convince her otherwise. "Okay, I'm going to put more flyers up. I'll be back in a half-hour." She grabbed her coat and headed down the stairs and out the door. Newbie poked Curtis in the shoulder. "I told you. She's gone to find more lesbians." Curtis swatted Newbie's hand away and tried to focus on moving the cursor. "She's just being thorough - trying to avoid picking another fascist, probably." He let out a grunt and sat back. "This is so stupid, there should be a remote, instead of this mouse thing."

He watched as Newbie navigated back to the original website. "I don't see how you think this is better than television - it's so much work. TV just - click and it's all there for you, giving itself away." Newbie squatted down and bumped Curtis' hip until they were both sharing the chair, and went back to his earlier posting and surfing. "You know, yesterday she went to a women's softball game," Newbie said a few minutes later. Curtis leaned in a bit, watching the screen more closely. "Is that http bit like an address, so every site has a fixed place, kind of thing on the web?" Newbie nodded, "Um, kinda - it's ...well, yeah. Yeah."

Curtis nodded, then nudged Newbie's hand away from the mouse to try his hand again. "Even if she is searching for lesbians, I'm sure it's just business," he said as he typed in 'http: // www. kensingtonmarket. com'. "What does that mean, that there's nothing at that address yet?" He pointed at the computer screen. Newbie scratched his head. "I don't know. You'd think she'd be all, you know," he swung his arms and twisted his hips, dancing in place, "having two guys instead of the regular one, right? But, so, what if we've created a monster, and now she just wants - more?" He grabbed back control of the mouse. "Yeah, there's billions and billions of possible addresses you could make up, you know - so lots of times there's no there yet." He brought up the University of Toronto page. "You looking for something in the city?"

"She was pretty fond of Steph. I figured it was because she fixed the roof - that's why I liked her. So who owns the addresses that aren't being used?" Curtis asked.

"Hey, I helped a lot with that, you know, and it was my idea to put the extra doors down as floorboards. Besides, half the time, Hope was up there talking Steph's ear off while I was slaving away, so - she wasn't all that DIY." Newbie navigated back to Something Awful. "That's a good question. I don't know. I think you can just make 'em and claim them." Newbie leaned forward to read the latest entries. "Hey, maybe we tell her if she rents gay, it has to be to a couple - some of those doorknob gaps, I didn't fill in, you know..." Curtis just leaned back and considered his options. "New revenue streams," he murmured a little later. By then Newbie had switched to porn, and was past conversation.

That night Hope came home to find the living room strewn with paper, all made up of lists of names and places. A week later Cecile, Big Mamma's right wing and co-captain, moved in. It took her three hours to find the peephole. Newbie had to wear a patch for two weeks until his orbital socket healed. Cecile couldn't believe a woman as beautiful as Hope would settle for such goofballs, and told her so, often. Curtis started shaving twice a day, and convinced Wan-Mei to get him some Old Spice soap. Newbie learned how to bake cookies. Hope couldn't believe a plan of hers had finally come off without a hitch.

Nearly Ten Years Gone
"What do you mean, you want to move?"

"You can't be serious. It's more crowded now then when we lived in the attic!"

"But we didn't know everybody like we do now - it's family, families are supposed to be close."

"That's only on TV, not real life. Besides, we can actually afford it - we're rich, remember?"

"The money doesn't matter, that's not the point - we're happy here, as is."

"It's making me crazy, everywhere I go, there's people, all talking at me - I can't get anything done."

"You have the whole attic to yourself - you have more room than anybody else!"

"It's not just that, it's all the noise - I can't ever just listen only to what I want, it's endless!"

"Oh, my god - Craig and Patti did nothing but scream when they were babies, but it's only NOW that you can't take the noise?"

"It's a cumulative reaction, Hope. I know, I know - believe me, I'm as shocked as you are, but I have got to get out of here!"

"Outside? Does this mean - my god, are you cured, is that what you're telling me?"

"I - I don't know, I...maybe, I haven't tested it yet. It's just this - yearning kind of feeling."

"Curtis, I'm so proud of you, that's so wonderful! Newbie!"

"He knows I told - "

"Okay, so Curtis I think I found us a nice place, it's just over - that away, couple of streets, then down. Biggish yard - hey Hope. Are we bringing the lesbians with us?"

(Why Can't I) Stop Where I Want To Stay, for tharaist

atrata — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 00:50:55 GMT

Title: (Why Can't I) Stop Where I Want to Stay
Fandom: Men With Brooms, Amy-centric gen
Recipient: tharaist
Author: atrata
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Drug use. Swearing. Alcoholism. Curling jargon. An inexplicable zamboni.
Summary: Set [mostly] pre-movie. Amy spends four summers looking for the curling rocks, and finds something else entirely.
Length: ~10,000 words
A/N, abridged: For tharaist; prompt was "half a life." I hope you like it! Thanks to murklins and meresy for various services rendered.

Link: http://atrata.dreamwidth.org/91153.html

Recombinant, for lamentables

qe2 — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 22:17:30 GMT

For: lamentables
Title: Recombinant
Fandoms: ReGenesis crossover with DaVinci's Inquest
Rating: NC-17
Length: @5800 words
Notes: David Sandström/Danny Leary, David Sandström/Sunny Ramen, David Sandström/Patricia DaVinci. Takes place over the years from 1996 to 2004, meaning it starts before DaVinci's Inquest and ends just prior to the beginning of ReGenesis.
Warnings: rampant bisexuality, bondage (with a very, very tiny tendril of paraphilia), angst.
Author: qe2

Recombinant
1996—Danny
The second time Danny Leary fucks David Sandström, he doesn't even take his fucking jeans off first.

David's been on the other end of that one more than once. Especially at university, when there never seemed to be enough time to either fuck or experiment half as much as he wanted to do both, making screwing science geeks a doubly efficient distraction and half-clothed supply-closet sex the order of every goddamned day. Back then, David's whole fucking wardrobe was button-flies and flannel, plus hiking boots and whatever huge puffy coat his mum'd forced on him for the cold days before he came back to school. The jeans were easy to unfasten, the boots were pure Sisyphean hell to get off and back on, and the whole pseudo-daring fucking-in-the-lab phenomenon made an amazing number of girls—and teachers—hot enough fast enough that nobody gave a shit about getting it on half-dressed.

Not at the time, anyway. Maybe afterwards they noticed things, back in their boyfriends' dorm rooms or their husbands' beds: not just beard burn, not just their mouths tasting like someone else, but the mark of another man's clothing on intimate bits of their skin, abraded and tender and reminding them minute to minute.

David never asked. Never even thought to. Probably wouldn't have asked even if he had thought to.

Now he knows.

Danny's hands tighten on either side of David's head, thumbs almost meeting where they lie, rough and warm, under David's chin. David doesn't remember having had a thing for paraphilia before tonight, that INXS guy last year notwithstanding—hell, he's not sure he'd have one now if it weren't for the fact that he's being fucked to within an inch of his life—but the imminent threat of losing what breath he has left given the bent-double position he's in is sure hell doing something for him. One of Danny's long, blunt fingers moves slick over the sweat on David's face—Jesus, he's hot, this is hot, Christ, who knew?—and slides between his lips. David sucks on it blindly, tasting smoke and alcohol and dirty salt and groaning every time Danny bottoms out, and doesn't think about what else he might want in his mouth, later, maybe, yeah, yeah, yeah ...

After longer than David can remember ever being hard without coming, Danny shifts his hands to the bed beside David's head. The move lets David unfold his legs a bit where they're spread out over Danny's shoulders. In theory, it also gives him access to his own cock, but when he reaches for it Danny bats his hand away and pins it to the bed. David grins at Danny open-mouthed and reaches down with his other hand, like a dare. Danny growls—growls, fuck, like they're dogs and David's beta—and captures that one as well. Then he changes his angle in David's ass, pulls out slower than David would have thought possible at this point, and slams into him again.

Three or four strokes later, David's coming all over himself and shouting loud enough to wake the actual frozen dead. Danny licks David's chin—there's come everywhere, Jesus—and puts his teeth into David's throat, just on the good side of too hard. His tongue flickers out against the unprotected skin just under David's jaw. David shudders, tightening down on Danny's cock involuntarily, and then it's Danny who's coming as he shoves into David one final time, head flung back and eyes closed and teeth in his lip hard enough to draw blood, as though he had a fucking prayer of holding back the groan that tears out of him there at the bitter end.

The third time Danny fucks David, it's better.

1998—Sunny
Dr DaVinci—Patricia, Patricia, first names are appropriate now—says that after a while, with a bit more experience, one simply doesn’t notice the smells.

Despite herself, Sunny remains skeptical.

It sounds good, certainly: the reassurance of a respected superior turned recalcitrant colleague, designed to patronize and to comfort in equal measure. And Sunny would like to believe it,
despite the evidence with which her scrubs present her at the end of a blood-stained, odorous day. Pathology, after all, is the field to which she's committed her life—at length, after effort, and against the will of a remarkable number of members of her family, not least her parents.

She does not intend to let its scents defeat her.

So. Other smells have become important, then—have become necessary, deliberate choices. Candles—nothing sweet, nothing chemical, evergreen and citrus and the spices of the food she hasn't had time to make from scratch since the second week of her graduate program. Cedar blocks for her sweaters. Different kinds of tea, mostly herbal; different kinds of plants. No flowers; there's too much death in temporary beauty. Specific types of soap and shampoo. All of it discovered through trial and frequent error.

Sunny wonders which way the current experiment will go.

There's so much to evaluate, a process made considerably more complicated by the distraction her partner presents. The smells that drew her initially: mild washroom soap on the hands holding an American quarter in front of her eyes where she stood searching through her resolutely Canadian change at the conference hotel's bank of public telephones; the aggressive tang of that same aftershave some of the younger Homicide detectives favor; an unfamiliar animal scent, warm and sharp and insistent. Later, red wine—a “good nose”, he'd said, and Sunny wonders how he knew—and arugula and the reek of the cheese plate's bluest component. And after that, a confusion of smells, hers overlaid with his overlaid with theirs, heat and need alchemizing even Sunny's own familiar scent into something unexpectedly different. An uncontrolled test …

A tiny sharp pain pulls Sunny out of her thoughts and back into the mildly enjoyable discomfort of their tangle on the fold-out bed (why are US hotels so often furnished this way?). They've stopped moving—or rather, Dr Sandström has. He's staring at her from about four inches away, hand poised to … did he just flick her forehead, as though she's a recalcitrant child? His hand smells like Sunny herself, from before. Sunny's nose wrinkles inadvertently, and Dr Sandström's hand opens to cup the side of her face.

“Sorry.” He's misunderstood her reaction. Sunny opens her mouth to respond, but Dr Sandström doesn't give her the chance. “Didn't hurt you.” It's not a question. Sunny suspects Dr Sandström doesn't question much. “But you're thinking about it, Dr Ramen—Sunny, Sunny. I'm pretty sure I told you before to quit that shit. This—” he runs the same hand down Sunny's side, careless and warm, and pulls gently on her knee until she brings it back up by his hip—“tends to work better if you turn your fucking scientist's brain off for a while and just go with it, eh?”

Sunny smiles at him. “I know, Dr Sandström. I'm sorry. I just— hnnnn.”

He's shifted his hips against her where they're joined, thrusting minutely inside her and putting renewed pressure on her clitoris. Distracting. She can feel how wet she is against him, humid and almost uncomfortable. It's … interesting. Noteworthy.

“Stop that. The 'sorries' and the thinking both. No need for either right now.” His tone's sharpened just a little, and Sunny's surprised to find herself lifting up into him in response. Mild rebuke as aphrodisiac? Very well, then. She wraps her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles against his back, and lifts up again.

“Good girl.” His wry grin robs the statement of any sting. “Flexible. I like that. Now call me David, for Christ's sake, and let's do this thing.” He shifts his hands back to their former spots by her shoulders—he has strong arms for a scientist, Sunny thinks—and begins to move in and out of her.

This new position they've wound themselves into opens a warm, scented space between their bodies, smelling of sweat and exercise and their intertwined personal musks. Smelling of sex. Sunny looks down her own body, dark against the sheets and where she's twined her limbs around Dr Sandström's—David's, yes—and watches for a moment, fascinated, as the pace of his thrusts into her increases. It's mesmerizing, this connection between what she feels and how that feeling's engendered, and for a moment she almost loses herself in the experience.

When she looks back up at Dr—David's face, however, she finds herself a little disconcerted. His eyes are unfocused, certainly, but she expected that; she can even tell over, in the apparently ever-discrete part of her mind, the physiological reasons for that particular reaction. And it's clear that he's concentrating on what he's doing here. He’s … well, he's paying attention, which she appreciates, particularly after her few experiences with fellow students.

But suddenly Sunny doesn’t think he's really seeing her at all.

2000—Patricia
Random banging on his bedroom door when any halfway sane person would be asleep makes David irritable, and irritability makes him even ruder than usual. So when the assault rifle he's firing from a third-floor crack-house window in the middle of a gangland turf war (and what in the fuck was that dream about, anyway?) turns out to be someone knocking briskly outside his hotel room at 6:30 fucking a.m., he doesn't feel particularly compelled to grab for a robe, or even his boxers, before he answers the door.

Fortunately for him, the woman on the other side of said door knows how to take advantage of a situation like nobody's business.

“Good morning,” she says, reaching out and running the back of a finger proprietarily down the length of his cock.

David knocks her hand away reflexively, covering himself with his other hand. “What the fuck—Jesus, lady, who in the hell are you and what do you think you're doing?”

“Patricia DaVinci. Doctor DaVinci, actually. And there's no need to be shy, Dr Sandström.” She gestures at the hand he has cupped protectively over his cock, the side of her mouth quirking upwards. “After all, I've seen what you have on offer. Up close and rather personal, actually. I wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“I beg your pardon.” Great, David thinks: as if being groped by a stranger isn't bad enough, now he's channelling his grandmother. He tries again, mustering all the irascible smartassery at his disposal and hoping the woman will turn out to be easily offendable. “Listen, lady—”

“Dr DaVinci,” the woman says helpfully, raising one eyebrow at him in that you-are-making-progress-grasshoppah way he's always found equal parts irritating and arousing. David shakes his head hard and waves her off, trying his best to ignore the fact that he's already a lot harder than his typical morning woody would explain. He is not going to do this. He is not. He has standards, damn it.

Somewhere.

“Lady. Doctor DaVinci, if you say so. You've got nice tits and good hair, you're reasonably attractive—as far as I can tell at way too early in the fucking morning, although you might want to check back with me when my eyes can actually focus—and I'm sure you're a great lay when you're on your meds. And if I was in the market for a hotel-hallway handjob from a total stranger, I would absolutely seek out your services, no question. As it happens, however, what I'm in the market for right now is for you to go far, far away from my soon-to-be-locked-again door, so that I can go back to sleep and you can reacquaint yourself with the good old custom of shaking hands when you meet a new person and saving the public sex for the second date. Or at least taking them out to dinner first, which is my personal prefer—”

“Yes, I know,” the woman says. “I was there.”

Say what?

David feels his mouth dropping open in astonishment, something he'd thought only happened in those fucking stupid romance novels Lilith's mother reads. Way to process, there, Sandström—but come on, this is a little much to expect even him to take in this early in the day. “You were … I'm sorry, what? Where?”

“At dinner. Last night. With you. May I come in?”

“Um.” For maybe only the second time in his life—third, max—David finds himself without a single thing to say, relevant or otherwise. Which is probably—maybe—possibly why his reaction to the woman's question, contrary to all logic, is to back his ass up into his own hotel room and let her into it.

He even holds the door open for her.

He finds himself desperately wishing he'd drunk a couple of pots of coffee about half an hour ago—in his sleep, granted, but still—because that's the only thing he can think of that might have given him a hope in hell of figuring out what's happening here. As it is, his brain's in a fuck-or-fight race with the rest of him, and he'd lay odds the pugilist side is going to lose by a mile. Which means he's about ten seconds from screwing a total stranger who claims to be a doctor and looks like the Naughty Professor.

… and then something shifts inside his head—something compounded of what he sees, the woman's wildly curly hair against the soft-looking shirt, and a sense memory he didn't know he had of the way that hair felt, feels, would feel against the oversensitive pads of his fingers—and he's suddenly, simultaneously, awake and embarrassed and hard as a rock.

“Shit.”

The woman's put down a bag David hadn't registered until now, stroking the soft-looking leather with her tapered fingers, but her eyes remain fixed on him. He remembers those eyes. He remembers those fingers, damn it—sliding over his thigh under the stupid floor-length cocktail-table cloth (God, fingernails, fingernails)—just before the rest of her slid right the fuck under the actual table, like something out of a triple-X except with less plot and bonus graduate degrees. He remembers, Christ Jesus, that mouth, red and shiny wet (Chardonnay? Black Russian? fucking gin and tonic?). He'd like to say he remembers what they talked about, washed up against one another at the damn opening-night drinks-and-snacks blah-blah-blah reception. But he'd be lying, because he has no fucking idea what they talked about, what either one of them said (damn good thing he wasn't supposed to be interviewing her, eh?). What he remembers about that mouth … fuck, that mouth: hot and wet and everywhere it shouldn't have been, her purse on the seat next to him like she'd just gone back to the bar for a refill and the rough silks of her hair and her shirt against the insides of his thighs, her fingers stroking back along his balls, the tip of one—shorter-nailed than the rest, how did she know to do that?—thrust up into him just as his cock slid deep, deep into her throat …

He's pretty sure he fooled the waiter, snatching the slick plastic menu from the man in a hand that shook only a little and asking for “just a minute, yeah, come back in a bit, we'll be ready then.”

On reflection, he doubts he fooled Patricia DaVinci at all.

“I … yeah, okay. I remember you now, I do. Jesus, yeah. You were—that was great, honestly. Kind of unexpected and batshit crazy, but great. I'm sorry, all right? About not remembering you before. It's fucking early, you know, and last night I was—”

“Drinking. Rather a lot, I believe. I'm familiar with the phenomenon.” DaVinci's tone is acerbic, but her smile has widened. There's a story or three there, David would bet on it. But he wouldn't bet much: now that his brain's caught up to his cock, he's pretty sure he'd rather fuck her than listen to her—at least at the moment—and it's pleasantly obvious she feels the same way.

“But I wasn't. Drinking,” she adds when David frowns at her, puzzled. Huh. Soda water, then. “Just as well one of us was sober at the time. Otherwise, this could have been somewhat embarrassing.”

Could have been, eh? David thinks. Having resolved the fuck-or-fight problem in favor of the former, however, he keeps that retort to himself

No sense queering the pitch.

“Now,” DaVinci goes on. “To the best of my recollection—and I have an excellent memory—due to your … limitations after our encounter last night, we agreed at that time on a quick morning assignation today before the seminars start.” She checks her watch—gold, thin, classy, predictable—and then unclasps it, laying it on the bedside table and beginning to unbutton her shirt. “I estimate we have approximately half an hour, factoring in time to shower afterwards. I see you'll have no problem … rising to the occasion.” She runs her eyes over David's body tip to toe, smiling slightly when his cock twitches strongly under her gaze, then looks back at his face as she flicks open the front clasp of her bra. “Unless you want me to stop?” She lifts her hands abruptly away from the fastening on her skirt, eyes bright, erect nipples on small sweet breasts framed in the loosened white lace and cotton. “I can, you know. Disappointing, but not hard—for me, at least. You need only say the word.”

David can feel his pulse in his cock. Can see it, even. He figures that's his answer—and a good thing, too, since between being hard enough to pound nails at this point and decaffeinated enough to forfeit his Mad Scientist^tm card, he's pretty much bypassed the verbal stage of evolution and moved directly into monosyllabic mode. He reaches out and cups her breasts together in his hands, flicking the nipples with his thumbs, and then bends his head to suck one into his mouth.

“Mm. Ex. Excellent,” Patricia DaVinci says, voice still nearly under control. David feels the shift in her muscles as one hand comes up to press his head against her, the other going unerringly back to the waistband of her skirt.

It's going to be an interesting conference.

2002—Danny
Danny always liked to watch.

It started when him and Mick were kids, when they lived next door to the Delahuntys the summer before Danny entered grade 9. Jeanine Delahunty had a second-floor bedroom with the window right across from the room they shared, and she also had a thing for fresh air and open windows. (Or a thing for being watched, which Danny never thought of back then but has gotten pretty sure about since.) Almost every night that summer, she'd come up to her room about 9 in the evening, pull back the curtains, and then just start taking off her clothes. White shirt, uniform skirt, bras more lace and straps than anything else, tiny panties like nothing he'd ever seen before. And under it all that smooth-looking skin, pale smudges of hair on her pussy and under her arms, nipples a red so dark it looked black in the late evening light. She'd stand there, framed in the window, running her hands over her own body as if she was reminding herself what it felt like, an almost invisible smile curving her lips into a knowing smirk. Just wondering what she was thinking about—what she knew—made Danny hard.

Some nights, though, the hands on her body were a lot bigger than hers and the smile changed to something else. Danny could never see the face of the guy fucking her—he was dark, judging by his hands, and the room behind him stayed unlit—but his fingers were easy to see, pulling at Jeanine's tits or teasing her pussy or digging rhythmically into the pale skin of her hips in time with his thrusts. Being fucked by this guy, whoever he was, made Jeanine's face look a lot different from her usual untouchable cool—open and uncertain and a little out of control. Other than realizing that watching on the nights the guy was there made him harder than when Jeanine was alone, Danny couldn't put a name to how that difference made him feel.

By the end of the summer, though, he knew he wanted to see that look on other people. And to make someone look like that himself, maybe, some day.

Turned out becoming a cop gave him lots of chances for that first one. Observing from the showers as a truly amazing number of his fellow students fucked and sucked one another up against the academy lockers, catching his training officer blowing the bartender in the alley behind the local police bar, taking his turn in Vice and waiting for the johns to finish before he stepped out of the darkness flashing his badge and dangling his handcuffs … one way or another, Danny got to watch a good many different kinds of nakedness in those first years, emotional and physical and otherwise.

Going into undercover work changed the players—some of them, anyway—and when charming the bad guys into bed proved to be one of Danny's marketable skills he wound up being the watched one as often as the watcher. But he didn't mind that—the opposite, actually—and being flexible that way benefited him, on the job and otherwise.

And he always watched their faces, the people he fucked. To remind himself what he was there for, and so he'd know them later when he had to, and to remember.

And to see what he could make them feel.

A lot of faces, over time. A lot of different chances to work someone up to that point beyond control, that point where they had that look Jeanine had had on a few nights that summer way back when. Where they couldn't help but show themselves to him completely.

No complaints from anyone who mattered. Lots of compliments, some from surprising sources.

But David's the first and only person Danny's ever seen break open at his hands to that point beyond control.

Not the first time they met, which Danny knows David doesn't remember. He's since told Danny that was his first conference after he got his grad degree, the first time he presented a paper he'd written on his own, stressing him out way past normal and making him pretty much blind to anyone except the lab directors who'd refused to hire him before he published and the post-doc he was screwing at the time. Danny doesn't think David would have noticed him at that one anyway—no one registers security guards as actual people, it's why the job's a good watching-brief cover—and after all, helping a hotel guest pick up the papers they scattered all over the lobby when they ran into another egghead attendee maybe doesn't count as an actual meeting. Even if the security guard had been staring at the guest off and on since the conference started, whiling away the ungodly boring hours on duty by spending a lot of time imagining all the things he could do to the guy behind locked doors if he didn't already have a waitress in his bed as part of the job.

The second time they met, after Danny tracked David down at that high-profile Toronto lab, he fucked the living daylights out of him. More than once, actually—all those locked-door fantasies and then some. Making up for lost time, maybe. That one David does remember, which means it's been a good thing to distract him with when he's asked one too many (like any) nosy questions over the years about who and why. Could be Danny got to him that deep that time and didn't realize it, completely focused like he was on his own body, his own pleasure, after six months on a Vice gig undercover as a Catholic priest with a reassuring lack of sexual interest in anyone of any age or gender. He doesn't know. What he does know is that they didn't leave the hotel room for three days, and that the next time he showed up in David's life David punched him in the arm, harder than Danny'd thought anyone without training could hit, and told him he'd walked funny for a week last time and gotten shit from his labmates for another month after that.

So maybe it was the third time, or the seventh, or two years ago, or last January, that Danny opened his eyes and looked at David's face beneath his—mouth open, eyes closed, breath coming hot and fast against Danny's chest—and realized for the first time that he could remember every line of that face (including the new ones David seemed to have each time they reconnected) and that not a single thing in it was hidden from him.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter when it was. What matters is that it's stayed that way. Outside the rooms they rent, Danny's pretty sure David lives up to the initial impression he makes: genius-level brain, Olympic-level sarcastic shithead, buy him a drink and let him talk but fuck him at your own risk. Inside those rooms, David is … Danny doesn't know, he doesn't know who David is when he's with Danny, but he does know David's different with him. Less bite. More silence. Trust Danny never intended to earn.

Also, and this scares the shit out of him, it's snuck up on Danny, this reaction David has to him—has had to him pretty much every time they've seen each other over the last couple of years, now that Danny bothers to use the brain God gave him and actually fucking think about it—and how much he likes that. Needs it. How much what he does to David now is about David, about making David look that way over and over, about figuring out what it means that David gives that up to him even though David doesn't know he's doing it.

Which that right there Danny doesn't like, that factor of surprise. Not at all. Because working deep cover means you had better not fucking let anything surprise you unless you want the next surprise to be what happens after you die. So he's used to being on guard and in character even when he's balls-deep in someone he might otherwise care about, used to lying in bed like a reflex. Used to coming with one eye on the door.

It's what he does to stay alive.

Cost him Pete, a long time ago. Cost him Kosmo, a lot more recently. Should have cost him David. Would have, if he'd done what he's trained himself to do and stayed shielded, whole, protected. If he'd been careful. Been watching the way he should have been, defensively, without invitation or exposure.

He wonders how far into his broken self David can already see.

2004—Danny
“God. That was. God. You fucking... Get me out of these things. I need my eyes back, dammit. My hands. I need...”

“Danny.”

“... Danny?”

Finally there's a susurration in the silence: denim on skin (that commando thing, Jesus, what is up with that?), then the rasp of Danny's zipper and the whispering rustle of shirt, shirt, coat. Danny's fingers come down, surprisingly lightly, on the rope around David's right wrist, untying the knots as efficiently as he created them hours—minutes?—ago and easing that arm down to lie against the disordered bedclothes. David waits for the rest of his freedom to be restored. Instead, he feels Danny move away from him, towards the table where David tossed the contents of his pockets when they stumbled headlong into this room last night, kissing and manhandling each other like the next thing to happen might be a fistfight rather than a fuck. Sounds like Danny's searching for something. Then what sounds like the snap of David's wallet opening crackles into the silence, and—wait a minute, now.

“Hey,” David says, raising his head from the pillows and craning it in Danny's direction. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Borrowing your slush fund.”

“I—what?” David's never heard Danny sound like this, and he doesn't remember ever wanting to. Not good. So not good, after something so far beyond good, that he's suddenly way more sober than he'd like. He's not used to not knowing what's going on—even with Danny, even after all this intermittent time—and now he can't figure out how to ask. The snap sounds again, loud in the small room; there's the crinkle of paper being shoved into a pocket, and Danny's harsh voice starts up again.

“Okay. Now stay there. Don't start on the rest of the knots until you know for a fact I'm gone. Ten minutes at least. No sooner. And do the blindfold after.”

David hears Danny moving through the room towards the door—thump, swish, sigh. When he gets there, though, he stops. There's a rasp at the bottom of his breathing, like sickness a long way off. “I saw the plane ticket in your case, and I know you can fucking expense the hotel. I've left you enough for a cab.”

Ouch. Nice one. Even for Danny, that's harsh—and a little unexpected. Not because of the sex—they came, they saw, they both came again, nobody's owed jack shit, right?—but because David doesn't remember being enough of an asshole to Danny to merit that kind of cocksucker kissoff.

Not ever, actually. Which is odd.

And maybe Danny agrees. Because, goddammit, the man is fucking hovering in the doorway. David can hear him, smell him, sense that intense unpredictable presence still in his space, not actually fucking gone yet. David's left shoulder's getting sore from his arm being stretched up so long, and now that he's not coming his brains out the knot on the blindfold is boring into his skull even without the hangover's help. Can't Danny just fucking leave already, so David can get on with waiting that goddamn ten minutes?

“I'm ...” Danny sounds like he's the one going anoxic this time. “David, I'm sor—”

“Don't. Do not fucking say that. I don't want to hear that come out of your goddamned mouth.”

Anger's always made David restless, made him need to fuck it out or walk it out or drive like he might run the car into a bridge the next second. To physically shake it off. Absent those options, turns out, anger tenses up his joints like he's a longbow. The handy things you learn from being tied up by a deep-cover cop. Bondage 101: Self-Knowledge Through Sex.

Fuck.

“Just.” Breathing now. Breathing and counting and keeping it together, keeping his voice hard so it won't start to shake him apart. “Be straight with me, for once in your goddamned life.”

There's a sound like the aftermath of a punch to the gut from over by the door, and David winces—he knows that's unfair, knows Danny's done his paltry best in the name of fucking honesty—but he won't give Danny the apology he wouldn't take himself. He forges on, relentless, like walking over coals. “You're gone, aren't you. Completely. You didn't borrow dick, and I won't get dick back. No more passing through town on a just-in-case; no more chance meetings that fucking well aren't. This is it, yeah? For good this time.”

“Probably,” Danny says. God, it's hot in here. Hard to fucking breathe. Fucking lousy hotel ventilation systems, Jesus. “Yeah. It is.”

Right. Okay.

Clearly, whatever comes next, David's beyond sure he doesn't want to hear it. Danny being Danny and this being David's life, he gets to hear it anyway. “I can't, can't… I. God. It's too fucking dangerous for me, David. This. Thing. With you. Whatever we've been doing here.”

It's called fucking, asshole, David thinks—what, they didn't teach you that at Undercover School?—and it's not actually dangerous if you glove up and pull out, you prick. But for once in his life he bites back the bullshit and tries to listen to the sound of something good breaking away from him.

“This— You have to understand, David, you have to realize… This fucking job, it only works if you can carry everything you need, everything you give a fuck about in one front pocket and walk away from anything else. Anything, David. Ever. You hear me?”

“Ever? What, forever and ever, like a fucking fairy tale? I call bullshit, Danny.” Loss and desperation shiver through David suddenly, pooling heavy and cold in his belly. There's nothing he can say—nothing that will help—but he never did know when to shut the fuck up and now doesn't seem like the time to learn. “It doesn't have to be— It's not just me, you asshole. Maybe it's not me at all. But you can't have no one— That can't be all you have, be the only way to do it. It's not fucking human.”

Silence from the doorway. David's chest hurts. Is he shouting? Probably. “You have people, man. A, what, a squad, a tribe, a family. I know you do.”

“... Not any more.”

The air in the room shifts suddenly, David's skin tightening in the errant draft and the hair on his arms springing erect. And then Danny's mouth is on his, wet and insistent, one rough hand splayed out desperately over his chest and the fingers of the other pushing into his hair, turning his head to just where Danny needs it. David opens to Danny without volition, instinct instantly trumping anger. All of a sudden, air seems extraneous: what matters is the choked-off sounds Danny's making, the curve of his rough-shorn head under the palm of David's free hand, the sharp flick of pain inside pleasure as he twists David's nipple hard. David's hips arch helplessly off the bed at that, his cock twitching in the still-moving air and a groan building in his throat.

And then Danny's gone, back at the door, and the only breathing David can hear now is his own loud panting, each gasp threaded with a telltale little whine.

“Not any more,” Danny says, in that voice David never wanted to hear again. A voice that belongs to someone else. “Ten minutes, David. No sooner. Do it.”

David waits five from the time the door closes, measuring the time deliberately and mathematically by the rhythms of his slowing breath.

But he keeps the blindfold on for another ten, just in case.

*****FIN*****

Who the Hell You Think You Are? for <lj user="clionaeilis"

spuffyduds — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 21:52:15 GMT

For: clionaeilis
Title: Who the Hell You Think You Are?
Fandom: Hard Core Logo
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3075 words
Notes: Joe/Billy, pre-movie.
Warnings: Underage sex, muddled consent issues, bondage, angst.
Author: spuffyduds
ETA: Oh CRAP I forgot to thank my magnificent beta sionnain who beta'd for me instantaneously because I was running so late, and is deeply fabulous and thank you thank you and I'm SO SORRY.

Who the Hell You Think You Are?

Five Extraordinary Encounters That (Probably) Never Happened, for atrata

isiscolo — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 20:35:00 GMT

For: atrata
Title: Five Extraordinary Encounters That (Probably) Never Happened
Fandom: Slings & Arrows crossover with Harry Potter, Iron Man, The Devil Wears Prada, due South, and RPF
Author: Isis (isiscolo)
Rating: G
Length: ~1850 words
Summary: Worlds collide.

Darren is in London – "not that it has the vibrancy of Berlin or even of Prague, God knows, but at least it's Europe, at least it's not the bloody United States, or worse, Alberta, but at least they have culture," he says to Richard on the phone, the mobile that's costing him a ridiculous amount of money to have activated here but he couldn't manage without it – when a flutter of black in his peripheral vision catches his eye, and he looks up. A man is striding down the sidewalk, a man with stringy black hair and an oversized nose, and, Darren notes delightedly, a long, flowing black cape that billows around him in dramatic swirls. It gives the man an air of authority and vague menace. Darren decides he must have one made for himself.

"Look, I'll call you back," he says, punching the end call button in the middle of Richard's squawk, and holds the phone up to snap a picture. The man – the chap, Darren corrects himself, he's in England now – wheels around and glares at him. There seems to be a stick in his hand. How odd.

"What," he says, his voice slow and deep and glorious, "are you doing?"

Later, Darren is sure he said something brilliant. He must have. He doesn't quite remember. In fact, he's not altogether sure what it was about the man on Carnaby Street that made him want to take a picture. All he remembers is that it was something he was wearing. Something black, he thinks uncertainly, but there's no way to tell; when he brings the picture up on the tiny phone screen, it's blank.

Anna doesn't really like the opening-night galas, but of course one must attend, and so she does. At least she's used to it now, and when she sees her reflection in the glass doors, she no longer thinks she looks silly, an out-of-place country girl trying to pretend she belongs in the city. Grandma Conroy would have called the evening gown a ridiculous extravagance. But it would be nice, Anna thinks wistfully, if she could wear it someplace else, not just to the opening-night galas.

She smiles and greets the dignitaries and the sponsors, says a few words to the Minister of Culture and her husband, and manages to avoid Richard, who looks upset about something. When she has a few minutes to herself, she rushes to the bar to make sure they have enough of the red wine – it looks like a red-wine crowd – then checks in with Maria. The G841 gel finally came in and the tech is installing it now, thank heavens, and the prop chair that one of the interns broke while using it as a ladder has been fixed. She slips back into the foyer, leans against the wall, and closes her eyes.

"Here," says a young woman with an American accent. "You look like you could use some wine." Anna opens her eyes to see a vaguely familiar-looking woman holding out a glass of white wine. She takes it automatically.

"I don't really drink at these events," she apologizes.

"I don't see why not," says the woman. She takes a drink from her own glass and wrinkles her nose a little, but there's a sparkle in her eyes and in her smile, something sympathetic and conspiratorial, and Anna places her; she's one of the sponsors, or his date, anyway. Stark Industries. Her name was something unusual, and Anna is on the point of remembering it when she adds, "Pepper Potts. I'm here with –"

"Mr. Stark, yes," and the way she says it makes Anna revise her assessment. Not his date, then. "I'm his assistant, and I know exactly how you feel. John at the bar said you prefer the pinot grigio."

Anna looks over to the bar, and John nods and smiles at them. Something loosens in her heart, like a tight belt being taken off. She clinks her glass against Pepper's, and their eyes meet, and they drink.

The taxi pulls up just as Richard walks by the Windsor Arms. A woman, elegant and imperious, gets out – no, two women, but it takes him a moment to notice the second one, who is holding two bags and a notebook and a phone and trying not to fall off her high heels.

"…and make sure the dresses are all hung properly, Emily, because you can't trust these people to know what to do with clothing, and make me a reservation at that French place with the little fountain in the foyer, and – oh." This last syllable is said with such iciness that Richard suddenly realizes the woman is looking at him.

He'd been staring, listening, because she sounded a little like Holly when she was on a roll, and somehow he'd come to a stop right there on the sidewalk, right between her and the doorman who is holding open the ornately-arched front door. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he mumbles, and steps aside, but she's still looking at him with pity and disdain. No, not at him; at his suit.

"Such a quaint town, Montreal. And such oddly-dressed natives, don't you think, Emily?" she murmurs as she sweeps by him.

"Actually, this is Toronto," he says, but the door has already closed behind her.

Oliver imagines that to Geoffrey, who is looking up from the fallen Lear directly at him – although perhaps he is too intent on his role to see him – he looks as though he is fading out. But to him it seems that the makeshift wings of this makeshift stage are not exactly fading out but rippling, changing from curtains and flats to walls both more and less substantial than the ones in the world. There is a corridor. There are doors. There is a mist in the distance. It's all rather bland and unfinished-looking.

In Oliver's opinion, the Afterlife could use a good decorator. And maybe some mood music. Something Wagnerian.

He tries doorknobs at random. Most don't move, but one gives, and he finds himself back in the church, in the room given over to Charles Kingman for his dressing room. They exchange a glance in the mirror before Oliver nods and steps out of the room again. A man's death should be private. He should know.

The corridor stretches onward toward the mist. It looks infinite, but then suddenly it comes to an end, and he finds himself in…a cabin? A rough-hewn room done in Early Macho: the walls hung with antlered heads and rifles (or possibly shotguns; Oliver's not clear on how one tells the difference), the sofas covered with plaid throws straight out of the Hudson Bay catalog. A man and a woman are sitting at a square table, playing cards, and for a moment the woman, who looks up at him and smiles, reminds him of an older, gentler Ellen.

"Well," says the man, "I suppose that eventually we all have to trust them to live their own lives, don't we."

"I suppose," says Oliver.

"That's what having children is all about," he pronounces decisively.

"Bob," says the woman, touching his hand.

"So. You play bridge, by any chance? Or whist? There was this game that Frobisher used to like – I don't remember the rules exactly but if you got three of a kind you had to make a noise like a chicken, and –"

"Bob," the woman says again.

"Well. How about you sit down, and we'll get started."

Aghast, Oliver stares at them, at the rustic wooden table and chairs, at the ridiculous antlers. He was no saint, he knows that, but surely he does not deserve this for eternity.

"Don't worry. This isn't your destination," the woman says, with a kindly smile.

"Ah, yes, right," says Bob. "I'm just – we're just here to help ease your transition. Most people, they die, they're dead, there's no difficulty. But when you've been a ghost for years, it's a little harder to let the world go. When it's finally time."

"Ah."

They look at each other for a moment, and then Bob pats the place beside him. "Well. Are you in? Of course, most games are better with four."

Oliver remembers the glance he exchanged with Charles Kingman. "I think a fourth will be here shortly," he says, and he takes his seat.

Paul had thought he knew the Toronto area fairly well, but after filling up at a gas station in some suburban town, he can't find his way back to the highway. The off-ramp has no matching on-ramp, and the signs for westbound traffic direct him through a maze of tree-lined residential streets before disappearing entirely, leaving him stranded in a small, well-preserved older downtown.

Sandwiched between a children's clothing store and a Greek restaurant is a building which looks as though it used to be a movie theatre. The Art-Deco style vertical marquee reads: The Merely Players. He finds himself drawn to it; he parks in front and gets out of the car, studying the building's façade.

There's a movement behind the clear glass of the ticket window, and then one of the doors opens, and a man says, "Can I help…" before trailing off and squinting at him. "Well, this is unexpected."

No kidding. Paul can't help but stare. "I guess so."

They scrutinize each other for a moment, and then the man puts out his hand. "Geoffrey Tennant. Are we related?"

Paul considers several possible responses before deciding against any of them and just giving his name. They shake hands.

"Right, you're in – television, aren't you? People have mentioned the resemblance, but I don't actually watch TV. I think the series my wife was in cured me of that," he says, and a little thrill goes through Paul, a strange electric frisson at the thought that the stories they performed have somehow lived on and led to this.

"And you direct for the stage," he finds himself saying. "This is your theatre."

"Such as it is," agrees Geoffrey. "It's not bad, really. Would you like a look around?"

And Paul follows him into the building, looking at the posters on the walls (Coriolanus, The Water Engine, Freedom's Ring – this last "a new work by local playwright Nahum Adetola") and at the aged wallpaper tarted up with new trim, at the rows of limp seats and the proud proscenium, and listens to Geoffrey tell him about the building, and the stage, and his company.

They have reached the light and sound boards when Paul stops Geoffrey's monologue with a hand on his shoulder. "Are you happy?"

Geoffrey doesn't seem to think the question as odd as Paul belatedly realizes it must be. He considers for a moment. "I believe I am, yes."

"And Ellen?"

"Ellen is Ellen," says Geoffrey, and they both laugh. They walk back to the front door. "You should come back some time when we're not black," he says. "We have a full season planned."

"I'll try," says Paul, but the next time he drives that way, he can find neither gas station nor off-ramp. He's not particularly surprised. He has been given a rare gift, and he will hold it to his heart and not look for more. Geoffrey is happy, and Ellen is Ellen, and all's right with the world.

The Irish Keep Gate-Crashing, Callum/Hugh, NC-17, for lucifuge_5

waltzforanight — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 17:34:11 GMT

For: lucifuge_5
Title: The Irish Keep Gate-Crashing
Author: waltzforanight
Fandom: Canadian RPS
Pairing: Callum Keith Rennie/Hugh Dillon
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Contains minor spoilers for episode 2x07 of "Californication", but - well, you've probably seen the pictures already.

Notes: Huge, huge thanks to sionnain for listening to me flail, being an awesome cheerleader and beta-ing at the last minute. Lucifuge, I hope you enjoy how this turned out - it was the prompt you didn't remember for your Dear Santa letter, but hopefully that just adds to the surprise. :D? Title is from a song by The Thrills.

It's a long-ass flight from Toronto to LAX, or at least it seems that way this time. Hugh's on a last-minute-decision trip to LA, something he decided to do at about four o'clock this morning, because Hugh is stressed out and restless, worried that he's in over his head with the upcoming season of "Durham County". He didn't know what else to do, so he'd called Callum because Callum is the only person who can really make Hugh calm the hell down when he gets like this.

Some people might find it pathetic that he's flying 4,000 kilometres to see his not-really-boyfriend for one night, but Hugh doesn't. It's unconventional, the way they work, but it works and that's the point. He and Callum would kill each other within a week if they actually tried being in a normal relationship, but this - this they do, and they do it well. It's been over ten fucking years, which throws Hugh for a loop every time he thinks about it, but he takes it as proof that they don't need to change.

The flight is a late-morning one, which means the in-flight movie is lighthearted family fun in the guise of Stuart Little. There's a little kid farther down the row who is thrilled by this, and tells everyone on the whole plane that this is his favourite movie ever. Hugh watches it for awhile, and agrees that it's pretty good as far as talking animal movies go, but he falls asleep halfway through and ends up dreaming about Callum Little and his adopted father, Dr House, who thinks Hugh the Street Rat is a no good dimwit with cheese breath.

When he wakes up, Hugh decides that he really needs to stop watching "House" reruns at three in the morning.

The plane lands not long after Hugh wakes up, though, which is good because that nap only made him more restless than before. He twitches and jitters his way through the terminal and customs, then baggage claim, then out to find a cab, which is the part that really takes forever. Hugh spends 45 minutes waiting for a cab because he keeps letting people with families and the elderly take the ones that do show up.

When he finally gets into one, it smells like rotten fish, which he hopes is not actually a sign of things to come.

Unsurprisingly, they get stuck in traffic. (This is LA, it's pretty much expected by everyone who has ever been here for more than five minutes.) It takes hours to get out of the traffic jam, and Hugh ends up paying the cab driver more money than the average Canadian cabbie makes in an entire week, probably, but then he's finally at the studio. It's late afternoon, California time, and there are surprisingly few people around. He has no trouble getting through security, though the security guard gives him a dirty look when she sees his Ontario driver's license - probably because the things are ugly as fuck now. Hugh would be pissed if he had to look at them all the time, too. But the security guard points him in the right direction anyway, and he finds the right lot without much trouble.

**

Hugh walks onto the right set and, after the sea of cameras, lights and two dozen crew guys wearing cargo shorts, the first thing he sees is Callum. More specifically, Callum clad in nothing but his underwear and tied to the bed by his wrists and ankles. A few seconds later, while Hugh is still trying to process that sight, a pretty young girl with long, dark hair - also in nothing but her underwear, he notices, as if it were possible to not notice - saunters over to where Callum is laying and pops a - what the fuck, a ball gag into his mouth, then straddles him backwards. She leans down to check the ankle bindings and -

Hugh wonders if he's dreaming again, and if so, when the cheesy 70s porno music is going to start.

It's not until David Duchovny bursts into the room that Hugh really realizes this is a scene they're shooting.

With that knowledge, it's a little easier for Hugh to figure out what's going on. He watches the scene unfold and, truth be told, he's surprised by how funny it is. Callum's not exactly known for his humourous roles, but man, he's nailing this stuff, and Hugh has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cracking up over d'you like crêpes? It's obvious that Callum is having a riot playing such an odd-ball, and it's good to see him so light-hearted. He's looking good, too, Hugh notes, and not just in a fuck me now kind of way. He looks happy. Healthy.

He has a goatee, which is just fucking bizarre.

The director calls cut and asks for "just one more", which in Hugh's experience means everyone is stuck here for at least another hour and a half. He leans against the back wall, out of the way, and watches as Callum chats with Duchovny and the girl, Hugh doesn't know her name. They're talking about the scene, maybe, and Duchovny wanders over to the other side of the room to retrieve the ball gag, which he presents to Callum with a flourish. Then he laughs and pops it into Callum's mouth - Callum spits it back out and Hugh isn't close enough to hear what he says, but he knows Callum, and he'd bet any money it's get out of here, you fucker and a short laugh.

It's another five minutes before the director calls for places, and Hugh has plenty time to go over and say hello before that happens, but he doesn't. He's kind of enjoying just watching Callum, who doesn't notice Hugh is there until he's lying back on the bed for the next take. But when he does notice, his face breaks into a huge grin and that - man, that always gets to Hugh, the way Callum's face lights up when he's really and truly pleased, and that just seeing Hugh can make him look like that.

Callum kind of waves, but his hands are already tied back again, so it doesn't really work. Hugh waves back, though, and smiles as he nods towards the ropes. Callum gets this devious little glint in his eyes and he tugs on the bindings - just testing them out, he tells the director innocently - then winks at Hugh, who is thankfully still standing in the back because Jesus. That always gets to him, too, that look, and he has to discreetly adjust himself before he can re-focus on the filming.

**

Hugh ends up being right. It's another two hours before the director is satisfied with the film footage he has and lets the cast go. Callum stops to talk to him for a few minutes, nodding occasionally and shooting Hugh an apologetic glance when the guy pulls out a script and starts flipping through it. Hugh just shrugs - directors are perfectionists no matter what country you're in. He knows how it goes.

When Callum finally gets free, Hugh meets him halfway across the room. "Interesting role. I didn't realize you were moving into porn, Rennie," he comments dryly in lieu of hello, running his eyes up and down Callum's body without a hint of subtlety. "Finally had enough of the serial killer gig, moving on to lady killer now?"

Callum just flips him off as he struggles to put on one of those stupid set-provided bathrobes, the ones that look like something you get at the Holiday Inn. He gets the waist tie tangled up in the sleeve, somehow, and Hugh can't help but laugh at him, which only makes him even more frustrated. Finally Callum gets it on, though he ends up throwing the stupid damn tie onto the ground in frustration. He doesn't actually close the robe, though, so you can still see everything most people would be trying to hide right now, and Hugh has no idea why he even bothered with it. He'd ask, but Callum is already walking off the set and, since Hugh has no idea where anything is around here, he figures he should follow. (He stops to pick up the discarded tie, though, because maybe that scene he's been watching film for the last two hours has given him some ideas.)

They don't say much as they walk across the lot. Callum asks how the flight was, and Hugh purposely does not mention the Stuart Little dream. They pass Ball Gag Girl, who is now fully dressed and, apparently, on her way out to meet her boyfriend. She waves at them as she passes, and Hugh finds out her name is Madeline - which is good to know because he feels like a slimy pervert calling her Ball Gag Girl, even just in his head.

It turns out that Callum has his own trailer - the easiest way to tell this isn't a Canadian production, even the guest stars have their own trailers here. It's not very big compared to some of the others (that jet-liner sized one probably belongs to Duchovny, Hugh figures), but Callum probably wouldn't know what to do with one that actually had space anyway. Hugh follows him inside and looks around; it's about what he expected. There's a sofa, a table and chairs, a television - the standard trailer fare - and, because this is Callum's trailer, about six dozen golf clubs lining one wall.

Hugh rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment. The last time he said something about golf being an old man's sport, Callum made him play, and he is not making that mistake twice.

**

They have dinner at some quasi-upscale restaurant near the set. It's the kind of place with cloth napkins and three forks per place setting, but it's got a jukebox in one corner and abstract art on the walls, so Hugh can see why Callum likes it - and how they can get away with showing up in jeans. The food they order arrives fast, which is a relief because Hugh is suddenly really hungry. Airplane food sucks. Callum ends up with some fancy pasta dish that Hugh can't pronounce the name of and gets sauce all over his lips, which he licks away slowly and purposely, his eyes on Hugh the entire time.

Hugh watches, his mouth open slightly, and he knows that Callum is doing it on purpose, trying to get Hugh going in public. Which doesn't stop the heat from flaring up, low in his gut, as Callum starts swirling his tongue around the fork. Asshole, he thinks affectionately.

They eat in silence for awhile, until the immediate hunger is gone, and then they start talking about the projects they have on the go, the stuff they have coming up. Callum's going back to B.C. for more "Battlestar Galactica" (he flips Hugh off again when Hugh refers to it as the Paranoid Android gig), but he's not sure what's coming up after that. Hugh's got until the day after tomorrow before he has to be in Montreal for more "Durham County", then it's right back to Toronto for more "Flashpoint", and he's gotta find time to record a little bit in there, really get that album moving.

The name of Hugh's work ethic is always more. Most people don't get it. Almost everyone else asks why Hugh works so much, why he doesn't take a damn vacation once in awhile, but not Callum. Callum knows exactly why Hugh does it, because it's for the same reasons he does - working nonstop makes it easy to resist the bad things he sometimes still wants. So Callum doesn't ask why, he just asks how it's going, and Hugh spends a long time talking excitedly about season two of "Durham County", which he's about to go start filming. He's read the scripts and he's thrilled about working with the cast and crew again, but he's also nervous about getting back into the psyche of Mike Sweeney.

Hugh doesn't actually say that last part out loud, but he thinks Callum gets it, because Callum's been there before, too. Hugh remembers what Callum was like filming Suspicious River, the dark look in Callum's eyes that never really went away until months after shooting was wrapped. They had a lot of sex back then, way more than they do now (being on opposite ends of the continent for nine months a year really puts a damper on these things), and Hugh remembers how rough it got sometimes, how it was hard to tell whether he was in bed with Callum or Gary.

Secretly, that's what worries Hugh the most - that he'll get so into it, no one will be able to tell the difference between Hugh and Mike anymore.

He doesn't say that either, of course. He just talks about the show itself - Callum's actually seen the first season, which is impressive because usually he's about five to ten years behind on all forms of media, but he likes "Durham County" a lot, which makes Hugh feel proud.

**

It's pretty late by the time they finish dinner and head back to Callum's hotel, especially for Hugh, who is still on east coast time. It's another long taxi ride, but this one is better because Hugh spends most of it casually touching Callum's thigh, running his hand higher and higher until Callum smacks his hand away, but not before Hugh feels how hard he is. He grins triumphantly, and Callum jerks his head towards the driver, a silent we're in public, moron. But the driver is staring straight ahead and pointedly ignoring them, so Hugh keeps on doing it.

The driver's probably seen it all before, he figures, but he gives him a really good tip when they arrive at the hotel anyway.

Once they're safely shut up inside his hotel room, Callum shoves Hugh down onto the bed before he even has a chance to look around. The ceiling is white is about all he has time to notice before Callum is straddling his waist, hands everywhere as he leans down to kiss Hugh, and fucking finally. Callum's mouth is hot and wet and familiar, exactly what Hugh has been waiting for since he decided to hop on that plane in the first place. His hands scramble at Callum's back, fisting into his shirt and holding him as close as he physically can.

"Why are you here, Hugh?" Callum asks when he pulls away. His voice is low and Hugh can barely hear him despite the fact that Callum is, literally, right on top of him.

"Because I -" Hugh doesn't know how to answer the question without sounding like a chick. "I wanted to see you," is what he finally says, and that's still kind of girly, but not nearly as girly as I need you and I miss you, which is what else he's thinking. Callum just nods, like he understands exactly what Hugh isn't saying. He probably does - they've been doing this a long time, they know how this goes.

Callum leans back into an upright position, still straddling Hugh's hips, and strips off his t-shirt. He has to get up off the bed for the rest, which is unfortunate in many ways, but it gives Hugh the pleasure of seeing him strip - taking off first his shoes and socks, then his jeans, then his boxer-briefs - so Hugh is not complaining. Far from it - he grins widely, enjoying the show. He lets out a wolf-whistle as Callum bends over to untangle the underwear from his ankles. Callum looks up sharply and throws the underwear at Hugh's head. "Dick," he mutters.

"Yeah. Want yours," Hugh replies smugly. Callum rolls his eyes at the juvenile joke, but he's smiling all the same and that devious glint is back in his eyes and oh, Hugh is so in trouble here, he can tell.

Sure enough, Callum stays away, out of Hugh's reach, and absently starts stroking himself. Hugh's eyes flare hot with want, and he makes some needy noise that would probably be embarrassing around other people, but Callum just grins. Bastard. Hugh glares at him. "You could be less of an asshole, you know, and get the fuck back over here. Maybe let me take care of that for you."

"That's not nice, calling me an asshole."

"Neither is teasing, you fucker," Hugh grumbles. Callum nods, as if he's relenting to the fact that Hugh is right - which Hugh is, thank you very much. Even though he doesn't really have any room to talk about teasing after that stunt he pulled in the cab. Callum doesn't mention that, though, just walks over to where Hugh is laying and starts undoing Hugh's pants.

Hugh is very much okay with this course of action.

It doesn't take long for Callum to have him naked - practice makes perfect, they say - but it feels like forever, and Hugh is practically writhing with want it now. He's impatient as Callum pushes and prods and manhandles him into the position he wants - still flat on his back, but farther up the bed now so that his feet reach the edge of the bed, not the floor - then steps back to admire his handiwork at getting Hugh spread out like a goddamn Christmas dinner or something.

Finally Callum climbs back onto the bed, settles himself between Hugh's legs and holds himself over top of Hugh with one hand on either side of Hugh's chest. He grins wickedly, which worries Hugh for about half a second, but then - well, who gives a damn, because Callum is kissing him again and that's good. Hugh gets into it fast because, yeah, he missed this, too, and it's familiar and easy and exactly what Hugh wants.

The goatee is a weird addition, though. Hugh's still not used to how it feels, but he finds that he likes how scratchy it is against his neck when Callum ducks his head to bite along Hugh's jawline, then does something really incredible to his neck, Jesus. Hugh groans again, shoving his hips up aimlessly, trying to find some kind of friction to work with. Callum doesn't let him have it, though - he keeps himself raised above Hugh, just out of reach until -

Hugh hears the familiar crinkle of a condom wrapper, and his heart is thundering in anticipation because this never gets old, never, and he knows that it's going to be so damn good. It feels like an eternity between the noise and Callum pushing inside of him, but then he's there and it feels perfect, exactly the way Hugh remembers. Callum starts to move, but keeps his thrusts long and tortuously slow just because he knows it drives Hugh crazy.

Hugh moves so that his feet are planted flat on the bed, his legs bent and spread wide, desperate for more, now. It doesn't do any fucking good though, because Callum knows all Hugh's tricks and he only slows down even more to make up for it. Hugh growls in frustration. He knows what Callum wants, but he's not going to - fine. "Jesus, faster. Faster, you asshole," Hugh grunts out, one hand reaching up to grab Callum by the back of the neck.

Callum, surprisingly, obliges right away. Usually he's a complete dick about it, makes Hugh really beg for it and say please. But this time he just balances himself by gripping Hugh's shoulders tight and starts to move faster, harder so that Hugh really feels it. Callum shifts his weight just the slightest bit and then he's hitting right there, right where Hugh needs it and Hugh feels the pleasure zing through him, from his head to his fingers to his toes and everywhere in between.

His eyes shut of their own accord, the pleasure is so goddamn overwhelming that he's not sure he can look at Callum right now without exploding, but of course Callum is going to push him. Always with the pushing. "Look at me, Hugh," Callum says sharply. He's breathless and panting, but that doesn't make him any less commanding, so Hugh does exactly as he's told and opens his eyes.

He's not sure what he was expecting, but Callum's eyes are wide and clear and filled with this stubborn affection that Hugh only ever sees when they're together like this. And that - God, that's impossibly hot. Hugh tightens his grip on Callum's neck and starts pushing his hips forward as best he can, trying to meet Callum's thrusts. It's working, so good, and Hugh can see that Callum starting to lose control just a little bit. He breaks out into a fresh layer of sweat, he loses his rhythm just the tiniest bit, and he - ha, finally, Hugh thinks triumphantly - lets out a low moan of pleasure. Getting Callum to make noise like that in bed isn't exactly easy - Callum will talk, sure, but incoherent noise is rare - but Hugh relishes the challenge and he can't help but grin widely after he succeeds.

"Smug bastard," Callum says breathlessly.

Hugh just keeps grinning. "Always."

Naturally, Callum takes that as the challenge it isn't actually intended to be and starts really working to get Hugh off. He removes one hand from Hugh's shoulders and brings it down between their sweat-soaked bodies, casually running his fingers up and down Hugh's cock and Jesus, he's such a fucking tease. Hugh grits his teeth and tries not to beg, but that doesn't last long. "Callum," he chokes out. "C'mon, do it, I -"

It's enough. Callum finally wraps his hand around Hugh's dick and - "Oh, fuck, yes," Hugh groans. Callum is still moving hard and fast inside of him, and he's a fucking pro at using his hand on Hugh to get him off. It's like sensory overload, and Hugh can't seem to catch his breath but he doesn't care one damn bit because it feels so damn good to have Callum all over him, inside and out, his hand working perfectly to bring Hugh right to the edge.

Callum is muttering something above him, some kind of command to come on, Hugh, now, come now, dammit, Hugh now and Hugh is barely aware of it but he damn well obeys anyway, coming hard all over Callum's hand and his own stomach. It's so strong that Hugh can barely breathe afterwards, and he's still struggling for breath a minute later when Callum comes, his grip on Hugh's shoulder so strong that he might actually leave bruises.

**

The next morning, Callum leaves early to go shoot another scene. He doesn't say I'll miss you or thanks for coming to see me, but he kisses Hugh - who is still half-asleep in bed - before he goes and tells him to have a safe flight, which Hugh figures means about the same thing, so he smiles and goes back to sleep for another couple of hours.

The flight home is crappy. There's a screaming baby a few rows back, the weather is shit and makes the plane shake in a way that is almost alarming, and the in-flight movie is My Best Friend's Wedding, which is horrible. Under normal circumstances, Hugh would be really annoyed right now, but today he just leans back in his seat and smiles happily to himself. He feels good, really good, and not just because he had really excellent sex the night before. He feels good because he feels calm, relaxed, confident he can handle the next few months and not go crazy.

And if he can't, well, he knows where to go.

Smalltown, for Queue

lamentables — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 07:20:56 GMT

For: qe2
Title: Smalltown
Fandom: Men With Brooms/Wilby Wonderful (Cutter/Duck)
Author: lamentables
Length: 1,800 words
Rating: mildly pornsome
Summary: There's only one good use for a small town: you hate it and you know you'll have to leave
Author's notes: Massive thanks to meresy and vsee for thoughtful commentary on the first draft and to china_shop for awesome nit-picking of the revised version.

When you're growing up in a small town
You know you'll grow down in a small town
There's only one good use for a small town
You hate it and you know you'll have to leave
- Lou Reed & John Cale

"Hey, MacDonald!" Cutter caught the door as MacDonald slammed out of the mostly empty
canteen. He watched MacDonald plunge headlong across the yard, heedless of puddles and
crates of discarded equipment. "Wait up!"

MacDonald paused at the fence and hooked his fingers through the mesh, head hanging.
Cutter strode after him, beer bottle still dangling loosely in his fingers.

They stood in silence for a while as Cutter drained the rest of the bottle. He didn't offer to
share. He'd never seen MacDonald drink and, in a place like this, any man who didn't drink
had to have good reason.

"You know, while I do admire your dedication to speaking the truth, I have to tell you that
you're not winning any friends in the Canadian oil industry, MacDonald."

"Yeah. Well." MacDonald shrugged, still not looking up.

"Why? Why'd you have to tell them it was you who made the complaint about Morley." Cutter
figured the guy for a loner, but this could make his life really tough.

"You can't let a drunk drive a 150 ton haul truck. And he's a mean drunk too."

"I didn't ask why you reported him. I asked why you blabbed about it. Learn to keep your
mouth shut, MacDonald." Cutter dug out a couple of cigarettes and handed one over.

---

Cutter looked at the stats again and sighed. The yield was down for the third week in a row,
which meant the writing was pretty much on the wall for this project. If he couldn't pull
something out of his ass in the next month, he'd better figure out which country he wanted to
not see much of next. Somewhere with sun would be good – Kuwait, Saudi Arabia – though
he'd be competing with half the engineers in the industry, the way OPEC was cutting back
production.

He rubbed at his eyes and decided to go check on the night shift over at the separation cells,
looking for inspiration. He stopped round the back of the plant, intending to have a quiet
smoke.

"MacDonald. Walter MacDonald. That new guy. Skinny. Don't say so much. Maritimer."

Cutter didn't recognise the voice, but he sure as hell recognised the tone and he didn't like it.

"Yeah, I know him. It's him that got Morley fired?" This voice Cutter did know. Jardine was
behind every kind of trouble that went down at the site. He did the stirring and the setting up,
but he was never there when the beatings happened or the goods got stolen.

"It's him. Told Pasternak he'd done it."

"Heard he's a faggot too." Shit. MacDonald's life could turn out even tougher than Cutter first
feared.

"Who told you that?"

"Johnny in payroll. Said that's how come MacDonald ended up here. Sent packing when his
Pop caught him going down on a guy." MacDonald had a beating coming; Jardine was going
to make sure of it. Cutter wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him, but he had to find a
way to help the guy.

"Figures. A faggot and a snitch. Probably hoping to get a raise by sucking some management
dick."

"Well he won't be sucking much after Morley and the boys have finished with him."

Cutter strode noisily round the corner. "Hey, fellas. Either of you got a light?"

---

"I want a word." MacDonald's voice was soft, as he slid his tray onto the table and sat down
across from Cutter. "Why'd you do it?"

"Couldn't help myself. Triumph of hope over experience." Cutter looked down at his plate.
"One day they might put actual meat in the food and I don't want to miss it."

"Jerk." MacDonald picked up his spoon, twirling it between his fingers. "Why'd you tell Jardine
and Butler that you reported Morley?"

"I did report Morley," Cutter deadpanned.

"Why?"

"He's a drunk. A drunk driving a 150 ton haul truck round an oil sands extraction site." He
sniffed dubiously at a forkful of stew. "Too many lives at risk. Not to mention the potential
property damage."

MacDonald tapped the spoon impatiently on the edge of the table. "Why did you tell them?"

Cutter shrugged. "You're new. Inexperienced. Thought I'd handle it for you." He shovelled up
more of his dinner. "Not bad, actually, the stew."

---

"MacDonald! Come with me." Butler and the other guys backed off, but made little attempt to
conceal what was going on. MacDonald stood where he'd been pinned against the massive
wheel of a haul truck and raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry gentleman, I hope it won't inconvenience you, but there's an urgent repair job needs
doing." Cutter strode off in the direction of his office, trying for exactly the right measure of
arrogant swagger, not daring to check that MacDonald was following.

He carried on past the weathered prefab that housed his office, towards the tailings ponds at
the edge of the site, not pausing until they were well out of sight of the plant. "Smoke,
Walter?"

"Duck." MacDonald spoke for the first time. "My friends call me Duck."

"Smoke, Duck?" Cutter held out the packet. "My friends call me Cutter. Everyone calls me
Cutter these days. My mother was the only one who called me Chris."

They smoked in silence, watching a skein of geese fly over the site. Cutter hadn't thought
beyond getting Duck away from the immediate danger, and he couldn't work out what came
next.

"Your mother. She died?" Duck squatted and pushed his cigarette stub into the grey earth.
Cutter nodded as Duck squinted up at him. "That when you came here?"

"No. I was doing this already. Needed a job that got me away from my dad. Wanted
something with travel opportunities. Sick of the small town thing." He surprised himself with
the mention of his father - it certainly wasn't part of his standard response.

"Not much different here. Everybody knows your business. Nowhere to hide." Duck
straightened up again, shoving his hands in his back pockets.

Cutter dug his heel into the oily mud, twisting it, watching the way it curled and clung to his
boot. "What about you? What are you running from."

Duck shook his head. "Not running." Cutter shot him a sceptical look.

"Just drifting. My dad died when I was a kid. I don't think anyone was sorry about that. He was
okay when he was sober, but so long as there was money he was drunk." He paused to light
another cigarette. "My mum was worn out by the time he died: too many crappy jobs and
night shifts. So there's just me; nobody to run from."

Duck's voice tailed off and he shrugged. Cutter stared down at his hands, rubbing at an old
scar, not interrupting.

"Running from the island maybe." Duck continued. "Looking for someplace where I fit in."

Cutter laughed. "What the fuck made you think you'd fit here?"

Duck smiled ruefully. "I'm here for the money. Six months working and keeping my mouth
shut and I'll have enough to get to the next place."

"And you're doing such an excellent job of keeping your mouth shut." Cutter caught himself
staring at Duck's mouth and looked away quickly. "Better be getting back, before someone
comes looking for you."

---

"So, why'd you need to run away from your dad?"

Cutter looked up from the production reports, and returned Duck's smile, pleased to see him
and pleased to see the coffee he was offering. "I was just…Christ, I didn't realise it was so
late." He tried to ignore the flush of warmth to his face. "Fuck. I really need a beer. But
coffee's good, thanks." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly adrift.

"Is he a drunk, your father?" Duck went on.

Cutter scrabbled for the familiar, anchored himself with his feelings for his father. "No, no. No
nothing like that. He's just an immature, commitment-phobic, controlling, emotionally-retarded
pain in the ass. And every minute I'm with him, I'm terrified that I'm just like him. Or if I'm not, I
will be."

Duck smiled. "I don't think so."

"You don't know me." Cutter was a scientist, always wary of confusing correlation and
causation. He re-examined the evidence and concluded – again – that Duck's smile was to
blame for the blushing and for the outbreak of butterflies in his stomach.

"I know you a little." Duck walked over to the door, closed and locked it, then turned and gave
Cutter a considering look. Cutter stared back, poised between caution and desire. In the end,
it was Duck's hand that made up his mind. He'd watched Duck's hands busy with cigarettes,
hooked in a mesh fence, but seeing that hand steady, curled around the door knob, made him
yearn to be touched. He clicked on the small desk lamp, walked over to where Duck waited,
and flicked off the buzzing fluorescent light.

"Yeah, I know you a little." Duck tilted Cutter's chin and then leaned forward to kiss him softly.

"You're not doing this to pay me back?." Cutter pulled back, suddenly cursed with guilt.

Duck looked down at himself. "Not obligation I'm feeling." He leaned in for another kiss, still
gentle, still questioning. Cutter pushed back in response, his tongue against Duck's lips, his
hands reaching for Duck's hips.

Duck held Cutter's face steady while his body pushed forward, dizzying Cutter with the
contact made and the possibilities withheld. "Still want me to keep my mouth shut?" Duck
whispered.

Cutter swallowed. "No. That wasn't what I had in mind." He closed his
eyes and breathed deeply as Duck rolled his hips. "God. Please."

Duck grinned and kissed him harder, opening his mouth, letting Cutter push in. He hung on to
Cutter's shoulders, biting at his neck and jaw, as Cutter unzipped their pants and fumbled his
hand around them both. Duck added his long fingers to complete the grip and together they
pulled and twisted until they both came. Urgently. Messily.

---

Duck ignored the rain and leaned on the fence next to Cutter, stealing the half-smoked
cigarette from between his fingers. "I'm leaving at the end of the month. Earned enough to get
me to the next place."

"Know where that is yet?" Cutter would miss Duck, but he'd be moving on soon as well. He
was hopeful about a couple of the job applications he'd sent off last week.

"Yeah." Duck flicked the butt into a puddle. "I'm going home. I think that's where I don't fit the
best."

We have nothing to touch this engine, for brooklinegirl

slidellra — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 00:53:27 GMT

For: brooklinegirl
Title: We have nothing to touch this engine
Fandom: My Life as a Dog, Johnny/Louis
Author: slidellra
Rating: porny
Prompt: "My Life as a Dog - Johnny/Louis. (anything at all, but Louis comforting Johnny after Zoe throws him out would be WONDERFUL.)" I figured BLG meant "Louis comforting Johnny with his penis," obviously.

Louis kisses Johnny maybe three minutes after stepping through the door to the caboose. Even tonight, with just the two of them, Johnny's wound tight, his words tumbling over each other and tangling up, and Louis sets a firm hand against his chest, puts the other to Johnny's cheek, and waits for Johnny to settle before kissing his chapped and parted lips.

Johnny kisses back right away, with a familiar rumbling pleased hum. Louis has always liked the way Johnny kisses, happy and hungry both, and he likes it even when Johnny opens wide, sticking his tongue crudely into Louis's mouth. It's an old joke from way back when they were little squirts practicing for girls, still gross and funny and hot, and they snicker into the kiss like little kids. Louis likes the way Johnny's eyes crinkle up at the edges now and the way Johnny twists them around on the couch, pushing Louis down half under him.

"Choo-choo," Louis sings, breathless under Johnny's hips and hands and lips, a much newer joke that earns Johnny's silent whole body laugh. Johnny's attempt at "chugga-chugga" comes out breathless and hiccoughing and then he's too busy getting his hot mouth on the skin of Louis's neck, on board this train and getting there fast.

Johnny sometimes laughs all the way through sex. He's easily distracted, loves to kiss and to watch and is proud as anything when he gets somebody off. Louis knows these things and a hundred more, and Johnny probably knows just as much about him. Johnny definitely knows how Louis likes Johnny on top of him, likes the lean surprising strength of Johnny's body. There was a time when Johnny winning a wrestling match, pinning Louis's wrists and holding him down, could trip Louis's adolescent hair-trigger.

Johnny uses that knowledge now, teeth sharp in his smile as he props himself over Louis on one hand and works himself slow against Louis's leg, slinky and hot while the rest of him stays laser focused on Louis, on Louis's slow, inevitable slide from turned on to desperate for it.

Louis's hands are already fumbling with his own zipper, then Johnny's, graceless, but the way Johnny arches fascinates him, slows him down enough to slide his hands down the back of Johnny's jeans to feel his ass flex.

"Mmm," Johnny husks, and kisses Louis again, and maybe they're two grown men making out and feeling each other up on a too-small, spring-sprung couch in a junkyard caboose in the backyard, but at the moment Louis thinks its impossible to feel better. Johnny's ass moves under his hands, their dicks slide against each other, oh god, better now that Johnny's shifted and gathered them up, directing them toward the best glide, the sweetest friction.

There isn't enough oxygen in the world as Louis pants, his stomach muscles shaking as he reaches up for Johnny's mouth and loses himself in more kissing, a perfect circle of shifting and thrusting and touching and good, yes, until Johnny bites Louis's lip and Louis has to come now, and he lets go of Johnny's ass and grabs his waist, gropes between them to help stroke them off.

It's clumsy and too dry with Louis's hands in the mix, so he curls up enough to spit in one palm and with that they slide better, Johnny grunting as he shoves into their hands.

Louis can feel Johnny's arm shaking as he holds himself up over Louis, their dicks curving up out of their pants and into their hands, Louis leading because Johnny's scattered, can't focus on a good rhythm, their boots and calves and thighs knocking and brushing against each other as they move, and here Louis can let himself moan and coax, let himself say, "Yeah, yeah, oh shit yeah, Johnny, like that, right there, so good baby yeah."

Johnny knocks Louis's hands away and drops his hips down hard, grinding and thrusting, fucking against Louis like he's inside. Louis's trousers and Johnny's legs have him trapped, but he arches his back and spreads his legs a bare centimeter more, giving Johnny everything he has, and Johnny catches his breath and then breathes out hard with a whine, his body a rigid line as he comes in short pulses over Louis's cock and stomach.

Louis lets him come down slowly, petting his hair and neck and just gently shifting himself against Johnny's softening cock and slick skin.

Johnny's eyes are indecent when he finally pulls back, sex drunk and pleased with himself, and Louis catches his face and kisses him again, wanting as much of this as he can get. Johnny makes that purring sound again, and Louis thrusts up harder, wanting more of that.

There's thin trails and puddles of come on his skin, and Johnny slides his fingers along it, half gathering and half rubbing in, the dark hair and pale come forming swirls together. Louis watches down their bodies, his hands still on Johnny's face, fingering his ear and damp hairline as Johnny touches his cock too gently to get him off, teasing and stroking and slowly building again.

Johnny's soft cock is hanging down, still plump, and Louis wants it in his mouth, wants everything at once. He tightens his fingers hard in the muscle of Johnny's shoulders and thrusts up, Johnny jacking him harder now, the dark glossy skin of Louis's dick sliding between Johnny's long fingers as Johnny urges him on in his low, raspy voice.

Louis catches the collar of Johnny's shirt in his mouth, sucking and dampening the fabric and it helps, every little bit helps, and when Johnny slides his thigh up a little more firmly between Louis's, when Johnny holds just the right rhythm for just long enough, Louis comes hard and good all over them, the sight of his come dripping down Johnny's slowing hand enough to keep him going a little longer, beautiful.

"Like the way you come," Johnny says, pressing a lazy kiss to the side of Louis's head above his ear.

"Jesus," Louis gasps, staring at the ceiling without a thought in his mind. After a minute he turns his head and there's Johnny's face, Johnny's forehead, Johnny's hand brushing his lips. Louis opens immediately, licking his come off Johnny's skin, sucking on a knuckle. He lifts Johnny's hand far enough away to focus on it, the damp streaks of saliva and come, the way Johnny's knuckles stand out and the thin ring of dark dried blood around the nail of Johnny's thumb. Louis nuzzles against Johnny's musky palm, smiling again at Johnny's muffled snorting laugh, far away and getting farther.

He wakes up with a jolt, the room too bright like somebody'd flipped a switch. Johnny's wedged into the back of the couch and Louis is just about falling off. Johnny's snoring, nature is calling and the caboose lacks certain amenities, so Louis eases off the couch and hauls his trousers up one-handed as he steps outside into the buggy hum of night. When he ducks back in the door a minute later, the room is still too bright and Johnny's sitting up, rubbing his eyes and yawning like he'll split his face open.

Louis just watches, amused by the contortions Johnny's got his face into, and when Johnny's done he does this shoulder wriggle, a one man wave, reflecting amusement back Louis's way. Johnny's back is an easy curve, his dick tucked away but his fly still wide open, and he looks a million times better, some of the real Slip magic back as he lifts an ankle over the opposite knee and starts pulling at his bootlaces.

Zippers down and boots on and coveralls gaping open in a corner of the shop, it's the way of things between friends like them. Louis tries to remember the last time he saw Johnny fully naked, wonders if they can get away this month, go fishing or something, get themselves all the way unzipped and stripped bare.

He's having a good little moment there by the door, thinking about Johnny laid out naked and hard when the real, mostly dressed Johnny asks, "You heading home?" casually to his own foot as he works on boot number two.

Louis should; he lives there. His life is there. But there are no deliveries in the book for tomorrow, no reason he can't open late. Johnny's lost the tense, bewildered look Louis hated on him earlier, but Louis knows from a lifetime's experience that he can get looser. And there's not much in the world as fine as Johnny Johannson when he's sitting right in his body, relaxed and easy and provocative to look at, unless it's the work it takes getting him that way, all the way.

It's no decision at all as Louis steps between Johnny's legs, gently knocking Johnny's knees farther apart and making a space for himself that conveniently puts his dick right by Johnny's face. Johnny tilts his head up, face a little brighter, and opens his hand, fingers splaying wide as his boot falls heavily to the floor.

Louis curls his fingers under his own shirt and ripe undershirt and pulls them up over his head in one go. He drops them back behind his shoulder even as Johnny's palms run up and down his back before slipping around to the front and his belly and where his dick is just beginning to plump up against his fly.

Come tomorrow, Louis is going to be sore in the good way, worn out and wrung fresh clean, and he's going to love Gimli just a little bit more than he did every day of his life before.

Come tomorrow or the day after that, Zoe's going to look twice and keep looking and Louis would bet five dollars Johnny's sleeping in the house before the week's out. Tonight, though, he and Johnny are heading fast into round two, and Johnny's wicked sexy eyes and hot happy wet laughing mouth are all for him.

[fic: and watch the clocking ticking slow, rated T. Last Night/Durham County, for waltzforanight]

inathunderstorm — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 20:22:39 GMT

Title: and watch the clock ticking slow
Author: sionnain
Recipient: waltzforanight
Fandom: Last Night/Durham County crossover
Genre: Future!Fic (in the sense that the "end of the world" happens after Durham County but before the events of Last Night), angst
Spoilers: None, I promise!
Characters: Patrick Wheeler, Sadie Sweeney (slight Patrick/Sadie; please note it's future!fic, so she's not underaged)
Rating: T
Summary: Two months before the end of the world, Patrick Wheeler meets a young woman in a tea shop. (Set pre-Last Night but post-Durham County: oh hai, handwavey time!)

AN: Thanks to akamine_chan for the awesome beta, and belmanoir for "Pharmageddon" and "Arma-Get-It-On". waltzforanight, I really hope you like this! Also I hope you don't mind the reshuffled time frame. I know it's bizarre, but this idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go, so I just went with it. :D? And um, I'm sorry it's--well, let's just say I'll write you something happy to make up for it, I PROMISE. Title from the song End of the World by Cold.

(and watch the clock ticking slow)

"It's Time I Had Some Time Alone" for exeterlinden

sageness — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 16:51:54 GMT

For: exeterlinden
Title: It's Time I Had Some Time Alone
Author: Sage
Fandoms: Last Night/Hard Core Logo
Pairing: Craig Zwiller/Joe Dick
Rating: Adult
Length: 3600~ words
Acknowledgments: Many thanks to petronelle for encouragement and beta.
Warning: (skip) apocalyptic doppelganger porn. Impending death soonish but not within the span of the fic.
Summary: Joe laughs, because the fucking world is ending and this guy sounds so petulant, so put out. So Billy.

It's a laugh. It's a fucking riot. End of the fucking world and Joe's stuck in fucking Ontario, unable to get a ride back to BC. Not that he has shit left in BC—Billy's in California, supposedly. Or maybe not. Maybe he's gone back to say goodbye to the family—but he sure as shit isn't returning Joe's calls. Fucking Billy.

He's wandering around T.O. looking for a store with some food left in it. Most places look emptied out but not looted like down in the States. In Canada, they've managed not to burn enormous swaths of big cities to the ground, like Los Angeles, which has been burning for over a month.

Joe still doesn't get why Billy chose Hollywood, chose Seymour Stein, chose Sire, over him. Joe doesn't know if Billy's still alive. Maybe he got killed in a riot. Maybe he's hanging with the sell-outs in Fiji. Maybe he's—

That's when Joe's head snaps up—a flash of orange, the distinctive shape of the back of Billy's head. Joe wonders if he's hallucinating. He might be, but he's already across the street, following. The bolts on the door of the liquor store are snapped—they probably were cut or torched weeks ago when the first panic struck. The store's a dark box, dusty light sifting in through the barred front windows. The beer cases are hanging open and empty. The rows of shelves are bare.

The guy—not Billy—almost Billy—the guy who looks more like Billy than Billy's own brother—he's climbing—scaling—the shelves behind the cash register and reaching for a dark box shoved far back against the wall at the very top. It looks like a gift box of Chambord or some shit. Too sickly sweet for Joe's taste. The kind of shit you use to impress a prairie girl who's never seen anything fancier than a bubba keg.

The guy didn't hear Joe come in. Joe just stands there watching him balance halfway up the shelf with one long leg braced on the empty cash register. Joe watches and can't help himself.

"So, if a guy was a complete asshole, he'd interrupt you right now."

"Holy Christ!" the guy yelps. His fingers slip on the box with the liqueur in it and it falls forward. The guy makes a high pleading noise and slaps it back onto the shelf as he half-falls, half-jumps down to the floor.

"Nice," says Joe.

The guy's eyes flash. "What the fuck, dude? You got a problem?"

The guy's eyes are yellow-green in this light—he's not as skinny as Billy. He doesn't have a guitarist's hands. Nice long fingers, yeah, but this guy isn't a musician.

His expression goes hooded, wary. Like he's just getting that he's in a vulnerable spot there, trapped behind the counter.

Joe puts on a fake smile and shrugs. "You looked like someone I know. That's all."

"Well, I'm not," the guy snaps.

Joe laughs, because the fucking world is ending and this guy sounds so petulant, so put out. So Billy. "I'm Joe." He jerks his chin up. "That raspberry shit is gross."

"Craig," Craig says with a glare. "Last bottle in the building."

"Last day on earth," Joe shoots back. "Damn near anything would taste better, though. You check the back room?"

Joe turns away with a flourish, stalks to the back and finds an empty steel display to prop open the storeroom door. There's even less light back here—only what filters through the wire-mesh transom window above the door to the alley. The room's a wreck.

Behind him, Joe hears Craig climbing the shelf again to retrieve the Chambord. Stubborn bitch, Joe thinks, amused.

Then the guy's in the doorway blocking at least half the light. "So, you, uh, find anything back here?"

Joe considers the guy's silhouette. "All I can see are empty boxes. Help me throw this crap out."

Craig holds his precious purple gift box to his chest.

Joe shakes his head in disgust. "Believe me; I won't take your fucking girly swill. Chill out."

After a second, the guy laughs nervously and sets the box on the desk next to the storeroom door. "Yeah, end of the world and—"

Joe throws a box at him. The guy shuts up and tosses it out into the space between two aisles.

Joe would settle for rum. He hates it, but he'd settle. He'd love a good whisky, but a crappy one would be okay. Bourbon or rye, too. Hell, gin would be fine. He's not angry enough for tequila, not anymore. Except when he starts thinking about Billy.

Vodka wouldn’t suck.

He finds a box with weight in it and bends down to pull the flaps open. It's like finding treasure at first, except shit. It turns out to be six bottles of margarita mix; no alcohol content at all. "Fuck," he mutters, and shoves the lot at the guy to clear out.

"Margaritas could be nice," the guy muses softly.

Joe wonders if it's as much an invitation as it sounds. "Does that mean you've got some tequila?" he asks.

The guy shakes his head. "Sorry. Not anymore."

"Everclear?" Joe tries.

"That would be a mean margarita." The guy smirks and his eyes do something almost flirty, definitely sexy, as he says it. "And no."

"Shame." Joe throws another box at him, and the look of surprise on the guy's face is so Billy just then that Joe waits for the automatic "fuck you" or "asshole" or even the old, impatient glare, and waits.

The guy's staring at him hard. "What?"

"Nothing." Joe finds another three empty boxes and kicks them at Billy. No, the guy. Whatever. The fourth has something in it.

Kneeling, Joe pulls out a pile of packing paper. "Oh, that's bullshit," he says as he unearths two five-pack gift sets of 50ml miniature alcohol bottles. The goods range from Jack Daniels to Baileys to cheap spiced rum. Less than two shots per bottle. "Ten of them," he says to the guy, holding up the holiday-embossed packages. Joe slides them over onto the desk next to the Chambord, and then tosses the guy the trash.

"That's something, at least," says the guy.

"It's bullshit," Joe repeats. "Half a liter of assorted crap that doesn't even mix? That's a stomachache waiting to happen."

"Huh." The guy's looking at him curiously now. "So…you said you followed me here because I look like somebody."

"What, you got a problem with me hunting some booze for myself? That's not hypocritical."

"Don't be an asshole," the guy says, and rips open a desk drawer. It's empty. He opens another. "I only meant are you going to tell me who I look like?" He doesn't look at Joe. The guy opens the center drawer. Joe sees some paperclips. Real helpful.

Joe uncovers a keg next. It's past expiration and would take hours to cool down enough to be drinkable. Warm bad beer versus assorted liquor…Joe's going to have to think about it.

A quick glance confirms the other boxes are empty. There's a single column of industrial shelving on the back wall—mostly keg taps, Molson coaster packs, and Budweiser t-shirts. Starting at the bottom shelf, Joe shoves stuff around, hunting hidden treasure. He has to climb up onto the keg to check the top shelf. "Not a goddamned thing," he says to the ceiling.

He doesn't see or hear the guy move, but Joe yells, "Shit!" in sheer terror when he feels a hand settle at the top of his left boot. He pivots around and finds the guy standing right there. For a second, Joe considers kneeing him in his pretty face, but he'd probably fall off the keg if he tried it. Besides, the guy's flashing a smile and shaking his head as he raises his hand to Joe's.

"Don't fall," he says, grinning.

Joe stares at him for a long appraising moment, and then lowers himself to sit on the deep steel rim of the keg. "Doesn't matter," Joe says.

The guy's eyes narrow. "Yeah, you're welcome," he says, and he's taking a half-step backwards. "Maybe I should've let you fall and brain yourself on the floor." He yanks his hand back, but Joe's grip is still firm; he can't seem to let go.

"Didn't mean that," Joe says, taking a breath. "I meant it doesn't matter who you look like; he's gone. And hell, we'll all be dead at midnight." Joe shrugs again, trying to shake off the thought of Billy, the way the touch of this guy's hand reminds him. Still, he lets himself look, and he sees the guy's looking too, and he's letting Joe hold on—more, he's letting Joe touch. He didn't even realize he'd been rubbing his thumb back and forth over the guy's smooth palm, his soft wrist, but he is.

"You wanna?" the guy murmurs. "While there's time?"

Joe's cock twitches and it's pure reflex that he squeezes the guy's hand. But he lets it go: the guy isn't Billy. Billy would never ask like that. Billy would tease with a smile, a wink, a significant bump of shoulders—or else he'd lick a stripe up the back of Joe's neck and tumble him down on the nearest bed/floor/sofa/whatever in a writhing heap of kissing thrusting fucking them.

Joe shuts his brain up. The sun's casting its too-bright light through the lone dirty window, and this guy looks so much like Bill Joe could hit him for it, for leaving, for all the time lost between them. The guy's standing almost between his thighs, where it's easy to slide fingertips down the front of the guy's pants, so he does. Joe traces the curve of a half-hard cock, and then does it again, feeling the way it fills and lengthens under his touch. "What do you do?" Joe asks, like the guy's a groupie or this is an ordinary cruise. Then he sees the brief flash of panic in the guy's eyes and has his answer. "You do chicks. Right."

"I—" the guy starts.

Joe keeps rubbing and squeezing the guy's dick through his thin pants, and the guy grunts something inarticulate. He's got to be painfully hard now, Joe thinks. His cock's about the size of Billy's, but not quite the same shape, a different girth.

"Please," the guy rasps out, tearing his orange shirt over his head and easing down his track pants. Joe lets go. He stands up, opens his own ratty jeans, and pulls his dick out. The guy doesn't waste any time. He shoves his pants down several inches, stroking his own cock, with his eyes on Joe's. The look in his eyes is a little wild.

Joe takes him by the wrists. "Get on your knees," he says in a low voice. The guy whimpers. "I'm going to show you this thing before we all die, all right? So keep your hands off your cock, eh?"

The guy braces against Joe's thigh and lowers himself to the dirty concrete floor. There's something avid in his expression, scared and hungry. Joe pushes back a memory of teenaged Billy; then he cups the guy's stubbly cheek and guides the tip of his cock left to right, painting a line of pre-come over his lips. "You've gotten blown plenty, right?" asks Joe.

"Sure," the guy says, and Joe hears the 'duh' behind the whispered syllable. He pushes forward into it.

"And you don't want the world to end without knowing what another guy's cock feels like. Tastes like." Joe pushes deeper. "Come on, man, suck it already. We both know you want it."

And the guy does, apparently. Now he's made up his mind, he's slurping and sliding down like he's sucking a popsicle. "Put a hand here," he says, guiding him to grasp just above his balls. "You don't have to choke yourself, just—that." Tongue, a tight grip, some suction, fuck yeah. The guy makes a pleased-sounding hum that sends a tremor through Joe. He's finding a rhythm, finally, and it's getting better. Joe could even come from this if he concentrated, since even bad head is still head; but he has an idea what would be better.

He pulls the guy off by his spiky blond hair. "Stand up." The guy does, wobbling a little, but his pupils are blown and his mouth is slack. He looks receptive to anything. The elastic waist of his pants is trapped around his thighs; he's still hard, at least. Joe tugs the fabric down further, finally toeing it to the floor. He spits on the guy's hard-on and jerks it fast. The guy puts a hand on Joe's shoulder to steady himself, and Joe sits further back on the keg for better leverage.

The guy's cursing, babbling; he sounds overwhelmed but he isn't protesting. And then the guy's spine flexes hard and he's yelling, "Oh, oh shit." Joe catches all the come in his hands and flashes back to doing this with Billy, maybe a hundred times or more over the years. No lube, or else too many homophobic shitheads around to risk getting caught owning any. The guy's clinging to Joe's shoulder, breathing hard, and saying "Jesus" over and over again. He hasn't caught up with the program.

"Here." Joe gets up and manhandles the guy down, his elbows braced on the top of the steel barrel. He cups the guy's balls with one hand, squeezing gently, and then dips a finger into his handful of jizz. Joe's not as hard anymore, which is a good thing since he's pretty sure he's got a virgin ass on a platter here, and damaging it won't actually bring Billy back. The first finger goes in all right, though. The guy moans like he's happy instead of freaking out, and he feels as soft as wet silk under Joe's fingertip.

Joe says something about getting the guy open wide as he adds fingers and spit and come. The guy moans. He's louder than Billy, and Joe gives it to him a little harder, faster. Maybe he's a natural, maybe he's had kinky girlfriends, maybe he has a thing for phallic vegetables, Joe doesn't care.

He spits into his hand to keep it slick and strips his dick. Billy, he thinks, and he can't wait anymore. He pulls apart the guy's hole with both thumbs and pushes the head of his cock to the opening. "Breathe and push back a little," he remembers to say, because it isn't Billy. Billy would be tugging him balls-deep already, but the guy whines and then gasps. It sounds like pain; it sounds like a guy who has no fucking idea what he's got himself into and doesn't know if he minds, yet. "Not too fast," Joe says, "give it a sec."

It's fucking surreal. It isn't a groupie or someone he cruised in a bar's back room: only a random dude out hunting for booze who decided he wanted to do a guy before the end. Joe eases forward, his thrusts short and as patient as he can make them, given that this is probably his last fuck ever. The back of the guy's neck—golden blond hair is short and soft against Joe's face when he leans forward to nuzzle and lick it. The guy cries out; Joe's all the way in. He didn't mean to go that fast but shit. The shoulders, the neck. "Billy," he says, "oh fuck, Bill." He pulls back and slams in, pulls back and—no, not Billy—there's a wail and more cursing and back-thrusts meeting his cock. His hands fast on the rim of the keg. Strong, flexing arms. A totally wrong tattoo. The smells of sweat, musk, spit, come. Joe's nearly there, nearly. Billy. Fucking Billy Tallent leaving him high and dry, and the world throwing this guy at him in the end. "Billy, I fucking need—" Joe pulls the guy up by the chest, kicks his feet apart and fucks harder, faster, his nose pressed hard against the nape of his neck.

Joe knows he'll never see Bill again, but he has this. He has this now. The guy says, "God—yeah," when Joe bites down, and Joe comes, squeezes the guy's hips hard so he won't fall over, but…fuck. "So fucking good," Joe slurs. Then he loses his balance and has to pull out. Not ready. Never ready. The guy grunts, pain again. Joe knows that sound, that feeling, but Joe's falling backwards, crashing into an empty box, flattening it under his ass. "Sorry," Joe says, and, "Ow."

The guy—not Billy—the guy with Joe's come inside him—starts laughing. "Graceful."

"Fuck you," Joe says automatically.

"You just did."

"Came my fucking brains out, too." Joe squints up at the guy and tries to remember his name. Greg, maybe? Or Craig. Yeah, that was it, he's pretty sure. "You okay?"

Craig shrugs. "That was intense."

Joe raises his eyebrows, wonders if there's an insult on the way. Craig shakes his head, shakes out his body like a dog getting dry. "Good intense?" Joe says, making it sound like a foregone conclusion.

Craig grins down at him. "Yeah, thanks."

Joe snorts. "Real hardship, can't you tell?"

"Hey, can I?" Craig's on his knees again. His pants are pulled up but hanging low on his hips, and he's crawling over to straddle Joe's legs. Joe should put his dick back in his pants, he thinks, but the guy's leaning in, taking a kiss, taking Joe by surprise.

It's a soft, affectionate kiss, long, and it says a lot in its gentle insistence, with the searching tongue and the hand in his hair. It says a lot in its sadness, too, and in—maybe in understanding some of what Joe has lost.

Or maybe that's load of bullshit. A flagrant act of wishful thinking, a lot like mistaking a guy on a street in Toronto for—

"I have to get back," Craig says after a minute, his lips against Joe's cheek. Joe nods dumbly, and then lets Craig heave him to his feet so they can both find their clothes and brush off the dust.

Joe won't say goodbye; he can't. He says, "Have a drink with me?" and opens one of the mini bottle gift packs. Joe takes vodka. Craig takes rum. Joe stifles a sigh for Craig's lack of taste, but at least it means one less bottle of shit he can't stand in his jumbled collection. They twist off the tops and pour the contents down their throats.

Craig's throat, swallowing, reminds him of Billy.

There's nothing else to say. The last kiss tastes disgusting, despite being almost chaste.

Joe watches Craig take his box of raspberry liqueur and pass through the storeroom door without looking back. Billy would, if desperate enough, absolutely stoop to Chambord. He hears the front door scrape open and shut.

"Fuck," Joe whispers to the empty room.

Maybe now he'll go find a phone and check his messages. He can pretend for another minute that the day isn't the very definition of futility.

Except, well, Billy. He thinks about the tight, slip-slick grip of Craig's ass around his cock. That was, what, fifteen minutes ago? And what the fuck is he supposed to do now, alone in the back room of a deserted liquor store? There are only a few more hours to kill. He should find a guitar, a phone, a fucking sandwich.

Joe gathers his bottles: eight left. With any luck it'll be enough to take the edge off the horror that this is the way the world ends, and he's here to see it.

He has to at least look. He has to. So he wanders out into the main room of the store and finds a telephone behind the counter. He lifts the receiver and, to his surprise, gets a dial tone; then he dials the number to his answering machine and mashes in the code to play messages. The machine beeps and clicks, the tape whirs, and finally the mechanical voice intones, "There are no new messages."

Fucking Billy. Joe's stomach growls. He grabs a plastic shopping bag from under the counter and goes back to the storeroom to retrieve his eight remaining bottles.

The sunlight pouring in the dingy transom window has grown impossibly brighter, and it stops Joe at the desk, where he slumps, barely able to breathe. He imagines the leaden weight of the sun crushing him. Them. Everyone. He knows in his heart that it's over: Billy would've found him, would've called him back by now, if only to joke that he'd look for him later, in hell, heh.

Joe should find a notebook and pen, a radio, a better place to kick the bucket. He should get up off of this desk. He bags his little bottles, thinks they're like little soldiers all in a row. A few bars of "Something's Gonna Die Tonight" mumble-hum from his mouth, but the irony isn't funny now. It should be, but all he can think of are Billy's callused fingers, firm and sure, on the strings of his guitar and in Joe's mouth.

The thought occurs that if he goes outside, he'll get rolled for the little soldiers, and fuck that. He's cool with where he is, at least until he's halfway to plastered. Eight more shots might get him there, might get him close. Then, then, he can go. Joe chooses a small clear bottle at random and unscrews the cap.

[two supplicants and outcasts, slings and arrows, for sageness]

inathunderstorm — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 15:07:22 GMT

Title: two supplicants and outcasts
Author: sionnain
Recipient: sageness
Fandom: Slings and Arrows
Pairing: Geoffrey/Darren
Rated: T for Teen
WarningsP Gratuitous 80's cartoon jokes, and I may possibly be blaspheming Greek theatre. :D? Sorry, Aeschylus!
Summary: Darren Nichols' Tragedy for Tots Troupe performs Aeschylus' Oresteia at a park in New Burbage. Geoffrey doesn't have the willpower to stay away. Set pre-series, 1989/1990.

AN: sageness, I really, really hope you like this! Thanks very much to petronelle and spuffyduds for the fantastic betas! The title is from Aeschylus' Agamemnon. Oh, my classics professors would be so proud of me.

two supplicants and outcasts.

"Rock 'n' Roll Suicide, a Rolling Stone article on Hard Core Logo" for spuffyduds

exeterlinden — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 11:39:50 GMT

For: spuffyduds
Title: Rock 'n' Roll Suicide, a Rolling Stone article on Hard Core Logo
Fandom: Hard Core Logo, implied Joe/Billy
Author: exeterlinden
Lenght: 4000 words
Rating: NC-17 for violent imagery

Summary: Joe Dick, punk rocker and front man of the moderately succesful Hard Core Logo, shot himself on December 5th, 1995. On tape. Following director Bruce MacDonald's controversial decision to cut and release his movie documenting the last weeks of Dick's life, Rolling Stone offers you an in-depth look into the life of Joe Dick and Hard Core Logo...

Disclaimers: I own absolutely nothing, except a great love of the movie Hard Core Love and the magazine Rolling Stone.

Author's notes: This story is available in JPEG, PNG and BMP format. I have also uploaded a text-only RTF file. Let me know if you need another format :) A huge thank you to the people who looked this over at some point in the proces: shayheyred, dinkit and malnpudl - and to sionnain for providing awesome beta and encouraging words \o/

Warning: Large images under the cut, for those of you with dial-up.

BMP and RTF format download @ sendspace here : hxxp://www.sendspace.com/file/yifyuq

PNG and RTF format download @ sendspace here: hxxp://www.sendspace.com/file/7xtyti

ETA: to fix HTML code.Sorry, guys :S

"Duck's Tale, or How Life Came to Be" for sam80853

tharaist — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 10:58:18 GMT

Title - Duck's Tale, or How How Life Came to Be
Author - Tharaist
Fandom - Wilby Wonderful, written for sam80853
Rating - R
Length - 1300 words
Beta - A big thank you to isiscolo for beta!
Summary - Set pre-movie. Duck MacDonald has always liked the Watch and the quietness there.

 Duck's Tale, or How Life Came to Be   

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea 
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night 
Covers the days which never more return?

Oscar Wilde   

When he was a kid, Duck used to sit on the rocks at the Wilby Watch and stare at the sea. He would stay in the same spot for hours, thinking about things. Mostly he thought about growing up, focusing so hard on making it happen that sometimes his whole body was sore from the effort. He wasn't destined to be short, he wasn't, no way. Sometimes Duck would bring a sketchbook and draw random things he noticed - pieces of driftwood, wild flowers, twisted candy wrappers in a puddle. He didn't think he was any good, but it helped him see things more clearly.

Duck also thought about his family: how his mom and dad could not stop arguing about him and money and whatever random thing of the week. He could hear it all in his mind, like it was on repeat.

"I'm telling you, Mary, the boy is a daydreamer and he needs a firm hand. Walter should be doing his chores, not disappearing for hours on end. God knows what he does -- Milton says he sits at the Watch like a retard staring at nothing."

"For heaven's sake, Bill, he's twelve. He just happens to like the Watch. He's not an idiot."

"No, Mary, you should stop encouraging him. Doodling things will get him nowhere."

"You let him be, Bill, just leave him alone. He deserves to have some fun in a while."

"Life is not a holiday. He needs to earn his keep. And let me tell you, I bet that's why he's so short, he needs to exercise more to be able to grow, he needs--."  

Hell, Duck could quote his father on all the things that were wrong with him. Sometimes, Duck would do things at home -- like stare at the wall -- just to irritate the mighty Bill MacDonald, who did not believe in any form of idleness. Even his hands were in constant movement, twisting madly while he lectured Duck about how he should be more active.  

"I'm saying, son, that dreamers have never accomplished anything in this world. You need to work every day, you hear me, get up and do things, not just sit there."  

***  

Later, when Duck finally grew up, he would still go to the Watch, sit and have a smoke. Dad was long gone -- heart attack in the middle of heavy labor. So typical of him. When Duck saw his lifeless body in the casket, he had to close his eyes for a moment, because his father was finally still, so still, his hands like wax, as if they had never moved at all.  

Duck remembered the old times. Sneaking around the Watch with Sam Wheeler and a bottle of vodka. Getting an unsuccessful hand job from Missy Johnson, her pink dress, the way she kept giggling and biting his neck and how he could not relax because it felt so weird. Her face later on in school, the combination of regret and pity clear before it turned into anger. Jerking off to Sandra and Buddy making out in the woods, and later on, watching Buddy's sweaty and blushed face. Watching him bite his lower lip when Sandra sucked his cock. That image had haunted him for a long time. Until he was sure about himself. Sam's fist punching him in the face when he suggested -- it. Feeling Mr Janicek's hands on his hips while he was fucked for the first time. Throwing up afterwards. Pain and regret, his mother's tears, leaving the island after graduation, open road and the rest.  

Several years full of blurry images followed: Duck escaped reality to the bottle, and vodka was his best friend. Getting fucked by strangers in random cities of the mainland. The way he would push himself against the wall to be filled by anyone. Wishing they would take away the emptiness and longing.  

There was Jack of course, sweet Jack who saved him for a time. Jack, who said, "Hey, you wanna come to stay at my place for a while?", and touched his shoulder after a random encounter in the Beacon club.  

"Come, now, I'll make you some soup."

  Something in Jack's eyes, the way he seemed so nervous and confident at the same time made Duck contemplate the offer.

"Yeah, what kind of soup?"

  "Borscht, like my grandmother used to make. She taught me her secret recipe when I was a kid."  

Duck thought about it for a moment, looking at Jack. Finally, he agreed: "Okay. Well, I guess I could come."  

Duck ended up staying for a while. Jack lived in a crappy apartment in Toronto, and Duck did odd jobs in the neighborhood. Jack kept him off booze and painted countless pictures of him. They drank tea from chipped red mugs Duck found at the flea market, and Mrs Ekdahl next door baked them oatmeal raisin cookies as a thank you for feeding her cat when she was away. They would stay up all night and listen to the rain, staying close in the warm bed. Occasionally they fought, but it was a good thing they had going.   It lasted for three years before everything turned to shit again. Duck wasn't sure why, maybe their relationship had just run its course. They were better off as friends, anyway.  

***  

Duck returned to the island afterward. Maybe he had finally made peace with things, because Wilby felt more like home now than ever it did in his childhood. He had missed the quietness. He had missed the Watch, how sitting there set his mind at ease. Even in the winter, in the darkness and snow, he went there and let his mind wander.  

In the summers, Duck would sometimes go to the Watch on certain nights and maybe he found some company there upon occasion. He stayed away from Mr Janicek. He stayed away from the wide-eyed kids who were so eager for it, refusing to corrupt their innocence. Mostly, he kept to himself and watched how men from the island found release with one another. And if one night, he saw the owner of the new video store there, he kept his mouth shut and kept on watching. Because Dan Jarvis, there was something special about him, how he was so quiet and still. He did not make a sound when he climaxed. The look in his eyes when he walked away was full of so much pain that it made Duck shudder. He had once been that full of pain himself; he knew how a man could drown in the feeling of regret, loneliness and desire. How it could twist you. Dan Jarvis and his impossible needs, his miserable marriage and the video store. Duck saw it all already. He knew.  

***  

A few days later, Duck paused outside the video store, took a breath and stepped inside.   He walked to the counter, put on a smile, and gave his hand to the man standing behind the cash register. "Hey, there. Welcome to Wilby. I'm Duck."  

"Hello. I'm... Dan, Dan Jarvis. Hmm. Thanks."  

"I do odd jobs around the island. So if you need a hand with anything --" He waved his hand around the store.  

"Oh, okay." Dan looked flustered and little shy, but the pain was still there in his eyes.  

"Well, I guess I'll see you around."  

"Yes, see you."  

You will, Duck thought to himself later. There was something about Dan.

Something worth watching.   </div>

"Two loves I have of comfort and despair" for sionnain

petronelle — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 10:42:46 GMT

For: sionnain
Author: petronelle
Title: Two loves I have of comfort and despair (Reference) (18,000 words)
Fandom: Slings & Arrows
Summary: Darren Nichols directs Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus at Theatre Sans Argent Redux and raises hell along the way.
Pairing: Geoffrey/Ellen, Geoffrey/Darren
Rating: Adult
Notes: Thanks to Carla, Belmanoir, and Jamjar for pre-reading, and to Sage for tireless and thorough beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are, as ever, mine.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair

"Double Luck" for slidellra

china_shop — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 06:28:08 GMT

For: slidellra
Title: Double Luck
Fandom: Double Happiness
Author: china_shop
Rating: G-rated
Length: 1900 words
Beta thanks: Many many thanks to stickmarionette and isiscolo for beta.
Summary: Set post-movie. Jade tries to make sense of her place in the world. I was a small cloud in the vastness of the sky — I could evaporate any time or dissolve into rain, and no one would notice.

Double Luck

On Wednesday afternoon I waited outside Pearl's school. There were crowds of children, and at first I was weirdly afraid I wouldn't recognise her or she wouldn't see me, but then her face came into focus, and my heart thumped hard against my ribs.

She was talking to two friends, laughing. One of them saw me and elbowed her. When Pearl looked at me, her face went blank. She touched her friend's arm to say goodbye, and then came over. I wanted desperately to hug her, but she made no move to touch me.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"Are you coming back?"

"No."

"Well." She watched the stream of children rushing past, a United Nations of adolescence.

"Why do seagulls fly over the sea?"

"I don't know." She looked at me reluctantly.

"Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bagels."

She almost smiled. "Have you seen Winston?"

I nodded. "Yeah, he brought me a fern for my apartment, in a gorgeous dark red plant pot." Questions flickered across her face, but she didn't ask them. We're both like Dad, in our own ways. "Is Uncle Ah Hong still staying?"

"He left last week." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I wish he hadn't gone. He was fun, and he was the only one who talked to me for three days after."

I had a candy bar in my pocket, but I couldn't give it to her. "Come to dinner on Friday," I said instead. "I'll invite Winston, too."

She frowned. "What do I tell Mom?"

"I don't know. Tell them you're going to Claire's." I felt like a ghost, trying to talk to her. My words were weak. "I'm sorry."

She looked away again. The other children had mostly gone. The sun was shining. She wiped her eyes with her fingers. "Where?" she asked, and I gave her my address.

"It's not far, but I can pick you up here, if you like."

She didn't say if she'd come. I folded my arms to keep from hugging her.

"Please," I said. A ghost can't afford to be proud.

* * * * *

I cut myself free, set myself adrift. I was a small cloud in the vastness of the sky — I could evaporate any time or dissolve into rain, and no one would notice. The world doesn't care about individual clouds. It doesn't give them names.

Mom called every Saturday while Dad was gardening. She asked how I was and if I was "still seeing that gwai lo." She thought Mark was the reason I moved out, and there was no way to explain that it wasn't him. It was me.

I sat on my thrift-store couch and poked the fresh orange walls with my toes. I clutched the phone and tried to explain the world from the perspective of a cloud, but she couldn't hear me. She told me how Dad was, what they had for dinner, the latest gossip from Mrs. Mar, how my sister was doing at school.

On the third Saturday after I moved out, when we'd done talking, I hung up and cradled the phone in my lap, as if holding it would bring her closer to me. We used to talk across the kitchen, across the dinner table. Now our words were trying to bridge the gap from earth to sky, and nothing I said was weighty enough to make the journey. Most of what we said was snatched away by the wind.

I'd thought it would feel normal to move out and live in an apartment like everyone else. I thought I'd be carefree and independent, with ordinary preoccupations — rent and boys and work. And sometimes it was like that. I stood in my kitchen and looked at the stack of mismatched plates on the shelf and the three drinking glasses on the draining board, and Mark put his arms around me, and for a moment I forgot that I was in danger of evaporating or blowing away.

I didn't regret it. There was no point regretting it.

I couldn't forget it.

* * * * *

After I saw Pearl, I met Mark near the university campus and we went to his favourite bookstore. He wanted a new volume on literary criticism that he needed for his thesis, and I was looking for a birthday card for my father. I wanted something Dad would like and that also reflected my life now, but when I scanned the rack, there were only photos of dogs wearing party hats, a middle-aged white man blowing out candles on a cake, cartoons of golf clubs and cars and bottles of beer.

Mark came over with three books in his hand — the lit crit, a detective story and a French novel — and looked over my shoulder. His glasses made thick black lines around his eyes, keeping them apart. "So, Barney said if I don't finish my next chapter by the end of next week, he's going to lock me in my office till it's done."

I paused, a painted seascape in my hand. "Wasn't it due in two weeks ago?"

Mark grinned and winked at me. "I got distracted."

"Won't you—" get in trouble? I didn't say it. It was his world; he knew the rules. "I have an audition on Friday," I told him instead. "For a horror movie." I put my hands to my cheeks and widened my eyes like Munch's Scream.

"I'll drive you," he offered instantly, and I almost stepped away.

"You don't have to. What about your thesis?"

"I can write in the car while I'm waiting." He really seemed immune to his supervisor's threats. I guess supervisors are different from fathers.

"Okay." I glanced at the card in my hand. The sea was littered with yachts. "None of these are right," I told Mark. "I need one that says I'm an independent adult and I'm not sorry that I left but I still love you. Not that he'll open it."

Mark took the card and studied it. "So why send it?"

I plucked it from his hands and put it back on the card rack. "Because I have to."

* * * * *

The audition was in a warehouse by the railway yard. There was a dirty makeshift room where fourteen girls, including me, waited to be called. Eleven of them were white. A couple of them were reading magazines, three had books and one was turning a packet of cigarettes over and over in her hands. The rest of us fidgeted with our purses and our clothes, and we all looked up every time the casting assistant walked through.

I sneezed and a girl with dark red hair offered me a tissue.

"Thanks."

"It's freezing in here."

"Yeah."

The assistant came back, looking harassed, and said, "Hi," to get our attention. "The director's running late and it looks like we won't be getting started till about three-thirty. Sorry for the inconvenience. There's a phone you can use by the door if you need to make any arrangements, but please don't leave. Our timetable isn't set in stone."

Shit! I grabbed my purse and went over to her as she was leaving the room. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Don't go too far," she warned. "We're looking for three girls, and the director's specifically asked for some ethnic diversity."

"No, I won't. I'll just be a second." I ran outside, down the rusty iron staircase and over to Mark's car. He was leaning back in the driver's seat with his eyes closed. The new lit crit book lay open in his lap. I got into the passenger seat and closed the door.

He opened his eyes. "How'd it go?"

"There's been a hold up."

"Your money or your life." He held his hand like a gun.

"Either," I said. "Both. Listen, my sister's going to be waiting for me outside her school in an hour, and the auditions haven't even started yet, and there's fourteen of us."

"I'll go get her."

"Are you sure? Just take her to my place. I can get a cab."

"I'll get her," he repeated.

I leaned across and kissed him. It wasn't enough, but it was all I had right then. "Thanks."

* * * * *

"Jade Li?" The casting director was a tall thin black man with dreadlocks and a serious expression. He flicked through a pile of papers on his table, extracted my photo and put it on top.

"Yes. Hi." I sat down and set my purse on the floor against the leg of the chair. I smiled.

"I'm Graham. What we're looking for, for this part, is an innocent quality. An ingénue. You wake up in the middle of the night and go into your kitchen to get a drink, and you're surprised by a vampire at the window. You scream and he attacks. Can you scream?"

"Uh, yeah." Are there people who can't scream? But then, I'd been sitting in the room next door for over an hour, and only about half the girls had screamed loud enough for me to hear.

I stood up and schooled myself to look naïve. A video camera watched me with its one impassive eye.

"I'll read the description," said Graham's assistant, and she immediately began to recite the script without any nuance.

Graham gestured for me to act in response, and I thought of the brutal strength of violent men and monsters. My scream was as loud and long and terrified as I could make it.

Graham narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "That's good. Try it again — this time, you're cornered in your bedroom, and a vampire is coming towards you, its wizened creaking hands grasping—"

I screamed before he could finish.

He laughed, and it completely changed his demeanour. Now he looked friendly. I relaxed.

"Okay, good." He pushed his dreadlocks out of his eyes. "Very nice. Now try this—"

* * * * *

By the time I stumbled outside, the sky was growing dark and my throat was raw. I was on the street and walking away from the building, full of the delight of an audition gone well, before I realised I'd forgotten to call a cab. I stopped, then turned to go back inside and use the phone.

Behind me a car horn beeped. "Jade!"

Mark waved to me and I ran over. "Where's Pearl?" I asked hoarsely, and then saw that she was in the passenger seat beside him. She looked okay. She looked happy.

She said, "What does a termite say when it walks into a barroom?"

"Uh, is the bar tender here?" said Mark.

I groaned dramatically and bundled myself into the back.

"How was it?" asked Mark.

"It was eighty percent screaming. If they're assigning parts based on how sore our throats are, I'm playing the lead," I whispered. "They said they'd call tonight."

"You got it," said Pearl, positively. "You've got the best scream out of anyone I know."

"You haven't heard mine," Mark told her. "Why do they put bells on cows?"

"I don't know," said Pearl. "Why do they put bells on cows?"

In the gloom of the car, I could hardly see their faces. We might as well have all been ghosts or clouds. The car could have spun out into space and no one would know.

"Their horns don't work," said Mark.

I laughed, despite myself. We all laughed. I reached forward and wrapped my arms around Pearl's shoulders and hugged her.

END

The Canadians Are Coming! \o/ \o/ \o/

mergatrude — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 04:43:55 GMT

Hi! Welcome to the C6D Fic Exchange of \o/! Posting is now open!

Please note: I will post a round up of stories to ds_noticeboard on Monday.

Countdown to AWESOME!

mergatrude — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 00:53:53 GMT

midsummer2009 fics start getting posted in a little over 48 HOURS! \o/

Stories may be posted any time from Friday, August 7th through Sunday, August 9th! You post right here to this community! Please note: You need to join the community in order to be able to post to it.

When you post:

Please put your recipient's LJ name in the subject line.

In your header for the story, please include:

Your recipient's LJ name
Title
Fandom (and pairing, if applicable)
Your LJ name
Rating
Summary and/or prompt

As always, please cut tag the story.

Let me know here if you have any questions! YAY FICS!

Twelve days until you can post your stories. \o/

mergatrude — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 05:30:04 GMT

David Sandstrom is working out how long it will take him to sleep with every adult in North America.

How are your stories going? Need beta? Check the beta call post.

And please, please let me know this week if you can't finish your story in time for the posting date.

Half-way Mark!

mergatrude — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 02:24:48 GMT

Don is wondering if you're writing about him.

Beta call

mergatrude — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:01:27 GMT

Hi everyone!

Please comment here if you are able and willing to beta C6D stories, including what movies/shows you are familiar with, and the best way to contact you.

Assignments are out!

mergatrude — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 04:59:53 GMT

Hi everyone!

I have emailed seventeen assignments to the following seventeen wonderful people:

atrata
brooklinegirl
china_shop
clionaeilis
eviltwin
exeterlinden
lamentables
lucifuge5
petronelle
qe2
sageness
sam80853
sionnain
slidellra
spuffyduds
tharaist
waltzforanight

If you did not get your assignment, email me at midsummerc6d@gmail.com.

If you believe you have signed up and your name isn't on this list, email me at midsummerc6d@gmail.com.

Reminders

The rules are here.

The "Dear Santa" letter post is here.

Posting dates are Friday 7th August to Sunday 9th August.

I am on GMT+10:00 (about 15 hours ahead of Chicago time), so I may not respond to your emails immediately.

HAVE FUN!!!!!!

Sign-ups are now closed!

mergatrude — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 05:49:38 GMT

We have some great requests! I'll get to work on those assignments right away.

Reminder!

mergatrude — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 03:48:12 GMT

There's just over 24 hours to sign up for the C6D Fic Exchange of \o/.

Come and have fun! Canadian-type fun!