hallys_hundred

#5-Lasts: J/I

2007-03-22T07:23:14Z

Title: Longevity
Fandom: Torchwood
Paring: Jack/Ianto
Summary: Four Part Series: Gwen stumbles upon one of Jack’s alien toys that is much more than it appears to be before getting a crash course in real time and alternate universe travel.
Prompt: Lasts.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own the television series Torchwood, I don’t even live in the UK.
AN: First Torchwood fic. To be safe spoilers for season one, taking place some time between episode eight and nine. Will get darker as we see more of Jack and Ianto.
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Longevity

Gwen was seated at her workstation alternating between researching the latest lead on a series of inexplicable deaths in the Cardiff Bay area and nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee. Earlier that morning, Jack had instructed Gwen to give the case top priority and report back to him as soon as she found anything interesting. Along side Gwen was Tosh, busy running translations on the archaic markings found engraved into each of the victims’ skulls. Owen was down in the autopsy bay processing the bodies and was currently fiddling with one of his broken novelty pin that had somehow managed to pop off his lab coat and fall into one of the victim’s open wounds. So far, the long lists of possible suspects had lead Gwen down a long thread of time, tracing all the way back to a Jack Hamilton who had been arrested in early 1957 on four counts of second degree murder.

That is where the timeline abruptly stopped. After two hours of searching through online databases and the Cardiff Police archives did Gwen finally track down the origins of their killer.

Her hand moved from the computer mouse, wide eyes transfixed on the name and date highlighted on her monitor, to grab a pen and paper. She blindly searched for the small pad of post-its she usually kept next to her mouse pad. For a moment, Gwen fumbled around, fingertips skimming the cold surface of her metal desk. When she felt nothing beneath her hand she finally gave up the tactile exploration and turned to see that the stack of post-its was missing.

“Owen,” Gwen muttered under her breath as she glanced at Owen’s desk. The workstation in question was littered with folders and the neon pink post-it’s literally decorated every manila surface and available loose sheet of computer paper. One had apparently made its way to the back of Owen’s chair; its simple purpose appeared to be labeling the item as “Owen’s Throne.” Gwen rolled her eyes, disgusted by the thought that this man had once upon a time seen her naked, and turned to ask Tosh for a spare pad of post-its. Gwen paused mid turn when she saw the other woman furiously scribbling tiny notes, glancing back and forth between a notepad, digital pictures of the markings, and her own translation algorithm. Gwen decided it would probably be easier to just ask Jack for an extra post-it pad and inform him of her find all in one trip. After all, Jack had been barricaded in his office since lunchtime, calculating a backlog of expenses that Torchwood had accumulated over the past two years and using Ianto as a type of human calculator as well as caffeine supply.

Gwen was certain Jack would enjoy a diversion. Or at least she was certain that he would be happy to see a fresh, happy face, one that was apt to display emotion unlike their ever-stoic coffee-boy, Mr. Jones.

Only after draining her mug of cold coffee in one gulp did Gwen quickly make her way across the hub to Jack’s office. Her hand was against the door before her feet. She knocked once with just the knuckle of her forefinger. The soles of Gwen’s tennis shoes squeaked underfoot as she came to a halt in from of the closed door. The sound bounced off the metallic surfaces surrounding her before falling silent. There was no response from inside the office.

“Jack?” She knocked again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and leaning against the doorframe. “Ianto?” When she heard nothing, Gwen reasoned that the pair must have slipped down into Jack’s spare room to rescue the remaining bills and documents necessary. Gwen slowly opened the door and slipped inside, closing it behind her with a quiet sound of metal slipping against metal. The odd scent of aftershave hung thick in the air as if Jack had recently broken a bottle inside the room or had simply lost his mind that morning and slathered on its entire contents. Her eyes began to water as the potent smell circled her, pulling open her lungs and filling them with the musky scent of amber liquid. Sputtering and squinting through her wet eyelashes, Gwen zeroed in the disaster zone that camouflaged Jack’s desk into a mountain of paperwork.

She moved a few stacks of rather important looking documents and beneath a pale pink plastic folder full of blank sliver paper, she found a perfectly square block of acid green post-it notes. The paper was thick and of surprisingly high quality, in fact Gwen was sure that she had never seen that particular hue of green before, ever, let alone in post-it note form. Nevertheless, she pulled out one of Jack’s old fountain pens and scribbled a note to Jack.

Captain,

Traced the murders back to a Jack H., arrested in 1957 on four separate counts of second-degree murder.

-Gwen

The nail of her right finger dragged along the adhesive strip, sticking once before she finally pulled off the post-it from its stack. Gwen’s hand was poised to stick the note on the top of one of the documents concerning the cost of removing a large magenta colored stain on the front of Cardiff City Hall, when she noticed all the other brightly colored post-its. Despite the livid color of her particular post-it note, Gwen was certain that Jack would not notice it amongst the sea of other pretty colored pieces of paper. The brittle nail of her thumb caught between the gap in her front teeth as she anxiously chewed at the ragged cuticle, leaning against the edge of Jack’s desk.

“The door,” she whispered to herself with a pleased smile, pushing away from the desk and carefully sticking the post-it note to the office door. The piece of paper was situated directly in the middle of Jack’s office door so that whenever he and Ianto came back up for air they would notice it right away. A tapered finger traced the outline of the post-it as Gwen smoothed down the note. Satisfied with her work, Gwen slipped the pad of post-its into the back pocked of her jeans. With one hand she turned the doorknob and stepped across the threshold.

A sudden pressure constricted her chest, smothering her and pushing every last ounce of oxygen from her lungs. Gwen felt the burn tear its way like napalm and quicksilver up her throat before settling with a deep buzzing at the base of her skull. The sickening sound of joints popping and veins shredding exploded in her ears. Her body felt as if it was being pulled apart, every molecule rebelling against nature and just when she felt as if she were about to break it stopped. As soon as Gwen could breath again the first thing she noticed was the overpowering scent of Jack’s aftershave had disappeared, replaced instead by the familiar sweet smell of lilac and lavender perfume. It reminded her of the old fragrance her Gran used to wear.

“Is the pinstripe too much?” A very thick, more so than she had ever heard before, Welsh accent rang in her ears as if it were the first sound she had heard in a decade. Gwen looked up from the posh hotel carpeting beneath her new black heels, her lips falling open and eyes wide, to see a bright eyed Ianto Jones modeling an impeccably tailored, three piece, pinstripe suit that definitely did not fit in with his usual contemporary style. Even in the dim electric light, Gwen could see that there was something distinctly ‘old’ about the cut of the suit.

Every last warning siren was going off in Gwen’s brain, instructing her to simply play along until she knew exactly where she was, what was going on, and more importantly when she was.

“Ianto,” Gwen breathed his name, grasping hold of the one thing she knew for certain. She took a step closer to the young man as his brilliant smile faltered. Ianto collapsed in a heap onto one of the twin beds with a pout. Gwen could not remember the last time she saw the petulant, playful expression cross Ianto’s face.

“Is that a yes then, because I really rather liked this suit.” Ianto’s long tapered fingers ran down the sleek fabric of his labels. The young man leaned back onto his elbows along the twin bed and crossed on leg over the other as he cocked an eyebrow. There was something luxurious about Ianto’s body language that suggested a certain level of familiarity with Gwen that she knew she had never possessed with the ‘real’ Ianto. One of his fingers was caught in an empty button hold, fiddling with the delicate fabric as he anxiously waited for Gwen’s response.

“Ah,” Gwen paused, composing herself with a deep breath before forcing a smile that let not sign of panic or confusion bleed through. “No, no, Ianto, you look perfectly fine,” Gwen assured him, slipping into a role she did not fully understand. Walking over to sit on the twin bed opposite Ianto, Gwen noticed the corners of his lips curl into a soft smile. Gwen was surprised to find that the expression suited him rather nicely.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he said, reaching over to pat her knee with a soft hand. It was then that Gwen first consciously noticed the change in her own wardrobe. Before she could put her finger on the period of time in which hosiery was a necessity for all proper ladies, Ianto was reaching across the gap, placing his hand over hers. She came face to face with Ianto as he pulled her off the bed. “You ready?”

“For what, exactly?” Gwen asked slowly, unsure whether or not she should know this information already or if it was supposed to be a surprise. The soft touch of Ianto’s fingertips slipped away as he dropped her hands.

“Oh Gwen, don’t be coy with me,” he spoke quietly, looking her in the eye before his gaze dropped away to staring blankly over her shoulder. “Not today.” Ianto’s voice had dropped low and this was the resigned tenor she recognized to be wholly Ianto. Gwen knew the sad undertone and lilting sorrow that threaded through his every word. “We’re going to see Jack.”

“Hamilton?” Suddenly everything clicked, somehow Gwen had been transported back into the past, around 1957 when the murderer Jack H-

“Harkness. Jack Harkness. Really, Gwen I told you about this in the letter,” Ianto said, effectively cutting off Gwen’s epiphany with a flick of his wrist. Ianto picked up a leather bag from the bed and moved toward the room’s only exit, motioning for Gwen to follow.

“Oh, yes. Sorry, love.” Gwen stepped outside of the hotel room, her mind racing to understand what was happening and how Captain Jack Harkness could possibly know this different Ianto. “I—I don’t know what’s the matter with me today.” She tried to give Ianto a sweet smile.

“Don’t worry. Here.” Ianto pulled something from his bag and handed Gwen a copy of what appeared to be a small newspaper. In the very top right hand corner was the date, May 15, 1957. “That’ll help catch you up on the ride over.”

The headline in thick, black ink told Gwen everything she needed to know.

"Family of Four Slaughtered in their Own Home by Family Friend Jack Harkness."

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AN: Want to know if anyone is interested in this premise.

#4-Firsts: S/R

2006-03-27T08:56:40Z

Title: No Know Beans
Fandom: Harry Potter
Paring: Sirius/Remus
Summary: Remus on Sirius's reputation.
Prompt: Firsts.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Remus’s POV. Not mine, J.K.’s bebe.
AN: No know beans is rhyming slang for ‘the first thing,’ if that helps explains something.
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No Know Beans

I’m not some bloody oblivious, silly little poof, though some choice members of other Houses would strongly beg to differ. I’m neither blind nor deaf, I know about my best friend’s reputation. I am quite aware of just exactly what people think about Sirius Black and his lewd actions and all his conquests, how he seems to move from one pretty girl to the next in a matter of weeks. Each and every one of them all proclaim loudly to their girlfriends about how skilled he is in the carnal sense of the word. All delicate blushes and secret smiles, they flirt with him at any opportune moment of the day. And, like any teenage boy would, he revels in the attention, simply eating it up. Always grinning extra wider and turning up the charm, he manages to lure in another one.

He knows it too, and he loves it.

They all take one look at Sirius and instantly know that he is some Glam Rock Casanova who could probably bag any witch in Hogwarts if he wanted to with a simple crook of his finger.

Well, I’ll conceded that part to be one hundred percent true.

He could.

That is, only if he really wanted to.

Those girls, however, they all lie through their teeth, carefully filtering out the rejection and tears so that no one will know they weren’t worthy enough for Sirius Black to actually shag. I doubt that any of them have even seen Sirius sans his school uniform. No one knows the truth about him. No girl would admit to it and especially not to another girl he dated, all thinking they’re an isolated case, just some Lagoon Creature. So the façade is perfect, airtight and practically foolproof.

But I could tell with one look.

Starring up at him, lips flush and swollen from hard, desperate kisses, my knees dug further into the loam of the empty tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack. I pressed the sweaty palm of my hand against his clothed hipbone, fingers curling around loosely to steady him. He was practically trembling beneath my fingertips and I had yet to actually touch him. Laughing nervously in a breathy gasp, he wrapped tapered fingers into the matted hair at the nape of my neck, pretending like he knew exactly what to expect from the situation. I moved my thumb a fraction of an inch inwards and he sucked in a deep breath, eyes flitting shut. When he opened them again, glancing down at me with a dark flush of embarrassment, I saw it. There was an unmistakable undercurrent of fear darkening his deep eyes further than raw lust ever could.

I won’t be his only, maybe his last, we’ll see in time, but I was definitely the one to teach him.

#3-Ends: M/R

2006-01-01T11:20:23Z

Title: Days of Inspiration
Fandom: Rent
Paring: Mark/Roger
Summary: Roger discovers a new muse amongst the mundane. Cliché, but something special at the end.
Prompt: Ends.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: First Rentfic ever thus the mandatory song lyric for title. I’m not 100% sure about timeline, sometime during the limbo between Contact and Angel’s death. :D Song lyrics are from RENT and Brokeback Mountain Soundtrack.
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Days of Inspiration

Inconsistency is probably one of the things Roger is best known for amongst their small circle of friends. Ironically, it is also the one constant in his life, well, that is besides Mark, of course.

For a while it had been pretty good, up until the point when April started using regularly, hocking every last one of her possessions for a score of white powder in a tiny plastic bag. Everything, gigs, money, sex, a new best friend and incredible original music, all seemed to simply fall effortlessly into his lap. Chords and perfect words flowed right through him nonstop, straight down to his fingertips, bleeding out onto any blank scrap of paper he could get his hands on. For lack of a better word, she had been the ideal muse for Roger, so full of life, untamed and free.

A real wildfire.

Burning Roger twice on the way out.

But that was before he gave into her and packed his own veins so full of smack that the drug began to clog the pathway between coherent thought and his pen. For over half a year he didn’t touch his precious Fender guitar. The calluses that used to cover the pads of his fingers had faded away; completely worthless until he built them back up. Roger’s brain had been short-circuited on repeat with only the first few lines of Musetta ’s Waltz locked away in the intangible catalog of songs.

Then there was Mimi. Her vivacious presence pulled him out of the apathetic gray haze he had been sleepwalking through since rehab and helped to jumpstart the musician’s natural drive to compose and play. However, after the ‘official’ breakup a couple weeks ago, back when Angel was first admitted to the hospital, he was sent back to square one; every word and every chord painfully drawn out, the ability to compose locked somewhere inside his mind.

Just one song.

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The sickeningly familiar opening measures of Musetta’s Waltz are slowly hammered out by long, callused fingers pressed against taut strings traveling up the sleek neck of the Fender guitar. A chipped pick that had been unearthed beneath a duct tapped cushion of the couch is caught between the pads of his thumb and forefinger, racking over the worn and torn nickel wound cords. The sound is distorted by an old amp Roger stole from the last gig he did before the band split. Perched on the hard surface of the stainless steel table, long legs dangling over the edge, Roger idly plucks away while looking over the open notebook lying next to him.

The entire page is pockmarked with little sketches and black and blue spots from where Roger began impatiently tapping his pen against the cheap paper, attempting to force the words to come. Stanza after stanza of one song had been repeatedly crossed out, along with several of the little love notes and messages Mimi had scrawled in the corners. His hands down favorite addition to the page, however, has to be the clever little yellow post-it note that Mark had stuck to the bottom right-hand corner of the page reminding Roger to pick up his AZT. There was even a little portion of the note detailing the reason for placing the message in the musician’s notebook, ‘knowing Roger would for sure find it there.’ On the faint blue line where the last scribbled out song ends is a small character sketch he had done the other day of his roommate.

Roger had jumped at the first noise he heard, any distraction would sufficed. He needed something to pull the focus away from his lack of progress. When he looked up, however, all he was greeted with was a glinting lens pointed in his direction, accompanied by the sound he had heard before, more of Mark’s constant narration murmured into the camera, safely out of the limelight and stuck permanently behind the viewfinder. He reached out towards the ancient machine, blocking the lens with the palm of his hand as he pushed the camera out of the way to see Mark’s flushed face.

“Can’t I see your face for once?”

The tiny recreation of Mark, scribbled in the margin of his notebook, is nothing more than a doodle. But, the fact he included the ever-present scarf wrapped around Mark’s neck despite the fact that the temperature nearly broke one hundred that day, replaces the brooding look with a genuine grin, even if it is only for a few fleeting moments. A breathy laugh nearly rolls off his tongue but he holds it back, opting to draw his attention back to the present and away from the open notebook. His gaze falls upon the strands of short blond hair at the nape of Mark’s neck.

The filmmaker is seated on the couch a few feet away, busy sorting a mountain of tin film canisters. He’s spent the past week attempting to gather up a select few that he wants to bring to convert to VHS to show to Angel on the hospitals VCR. A cute blond from the shop where Collins and Roger bought their roommate the old projector had told Mark that the shop had recently got a new machine that could transfer the old film onto a more recent VHS format. Of course there would be a charge to use the equipment, but the girl had a slight crush on the aspiring filmmaker. She told him that if he wanted to get something converted she would let him off with no charge, calling it a ‘free trial example’ of the new technology.

A gust of wind slips inside the muggy loft through the wide-open windows; the cool air is a welcome feeling in the stifling mid-August heat that seems to increase ten fold inside the paper-thin walls of their apartment. The refreshing rush of cold sends a chill down Roger’s spine and his finger slips. He hits a particularly sour note, knowing instantly it was completely off the scale when he hears the old tin film canister Mark had been busy labeling crash to the floor.

“Fuck,” Roger chides himself in a low murmur, visibly wincing as he hears his roommate shifting positions on the couch. The dim sunlight glints off Mark’s glasses as he twists around to look at Roger. Pale fingers digging into the coarse fabric stretched over stiff cushions lining the back of the sofa.

“Roger…” Mark’s voice is barely above a whisper, something underlying his words that Roger tries to decipher. He sees the proverbial melancholy smile grace Mark’s face with a practiced ease, having cast Roger countless similar glances infused with a mix of empathy and concern over the years. There’s a moment of strange awkward silence that fills the void between the two best friends and then Mark manages to catch Roger’s restless gaze, holding it for several seconds that seem to last forever and a day. Roger is the first to look away, eyes falling to stare at the filthy floorboards a few inches beneath his dangling feet. Refusing to look up he hears feet padding quietly against the floor as Mark moves around the loft, the sound getting faint as he walks in the opposite direction before getting louder coming closer to stand in front of his best friend.

Roger quickly flips the notebook beside him closed, carefully hiding the sketch of Mark.

He looks up.

“I’m going to go visit Angel.” Mark adjusts the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed full of film canisters. Before the question is even out of Mark’s mouth Roger can already hear the words fully formed in Mark’s soft voice, he cringes. “Do you want to…?” He paused, leaving the invitation open-ended. Not looking away this time, Roger does not say anything, the silence screaming volumes. It is written painfully clear in Roger’s eyes, some twisted twinge of unfamiliar fear. “Okay, well,” Mark began, tripping over his words in such a hurry, trying too hard to let the moment pass unnoticed but only emphasizing it more so. There’s something off about his roommate today. “I’ll be back later, hopefully with some food.” Mark gives a halfhearted laugh in an attempt to lighten the suddenly macabre mood. He smiles, or tries to smile but it fails to reach his eyes. Something different in his smile, reflecting back the same emotion he caught in Roger’s eyes a moment ago.

“Mark.” His voice sounds disembodied, not even his own. A note of perversely understated dread twisting the name. There’s an intrinsic desire somewhere deep inside Roger clawing its way out, a want to comfort Mark as soon as he sees the muted panic flicker in his eyes. “I would, I jus-”

Too real.

Too close to home.

Not enough time.

“I know.”

Roger knows he does.

And all of the sudden he’s pulled Mark into his arms. Blunt fingernails scrabble against the light material of his roommate’s shirt, digging into the flimsy fabric. He clutches the smaller frame against his own. Desperation. Mark is warm and breathing and so alive, pressed tight against his chest. There is an erratic beat just beneath his breastbone. Untainted blood pulses through his healthy veins. Pure. Thin arms wrap around his shoulders as soon as the shock wears off and Mark reacts to the odd display of affection, meeting Roger’s action full force. Feeling Mark respond sends Roger off on a wholly natural high. Tactile sensations override Roger’s senses, he’s never been this close to Mark while coherent or conscious.

When he finally pulls away there is a distinctly masculine burn of faint blond stubble grating against Roger’s rough lips as he turns his head the fraction of an inch. He’s not sure if the movement was deliberate. Not the flushed cheek and not square on his open mouth, somewhere along the delicate meshing of the strangely soft lips and hard flesh, the corner of his mouth. A kiss. Not even that, the sweet ghosting feeling of warm, hot breath licking at Mark’s skin with an intangible caress. So brief that Mark is not quite sure it actually happened or if he simply imagined it.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Mark says, a slight dazed quality to his words. A step backwards and he searches his roommates face for any recognition of what just happened. Roger’s expression gives nothing away. The musician only nods silently before murmuring a quiet, “later,” that Mark replies to in kind and he is gone.

As soon as the heavy metallic clang of the loft door slamming closed echoes throughout the loft Roger slides off the table and dashes to the couch. Grabbing the pen Mark had been using to label is films; he tears open his notebook to the same page with the sketch of Mark.

He begins to scribble furiously, jotting down words and phrases, linking them together, and crossing several out before settling on the right combination. A few guitar tabs scrawled in the margins along side the lyrics. He pauses, looking down at the last word scribbled on the page.

‘love.’

He quickly scratches it out, his mind flashing back the sensation of the blond stubble against his lips that sparked the surge of inspiration. As he taps his pen anxiously, feeling the words floating away faster than he can write them down he writes the word down once more. Messy handwriting nearly overlapping onto the sketch of Mark and the week old post-it note the filmmaker had left in the notebook. Once again he finds himself writing that word, he crosses it out. Twice. Chewing anxiously at the dry flesh of his lower lip, Roger sighs and writes the word one last time.

Next time it’s capitalized.

Flipping the flimsy notebook page, he began writing the second stanza. The words suddenly fit, fluid, whole. Grip tightening, the pressure of pen to paper increasing he practically carves the title of the song onto the page.

Raw.

Reading over the words Roger isn’t quite sure whom the song is for.

It scares him.

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Bonus:

Roger's Notebook: Page One

Roger's Notebook: Page Two

# 2-Middles: A/H

2005-12-30T22:03:41Z

Title: Spar
Fandom: Historical: Alexander
Paring: Alexander/Hephaistion
Summary: A little sport between Alexander and Hephaistion.
Prompt: Middles.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine. So never happened.
AN: Written very strangely, and definitely my normal writing style. Can't explain where it came from.

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Spar

Copper and iron, the sickening metallic taste filled is mouth, staining his teeth.

Stop.

Deep red blood trickled out of the corner of the young man’s mouth, black and blue livid bruises already blooming along the skin of his neck and chest. Hardened bone and toned muscle became a dead weight in his slight body, exhaustion dulling the ability to maneuver properly in his own skin. However, the young man managed to slip out of the tight grasp the older, taller opponent had on his smaller frame.

Pause.

His ragged breathing halted abruptly, the thick air caught in his throat as he ceased all movement. The granules of sand burned pinprick blisters onto the underside of his bare feet as he stood still, his full weight pressing the callused skin against the loosely packed ground. A sheen of sticky, warm sweat clung to the ruddy flesh stretched across the curved line of his back. Short golden strands of hair plastered against the sides of his face, curled at the ends by the damp perspiration. Eyes wide and wild, glazed slightly with the need to control, posses his adversary, he felt the pulsating blood course through his veins, pumping surges of searing adrenaline through his entire body, igniting the tips of his fingers and flushing his face an angry red. The trapped air burned his lungs as he slowly let out the breath through his nose.

Think for a split second.

A subdued tremor racked through his lithe body, muscles rebelling against the command to be still, so unused to inaction. Warm air filled his lungs once more as he drew in a short breath. Tense hands trembled as he bit back the instinct to barrel on ahead before considering all aspects.

Between the start of the sport, and the inevitable outcome that must follow, there needs to be a strategy to reach the desired end.

The means.

Vision swimming with splotches of murky white infused with glimpses of reality in shimmering color, he tried to furiously blink away the fatigue and beads of sweat clouding his line of sight.

Sense the next move.

Gaze transfixed on the other man’s body, he took in the other’s taut thigh muscles straining and relaxing beneath golden flesh. An odd glint just beneath the calm glaze keeping the young man’s probing eyes away from seeing inside his mind, shifted the natural blue haze of the opponent’s until it resembled a darker hue. He watched closely, the twitch at the corner of the other’s lips, the beginnings of a twisted smile, a tongue darting out to lick harsh, chapped lips, an old anxious habit.

The lean body of the challenger was so familiar to all his senses; sound, scent, sight, touch and taste.

Prey upon his weaknesses.

One the thick muscle swelled slightly larger than the other, the dominant leg. The damaged flesh, discolored and bruised scored along his opponent’s collarbone and shoulder from the young man’s advances.

Favors the right.

Suddenly he lunged forward, moving towards the other man’s right side. Fingers slipped over the wet skin of the opponents shoulder. His thumb pressing hard against the teeth marks on his collarbone as he pushes ahead, struggling for control. The pressure faulted. His opponent saw the attack coming, caught the split second flash in the young man’s eyes as he flinched before advancing. And the young man was falling, spun around and slammed against the cold stone of the wall with the body of the opponent pressed close against his own. An intense heat, surpassing even the sweltering temperature of the midday sun, raged through his body. Hips matched up and ground down against his as his eyes bore into the smaller man’s. Lips, thin and frosted over with dried skin, harsh and wholly masculine once more crush against his, tasting blood and sweat and salt. The low moan poured from his mouth before he can stifle it, the sound distinctly forming the other man’s name.

Submission.

A haughty smile not often seen upon the taller man’s face split open the small cut on his lip, still pressed against the young man’s mouth.

“I will, one day, Hephaistion.” Alexander murmured in his companion’s ear, a low purring voice that almost succeeds in breaking Hephaistion. Fingers threaded through darker hair that still shone in the harsh sunlight with flecks of vibrant copper.

#1-Beginnings: S/E

2005-12-12T03:27:28Z

Title: Fidget
Fandom: Lotr: Rps
Paring: Sean A./Elijah
Summary: Root of one of Elijah’s vices, namely his clove cigarettes.
Prompt: Beginnings.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine. So never happened.
AN: The OTP.
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Fidget

The dull fingernail, already bitten down to the quick, was caught firmly between his blunt teeth. A jolt of livewire electricity coursed through Elijah’s veins as he glanced around the crowded room full of familiar faces. Air thick with the toxic scent of cigarettes seeping into his clothing and an intangible anticipation, his knee began to bob up and down as his fingers started to shake. Elijah’s eyes finally stopped wandering and settled on the small group of people laughing and conversing on the couch. Opposite the sofa, seated on the sturdy coffee table littered with half finished bottles of a local brew, Elijah found his attention drawn to the fluid movement of hands and lips coming from the animated man directly in front of him. Sean. Feeling a wholly new tidal wave of energy surge through his lithe body, the young actor continued anxiously chewing at the tough skin on the side of the nail.

It wasn’t enough distraction.

He felt muscles twitch and ache, wanting nothing more than to reach out and grasp the flitting hands with his own trembling fingers, hold everything still for once. Bring the warm flesh to his face; press it against his white skin. Drag the callused digits across his flushed lips and down the pale length of his throat. Slip slide down his chest, beneath the loose waistband of unbuckled cargo pants. Graze soft fabric, tug gently at cotton and woven elastic and touch searing warmth. A barely there caress tracing down a jutting hipbone and along the overly sensitive flesh covering lean muscles of thigh. Bask in the intoxicating glow as his breath catches on the involuntary whimper of the older man’s name, drawn out from his wet lips by quick nips on collarbones and sweet open mouth kisses.

A sudden movement caught Elijah’s attention, pulling his eyes away from Sean’s hands. The source of the action had been a young woman, he remembered seeing her flitting about the set, reapplying smudged makeup and assisting with last minute costume changes and mishaps. She had leaned forward on the sofa in order to place a half full package of kreteks on the coffee table beside Elijah’s drink. Body numb, all nervous idiosyncrasies halted for a single breath he stared at the dark cigarettes. The scent of cloves threaded through the air. He caught the woman’s eye and nodded towards the cigarettes, silently requesting permission to try one. The thin tube fit perfectly between his tapered fingers.

His hands stopped shaking and his knee quit jouncing.

“You smoke, Lij?”

“Just trying it.” He murmured back, refusing to meet Sean’s gaze as he dragged the match across the coarse strike strip. The smoke burned the back of his throat as he tried to inhale. A few coughs and sneezes later, Elijah took another drag off the clove cigarette. It helped a little, trembling hands now subdued and the pang of want now only dull ache below his breastbone he could ignore, at least for a while.

what is going on.

2005-12-08T05:43:33Z

At the moment I've decided to narrow the couple choices to only 5 main couples (Slash). All couples get 19 fics but the last five with the prompt 'Writer's Choice' are going to be mix bag couples that I've always wanted to write but never really had the time. :D

The 5 Couples:

1.) Sean A./Elijah-RPS:LordoftheRings
2.) Alexander/Hephaistion-AncientHistory(AlexanderTheGreat)
3.) Mark/Roger-RENT
4.) Sirius/Remus-HarryPotter
5.) Jack/Ianto-Torchwood

Rules:
-no deadline.
-no rating restriction.
-no drabbles, all over 200 words.
-AU okay.

Prompt Words:

~~001. Beginnings. S/E~~: Fidget
~~002. Middles. A/H~~:Spar
~~003. Ends. M/R~~: Days of Inspiration
~~004. Firsts. S/R~~: No Know Beans
005. Lasts. J/I
006. Hours. S/E
007. Days. A/H
008. Weeks. M/R
009. Months. S/R
010. Years. J/I
011. Friends. S/E
012. Enemies. A/H
013. Lovers. M/R
014. Strangers. S/R
015. Classmates. J/I
016. Family. S/E
017. Parents. A/H
018. Children. M/R
019. Him. S/R
020. Her. J/I
021. Birth. S/E
022. Death. A/H
023. Life. M/R
024. Choices. S/R
025. Accident. J/I
026. Smell. S/E
027. Sound. A/H
028. Touch. M/R
029. Taste. S/R
030. Sight. J/I
031. Sunrise. S/E
032. Sunset. A/H
033. Too Much. M/R
034. Not Enough. S/R
035. Mask. J/I
036. Breakfast. S/E
037. Lunch. A/H
038. Dinner. M/R
039. Food. S/R
040. Drink. J/I
041. Rain. S/E
042. Snow. A/H
043. Lightning. M/R
044. Thunder. S/R
045. Storm. J/I
046. Winter. S/E
047. Summer. A/H
048. Spring. M/R
049. Fall. S/R
050. Vacation. J/I
051. Humor. S/E
052. Angst. A/H
053. Fluff. M/R
054. And. S/R
055. If. J/I
056. Birthday. S/E
057. Christmas. A/H
058. Thanksgiving. M/R
059. Halloween. S/R
060. New Year. J/I
061. Broken. S/E
062. Shattered. A/H
063. Hurt. M/R
064. Agony. S/R
065. Healing. J/I
066. Anger. S/E
067. Love. A/H
068. Loss. M/R
069. Jealousy. S/R
070. Denial. J/I
071. Sex. S/E
072. Kink. A/H
073. Threesome. M/R
074. Seduction. S/R
075. Party. J/I
076. Secrets. S/E
077. Betrayal. A/H
078. Discovery. M/R
079. Confession. S/R
080. Redemption. J/I
081. School. S/E
082. Work. A/H
083. Home. M/R
084. High. S/R
085. Low. J/I
086. Circle. S/E
087. Heart. A/H
088. Lost. M/R
089. Found. S/R
090. Missing. J/I
091. Epiphany. S/E
092. Dream. A/H
093. Break-up. M/R
094. Make-up. S/R
095. Lies. J/I
096. Writer‘s Choice.
097. Writer‘s Choice.
098. Writer‘s Choice.
099. Writer‘s Choice.
100. Writer‘s Choice.

PS: If you have any requests for a certain word to be with a certain couple tell me. Otherwise the number of the couple (1-5) will simply dictate what word the get...:D So excited.