All About RPS

Survey help sought!

Thu, 04 Aug 2005 11:20:02 GMT

Let's see if I can actually get this posting thing to work today.

I'm conducting a little survey for any/all RPF readers and writers who are interested in helping out. It's primarily about what motivates us to write about the characters we do, and if/how those motivations are different for RPS compared to FPS. I put it together in response to a few discussions on the subject I've had of late, and also to help prepare for a con panel on RPS I'll be co-moderating later this year.

Anyway, the survey can be found in my LJ here, and you can answer anonymously if you want/don't have an LJ account.

Thanks in advance!

fic

Tue, 22 Feb 2005 10:31:04 GMT

Eeeeeat it! The gods of crossposting compel you.

That Way You Do

Dom/Orlando, NC-17.

What kind of a faggot are you, anyway.

An amateur work of fiction, which is a gift for inbetweens for the Slashy Valentine project, 2005.

It lives here on the Slashy Valentine website.

A lotrips poolboy fic, crossposted in a frenzy

Mon, 21 Jun 2004 03:51:06 GMT

Trouble, the second time. 1/1

Dom/Orli, rated NC-17 for sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

"I've come to clean the pool." PWP. Not AU.

AN: In honour of the birthday of Cupiscent. A long time ago, she and Girloftheq and I were drunkenly talking up a bunny for a Dom/Orli fic involving the lines, I've come to clean the pool./But I don't have a pool. More recently I told her I was working on it but was having trouble coming up with a plot to hang it on. She replied blankly, "Plot?" I hope this whisks your algae into oblivion, Dee.

This is, of course, a work of amateur fiction that intends no implication about nor disrespect towards the persons whose names it uses as characters.

Link to lj.

Beatles RPS fic

Thu, 03 Jun 2004 14:49:18 GMT

Using the 15minuteficlets Word #57. Comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated.

Title: Tender
Rating: R
Time period: circa 1962
Pairing: Little Richard/Paul, implied Brian/John
Warnings: Slash, RPS, angst

I treated him to burgers that night, and told him I'd give him a screaming lesson. For his songs, you know. You can tell, if you've been singing long enough, what a real rock and roll scream has to sound like, and these little white boys didn't have a clue. Not their fault; they didn't grow up with it. I didn't tell him that. I didn't tell him a lot of things. Some things, like a scream, you really can't put into words. You just have to show someone.

So we practiced for an hour and a half. Whiskey and cigarettes and me screaming and him imitating me. It breaks my heart now to think he made it so big imitating me and didn't even bother thanking me when he made it to the Hall of Fame. But then, he was still just some starving kid trying to make it big, and he was putty in my hands. So admiring. So trusting. So obedient.

So very, very pretty.

He didn't resist like I thought he would when I put my tongue in his mouth. He stiffened a little, but he didn't yell at me or belt me one. Just tensed in surprise, then let me lick that sweet young taste out of his mouth, coated in liquor and tobacco and pills but still fresh and new and eager in a way I hadn't been for years.

I'd been thinking all night about how I wanted to ball the hell out of him, but when it came down to it, I was gentle with him. Tender. He wanted so much to please me, took everything I had to offer and batted those big beautiful eyes for more. So quiet, hardly a noise as I fucked him slowly into the creaky hotel room mattress.

Scream for me, I told him. I want you to scream. Let me hear you do it.

If he was in pain when he screamed my name, when his fingernails dug ridges into my shoulders, he didn't say anything, didn't show it. Just a gasp and a shudder and clench and long lashes fluttering, and then he looked up at me almost peacefully while I finished off.

He told me one of the other guys in the band was mixing it up with the manager, who'd taken a fancy to him. He didn't say whether anything had happened; I didn't ask. I figured it was his way of telling me he was okay with this, but I'd had enough guys tell me that right after balling and then change their mind in the morning.

I should have known he'd do the same.

He didn't blow his stack at me, didn't lose his cool. Just gently, firmly put my hand back by my side when I tried to touch his over coffee, and then shook his head. One-time offer, non-redeemable. I could dig it. I'd been down that road before. I shrugged and took a sip of java and didn't say a word about it ever again. He hasn't either. I guess no one else heard us, because I never read about it coming out in the news or something.

And then he goes and breaks my heart anyway. Almost makes me wish he'd punched me out after all.

Respect and RPS

Sun, 18 Apr 2004 17:50:43 GMT

I suddenly realized what is the biggest bone of contention between people who write RPF/S and people who don't read it and are against it.

Their biggest argument is that since they are real people, they should be given respect. All fine and wonderful. I certainly wouldn't want people to write mean things about me.

Then I think of satire. Mean stuff said about real people for laughs and to comment on the wrong and ridiculous things they do. If I wrote something called 'Curious George Goes to Iraq," you could say that I wasn't overflowing with respect for Bush. I'd be writing to make a point about presidential policies, badly thought out plans for wars, etc. No-one, except the really, really rabid Bushie, would say I 'shouldn't' write that. There will be arguments about the tone, and that's reasonable.

Now, RPS. Guys, I don't think writing(semi-)famous people having m/m or f/f sex is not showing them 'a feeling of appreciative, often deferential regard; esteem.' Hell, I don't think writing famous people having m/f isn't either. Writing about them weeding their garden, bitching about the stifling suits or dancing the rhumba isn't as well. Since I do hold them in regard, I make a point to read interviews, get biographical details right, and get their complete work straight. Then again, that makes me a stalker. *sigh* Can't win.

I also make sure that I portray the important people in their lives sympathetically as possible. No one is a villain in their mind, and it makes for a boring story if they were all villains. That's why I tend not to be comfortable writing or reading stories where the female SOs are bitches, or abusive top/weepy bottom tales.

People who do that still get lumped in with Mary Sues, Domlijah tinhats and other instances of badfic. That isn't any more fair than lumping all yaoi writers in with writers who make a female love interest being a raging bitch, flowerly dialogue, and weepy ukes.

So, what do you guys think?

FIC: The Trophy.

Mon, 23 Feb 2004 13:36:48 GMT

TITLE: The Trophy. 1/1.
PAIRING: Dom/Orli
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Kink. Slavery, so: non-con is implicit throughout.
SUMMARY: Master likes to dress him up. A fantasy-historical slave AU.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for Cee (earthmagik) for the Lotrips Slashy Valentine project (http://slashavalentine.homestead.com/).

Link to fic in my JF, for once.

searching for Alan Rickman's RPS

Sun, 09 Nov 2003 01:40:16 GMT

I was wondering if anyone knows where I can find some RPS starring Alan Rickman. I've read those of jade1x2 (her nick on LJ) and I'm looking for more.

Any help is gladly appreciated!

:)

QaF RPS?

Mon, 03 Nov 2003 05:00:55 GMT

Hi, new member here and loving this community already. I´ve been looking for QaF (US) RPS ever since I started watching the series and either I´m stupid or it simply doesn´t exist. Please tell me it´s me being incapable of finding it and point me to it.

Thanks!

Mon, 03 Nov 2003 03:20:25 GMT

Title: Let's All Go to the Movies
Author: Tara
Rating: NC-17
Categories: RPS; Danny Elfman/Caroline Thompson/Tim Burton
Warnings: M/M/F sex, angst, cheesy drive-in movies, swearing
Archive: Staying on my LJ, since there is a part of me not comfortable with writing non-AU RPF
Disclaimer: While Danny did date Caroline, neither of them dated Tim Burton. All of this is fiction.
Comments: Written in 'honor' of Protection From Pornography Week.

Fucking Disney.

They keep putting me on hold, and they keep making me leave messages. I'm sorry, but the person who owns a sketch and poem I did when I was bored out of my tree and trying to stay awake is off for a martini and a happy ending, what was your name again?

At least no one on the phone decided to tell me that they thought Batman Returns was 'too dark.' I already get that enough, oddly from people who do not watch movies unless there are plenty of press to take their worthless opinion down.

Yeah, I am in a mood, as my mother would said.

The phone rings, and I grab it somewhat too fast, barely missing a coffee cup. "Hello?" I stopped myself from saying "About time you called." People remember rudeness.

"Tim, it's me, Caroline, I've been wondering what happened to you."

I blush. "Um, been real busy, I'm really sorry I haven't called or see you or anything . . ."

"You sound so tense. Trying to get something off the ground?"

"In a way, yeah."

I last touched her before leaving for London. It all comes back to me now: her small, round brown eyes that remind me of a Pomeranian dog, trusting and trustworthy (I never tell her that, women don't like to be compared to dogs); shiny dark hair I like to play with; and her wide smile and pink cheeks. Her cheeks were especially pink after Danny . . .

I'm in my thirties, I think of her having an orgasm, and I am blushing. The fuck?

She brings me back to reality. "Tim, you know a drive-in theater in Culver City is closing?"

"Uh, no? I've been calling the stupid people at Disney, oh never mind, keep talking."

"Well, they are showing one last double-feature Friday night, and I figure, this could be a good way to see you again."

I think long about this. I could get a call back then. Then again, that might mean talking to people who I knew in Disney. Yeah, like I want to relive old memories of earnest lectures about 'teamwork' and 'reports of bizarre behavior.' All of my work going into Disney, including that poem, and I have to listen about how a PG rating is 'not acceptable.'

I want this project, I want to see if I can make that silly poem into a movie.

"What do you think?"

"I'm really stressed . . ."

"I missed you. Danny misses you."

I snort. "Stupid fuck is working on another score."

"Steve says he can kick his butt out of the studio if need be. He wants to see his wife, too." She has a cute giggle.

"You think you'll pull this off? If you can, I don't, that'd be cool, but come on, I want to, but so much . . ."

"It is for one night."

"Okay, I can do it."

"Okay."

I spent the next couple of days on the phone, sometimes reading other scripts, sometimes answering calls long made. Friday comes around, and I am still not sure if I should. If I deserve to relax.

I didn't dress up fancy, just striped socks, boots, jeans and a t-shirt, but I showered. Besides, black matches with black. Caro called to tell me she and Danny are picking me up, and I waited. I think I was a little surprised when I saw a red van pull up at my house. I climb in it anyway.

They are dressed as casually as me, Danny in jeans, jacket, and t-shirt. At least he isn't wearing something ugly from a Western shop. Sexy as hell, but sometimes he wears awful stuff. Caroline is in a long, flowery shirt and plain blouse.

Danny is driving, and turns to talk to me. "Steve actually did kick me out of the studio. I told him that the percussion section is just a little off and the strings on this one piece could sound better as arpeggios . . ."

Caroline turns to talk to him. "And I thought I had problems. What? More changes to the script? No thank you, I have to spend time with my boyfriends. I didn't say that out loud, of course."

I shrug, smiling despite of myself. "Like herding cats."

Danny squints and shakes his head. "Nah, more like stressed out rabbits." I sit down on the van floor.

"So, uh, why the van?" Nice conversation starter, Burton.

Danny shrugs. "Her idea. I usually only get it out to lug the many instruments of the band."

Caroline grabs a white grocery bag and shrugs. "In case you need to nap."

I couldn't help but sulk at that. "I cannot look that tired."

"You do. As well as very cute."

I chuckle to myself and lean against the side of the van. I often debate to myself. I am not sure if I am the luckiest guy in the world or making one big fucking mistake. I am with two people who like me, who are closer to understanding me than Julie or even Lena were. They are fun to talk to, fun to be with.

Yet, if interviews where someone describes me as 'eccentric' or 'effeminate' is not enough, just wait until the press find out I am dating a man and a woman. Not to mention that, technically, you know, they are my employees. Granted they are older than me and they knew what they were fucking doing when they kissed me while filming Edward.

The tabloids cannot decide whether gays are pitiable victims of prejudice and disease or evil perverts. Just wait until they find out what Tim 'Fucking Weirdo' Burton is doing.

Oh well, maybe the whole great adventure versus big mistake is just the story of my life. I don't want to give them up. And I bet the bad press will just mean they're all jealous anyway.

So I resolve to just relax. Again. We make it to Culver City before I get lost in thought.

I am not sure what the movies were about, but I suspect they are current incarnations of Roger Corman and the fare of our youth. We three sit on the floor, staring at the screen. Caroline is holding my hand, Danny is holding my hand. It's sweet. The three of us together, enraptured by the very thing that lead us down our current paths, from three fans to a director, a composer and a screenwriter.

If I look at my right, I can see Caroline leaning on my shoulder, her brown eyes and round cheeks. If I look to my left, I can see Danny sitting up straight, hazel eyes completely focused. He once told me that he carried a switchblade to make sure the other movie-goers quiet. I believe him.

Unfortunately, the second movie crossed from being 'bad but fun' to 'bad and boring.' Caroline and I are bored enough to kiss. Then we kissed some more, sometimes gentle, sometimes with tongue. Then we decide that while kissing on the lips is fun, we can kiss other bits. She kisses my hand, I kiss her neck. Danny still sits there.

I move my mouth from her chin and neck, down to her exposed throat and that bare skin between the first two buttons of her blouse. She nuzzles my hair, then kisses my ears. I look over to Danny, still sitting there. Dumbass.

One night alone with him in how many months, and he ignores us. I can relax with her just fine. Let's see how he likes it. So, I let go of his hand and put it on the buttons of her blouse.

She whispers, "Not quite yet." We use our free hands touching shoulders, our chests. She teases my nipples through my t-shirt and I move closer to her.

We keep at this kissing and touching, no clothes off. I am about to ask Caroline to please let me unbutton her blouse when I hear her gasp. I yelp when I feel someone scrapping their teeth against my neck.

It's Danny, and I hear him growl, "You think I was going to keep watching that stupid movie when the two of you are a much more interesting sight?" His hands joined her hands over my chest and back. I turn left and Danny kisses me, hard and threatening to suck my breath. I turn right and Caroline kisses me, greedy and sucking on my lower lip.

Danny kisses me again, this time gentle, with his eyes closed. When he pulls away, he whispers all sincere like, "We could always drive to one of our houses."

I huff impatient. "But I want to now. Why don't we go to a hotel?"

Caroline shakes her head. "I don't know, they might jack up the price. It's Culver City."

Another strike occurs to me. "And God knows that someone will want to blab about Tim Burton being seen with two people. Disney will love that."

Danny squints at me annoyed. "What do you care? You stopped working for them years ago."

I sigh. "Yeah, but there is this little thing I wrote when I was there, and I think it could make a great stop-action cartoon, you know, like Clash of the Titans or something."

Caroline kisses me on the cheek. "No reason why we can't do it here. I thought you were going to take a nap, but you know, this works too."

She then laughs, nuzzling my shoulder. "I never did this before. Kinda funny, you'd expect someone doing this in high school. But being an over-achiever in an all-girls school with a curfew, I didn't have time or opportunity."

I kiss her forehead. "Me neither."

Danny touches my shoulder. "Yeah, I left America at 16, hardly dated, so I never did that either."

I touch the back of Danny's neck. "You wanna?"

He nods. So does Caroline. Cool. Oh, wait a minute. Do we have lube or are we going to dry hump again?

Then I see her stand up and grab the grocery bag from her seat. She opens it and pulls out condoms, KY and baby wipes. Huh?

She looks at me and smiles wide. "Well, I was actually hoping to drag you guys home."

Danny chuckles. "Optimist. And so thoughtful."

They lean over me to kiss each other, lazy and soft. They pull apart, still giggling like insane people.

"Uh, guys," I whisper, "are you sure no one will see us?"

Danny stands up, grabs his jacket and hangs it over the back windows of the van. "There." The only light comes from the giant screen.

We busy ourselves, kissing, touching, removing clothes with each others' help. The three of us lie down, legs entangled, Danny and Caro touching me and kissing my face. I am squashed between the two of them. I never did it before, but I like it. I like it a lot. Garish colors flash over our naked bodies. Appropriate, being we are all as white as projection screens.

"So, your choice, Burton," Danny whispers in my ear.

"I want, I want you and I want her."

Caroline kisses me on the cheek. "That's so sweet."

Danny cocks an eyebrow. "Greedy is more like it."

"You got a problem?" I try to sound tough, but I feel Caroline rub her nipples against my back and I whimper.

He shakes his head, smirking. "Just have to make sure we are all good and ready."

Danny crawls around me to face Caroline, and I swear he looks like a tiger. He leans down to kiss her on the lips, then he trails kisses down her neck, shoulders, chest, stopping to take her small breasts in his mouth and suck. I hear her take sharp breaths, and I run my fingers in her hair.

He lifts his head up and keeps kissing down her stomach, while his hand rests between her legs.

"I'm wet already, you can have me now" she says, her eyes wider than I've seen.

"No, no," he said with a chuckle, "ladies first."

He parts her legs and dives in, sucking and licking. It's a weird thing to see Danny give Caroline head, his red hair bobbing between her pale thighs and dark hair. I don't understand why he does it, I never saw the appeal, but I think Caroline whispering "Jesus, Danny, oh God, more," has something to do with it. She shivers and whimpers, and I look in awe as her face becomes more flushed and she bares her teeth.

Then I kiss her, and she moans in my mouth, and I can feel her shaking from her orgasm. Danny pulls away and sits up. I can see an odd glazed look in his eyes.

He crawls to me, pulling me close for a kiss. When he lets go, he grabs the lube out of the grocery bag.

"Uhm, back or belly?"

He knits his eyebrows. "You're awfully blunt."

"I'm awfully horny, and you're teasing."

He shrugs. "Whatever you want."

I nod and get on my knees, spreading my legs. I can see over my shoulder Danny squeezing lube on his three fingers, but gives me only one inside. It is enough to make me squeeze my eyes shut and breath ragged. I can feel Caroline's smaller fingers make soft trails over my chest and arms.

He slides in a second finger in my ass, and I try to hold steady as he strokes, sometimes hitting my prostate, sometimes avoiding it. I know he is doing it on purpose. Then she had to trail her fingers over my spine, over the tense muscles of my stomach and back. Traitor.

I like the combination of soft and hard, gentle and honest versus forceful and taunting. I like them with me.

He pulls his fingers out suddenly, making me moan. He grabs the baby wipes with his other hand and clean off his fingers. "On your side, if we're going to share, you're going to be ready."

What can I say, I do as I am told. He is sitting close to me, and Caroline sits up, no longer dazed. "Let me get them," she says breathy.

Caroline then takes two condoms from bag and hands them to Danny and me.

I stare at the little foil package she handed me. "I don't know, Danny, Caro is on the pill, and when I wear one, I can't feel anything."

He rolls his eyes and sighs. "Tim, it's a pain for me to wear one, but I promised myself to wear them after seeing Rick freak over Hibiscus passed on. You can deal too."

I felt like a moron. In his waspish way, he cares for me. Besides, he is putting it on with confidence. I take off the foil wrap and manage to get the condom on before I deflate.

Their nearness and the prospect of fucking them at once helped with that.

We are lying side by side. Caroline throws her leg over me, slowly taking me inside her. Then I can feel him just as slowly taking me.

God. Danny is behind me, inside me and he is warm and hard. Caroline is in front of me, surrounding me and she is warm and soft. Their skin is so warm and soft against me, and I gasping, waiting. Maybe the condoms were a good idea, I would have lost it right then and there.

Danny says in a low growl, "Together?" Huh?

Caroline says "Together," in a whisper.

They then thrust against me together. Their rhythm is steady and quick, their flesh smacking against my flesh. I grab Caro's shoulders and leaned on Danny's shoulder.

I babble, I think I said their names, maybe invoked a deity or two. They feel so good, with Danny's hands on my hips and Caro's hard nipples against my chest. Caroline kisses my mouth and Danny kisses my neck. I think they bite a few times.

How did I go without this for so long? I match her thrusts, and I can hear her gasp and feel her tighten around my cock. I can't hold out for much longer, I just can't.

I move my hand between her legs, stroking her swollen clit. I like the loud mewls she makes when I do that. I like the shudders around me when she comes again.

Then I lose it. I shudder and buck against the two of them, coming shuddering and hard.

Danny keeps thrusting against me, then stops, hands hard on my hips as he comes too.

I am cold as they pull away from me. After they throw away condoms and pass baby wipes to clean each other up, I grab them close, having them surround me again.

"Don't get dressed yet. I want to feel you again."

Danny kisses my ear and moves closer to whisper. "The credits are rolling. The theater will close in five minutes."

I look at him. "That is an odd thing to purr in someone's ear."

"Sorry, still working on pillow talk. You were great, in case you couldn't guess."

I couldn't help but smile. Caroline kisses my nose and smiles back. "I'll get our clothes scattered around the van floor."

"Let me help?" I can't have her do all the work.

I sit up and dress up, as do they. Danny removes the jacket from the back windows and puts it on.

Now dressed, I lean against the van walls, chin on my knees. I got a lot to do when I wake up. Return calls. Draw up contracts and budget, I hope.

I know at least I have two people on my side.

fic pimpage. crossposted; sorry.

Mon, 27 Oct 2003 01:54:24 GMT

Title: Addison Road (1/5)
Author: soleta
Pairing: None yet; eventually Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean
Rating: PG-13 for extensive use of the word fuck.
Summary: In which Orlando falls. AU.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are real people, thus not mine in any way, shape, or form; I have no knowledge of their activities, relationships, or sexual proclivities. This is fiction. There are fictional characters within; i.e., I made them up.
AN: I have mucked around a bit with the timeline; if my calculations are correct, this should have happened in early or midsummer; however, you can't have everything. This is for autumnlecroix, because she rocks. Happy (very belated) birthday, love.

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? (links to LJ)

I guess I should post this here

Sun, 26 Oct 2003 03:20:55 GMT

Title: Imprint
Author: Sagralisse
Pairing: Karl/Elijah
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Although this sort of thing happens every day, it's highly unlikely to involve the real people named in the story.
Warning: Contains enough BDSM and D/s to make you wince, maybe.
Summary: Karl's concept of casual sex differs from Elijah's.

AN: Thank you eyebrowofdoom for your beta beeps. Sorry I couldn't add any flirty dialog for you. Thank you pinkrinse for listening to me whine about how I couldn't rewrite it.

If you're looking for mean!Karl, look elsewhere. All my fics share one universe so far, so yes this is the same Karl as from wipeout. He's flexible. ^_^

Click to read Imprint at my site.

Hot, steaming delivery from the crossposting monkey

Sun, 26 Oct 2003 01:57:04 GMT

Ficlet for blythely's comeshot challenge. Dom/Lij, NC-17.

Sploosh, on my livejournal.

am being spammy today

Sun, 19 Oct 2003 19:40:25 GMT

dunno, should I post this in antiasshat?

MsA:

Quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On that logic, shouldn't it be fine to assume someone is heterosexual as a default? It seems like you've objected to that as homophobic before. Even the highest estimates of homosexuality place it around 10%, so it's just an objective fact that 9 out of 10 random guys will be straight. So again, on the basis as you said that it's just a simple characteristic, what's wrong with assuming heterosexuality
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The 10% number (Kinsey's) is for self-identified homosexuals. It does not include all experiences of same-sex contact, which is actually around 37% (confirmed by a later study.) And, for whatever reason, the creative professions tend to attract more than their share of queer folk in general. We're not talking a random sample of the population, we're talking about a specific group. Chances are pretty good that you'd have a much higher than 10% number if your sample was selected from randomly walking down the street in WeHo, for instance. Sample bias will always skew statistics, as it does in this case.

So it's not at all far-fetched to think that even half of the cast of the movies is non-heterosexual, if not completely gay. In other words, taking sample bias into account, it's almost impossible that out of 23 speaking roles in the films, everyone but Ian is completely heterosexual. 3 or 4 gay people, and 5 or so bi people would be well within that percentage. Not far-fetched at all. And if you enlarge the group to include all the primary crew, the percentage is even smaller.

Assuming heterosexuality is fine if you have enough indicators that that's the case. In this case, however, I don't think there's nearly enough evidence for that to be assumed. At the most, one could assume bisexuality, but to assume heterosexuality in this case would be to ignore a great deal of evidence to the contrary.

As to the hormonal correlation, again, I'm talking primarily about my experience and the experience of people I know. I assume you've read Edward Stein's Mismeasure of Desire? Good stuff, there, about all this.

FIC: Winter [Casey Affleck/Joaquin Phoenix]

Thu, 04 Sep 2003 04:08:57 GMT

Title: Winter
Author: Ally Ranger
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Ask me first.
Categories: RPS, Casey Affleck/Joaquin Phoenix, Angsty biscuits
Summary: A cold day and a phone call.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened. Work of fiction only.
Feedback: *ticks box labelled 'sure'*
Notes: T, Random, Tangles: thanks! For reading this and hand holding. You guys rock my socks.

-----

Casey cradles the phone to his ear, his heavy breathing echoing down the line. The mist of his breath gathers on the window, and with the gentle wash of sleet outside, it creates a light fog on the wall of glass he stares through. It's cold out, cold in, but he's warmed by the voice on the other end of the line, it's heat and life a reassuring anchor in all the rain.

The street outside is deserted; everyone either inside the heated shops, their heated cars or their reverse-cycle air conditioned homes. Casey can see the donut shop across the road is full, it's bright pink sign blinking and advertising fresh hot donuts now. The people braving the weather scurry to and from their cars, umbrellas or newspapers open over their heads, booted feet splashing in water-filled pot holes as they dash across bitumen and concrete. They make Casey feel the cold as he huddles in the phone booth alone.

"--asey?"

Casey sighs, and rests his head on the booth's window. "I'm here, Joaq." A car drives past, breaking Casey's view of the donut shop. It's wheels splash muddied water on the glass and it dribbles down, winding random messy trails to the ground.

"But you're not, are you?"

"--just miss you," he says. The light exhale of words and air mist up the glass further. Bunching his sweater sleeve in his hand, Casey wipes at it, clearing it away. "Wish you were here."

"Yeah." There's a pause and Casey worries at his bottom lip, waiting for Joaquin to speak. A wave of relief crashes over him when he does. "I miss you, too; I want that too. You to be here." Joaquin's sigh carries over the line, crackling with light static. "Just--let's pretend I'm here now, and you're with me, yeah?"

Casey's smiles softly, closing his eyes. "Yeah. Here, now."

The pained pause that follows eats at Casey, and ice grips at his heart. He knows Joaquin's thinking the same thing that he is: that there will never be a here and a now, because there can never be a them. "I miss your hands," he blurts, his hand clutching at the wool of his sweater sleeve and bunching it into a fist which he rests against the glass. "And going next door to steal your food. Godzilla movie marathons. Your damn obsession with Beatles music. I--"

In his ear, Joaquin's breath hitches. "I miss Donkey Kong." He laughs suddenly, and Casey can't help but join in, pouring the futility, the sense of doom, and all the hurt he feels, into the sound, letting it flow away with each gasping laugh.

"Thumb wrestles."

"Pin the tofu on the Casey."

"Removing the seams from your clothes."

"The way you smelled that morning." Joaquin says, stealing the levity from the air.

Casey falters. "How--how did I smell?"

Joaquin's voice sounds strained. "Like Old Spice. Sweat. Popcorn."

Casey smiles, opening his eyes and looking out onto the street, watching a woman shepard her children past a blue Toyota and into an arcade. "You smell like chicken. Taste like it too." The laugh he receives from Joaquin in response, draws a grin from him.

"You taste like Twinkies. Or how I imagine they taste."

Casey's grin widens. "Then I am a man of good taste." He pauses, and the grin seeps from his face. Hesitant and nervous, he broaches the subject that he's been meaning to discuss with Joaquin since they first started talking again. "Will we be seeing you while you're in town?"

"No," and Casey can see Joaquin shaking his head. "She's still not talking to me; I don't want to push her -- make her angrier than she already is."

"It's been a year, Joaq. I'm your best friend and I lov--"

"You're not meant to, Case. We don't get what we want here. We were never going to."

"Then what's the point of these damn calls, Joaquin?" Casey bangs his fist against the phone, frustrated. Angry. "I can't see you. I'm not meant to talk to you. We can't even work together! This fucking rubbing salt in my wounds, and it's not fair."

"Like I fucking want it like this, Casey? I want before, and maybe I want more than before. We. Can't. Have. That. And maybe this hurts me too, but I'm selfish enough to know that I want at least what we have here, because it's better than nothing at all."

There are tears on Casey's cheeks, in his eyes, and they blur the street into a wall of shifting grey. "Well maybe we need nothing at all. Talking to you makes me want. It hurts, Joaq. I don't think I can do this any more."

"The we won't," Joaquin bites out. "I hang up, you hang up, and we'll just pretend that we never knew each other. That it never happened, and I never loved you. You can go back to Summer, and pretend that you never cared about me, and maybe I'll see you this Christmas."

Casey's hand on the receiver tightens, and he hiccups, crying, eyes trying to focus on the road, and not the tears. "That's not fair, Joaq. I--"

"Life's not fair, Casey," he says, voice tight. "I love you."

The line goes dead in Casey's ear. Receiver warm in his hand, Casey takes it away from his ear, and stares at it. Feeling dazed, his eyes turn back to the donut shop. A young couple are laughing as their children splash in the puddles littering the space where the blue car used to be. A group of rowdy teenagers toss donuts at passing cars, but Casey's eyes keep falling on the empty car park as the coldness of the day settles into his heart.

FIC: Semaphore (lotrips, OB/EW, PG-13), 1/1

Tue, 19 Aug 2003 15:31:43 GMT

I am surprised not to have seen cross-posters listed on any of those design-your-own-hell memes yet. *ducks*

TITLE: Semaphore. 1/1.
AUTHOR: Doom's Eyebrow (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
URL: http://www.dombillijah.com/~eyebrowofdoom
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: real person slash, coarse language
PAIRING: OB/EW
SUMMARY: Orlando is starting to think there is something that is too much the same about Elijah half the time, like he's playing a loop of videotape out front and just wandering away for a while out back.
NOTES: Birthday fic for Azrhiaz. Hrah!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: thanks to Lobelia for repeated beta efforts in the midst of personal chaos.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
DISTRIBUTION: list archives ok; others please ask.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of amateur fiction, intended to imply nothing about reality, nor any disrespect.

The sun slants sideways onto the deck of this waterfront place cafe-thingy. It's autumn, Orlando thinks. When they get off in the evening now there is noticeably less light and heat left in the sun than there used to be for him to bask in, standing around in a t-shirt in the stamped patch of earth in front of his trailer, having a fag, back turned to the warmest part of the sky. The world has been moving while he stood around, having a fag, the year has been waning, and it's sort of a bit rude, because he hasn't been doing any of the usual things he does to make time pass, like getting up mid-morning to go to Guildhall, the clubs on Saturday, his Mum's for tea on Monday. He's been doing this instead, and how many locations has it been now?

Still, right now it's early enough that it's only almost too cold for them to be sitting out here on the deck of the cafe in t-shirts, almost but not quite. Elijah and Sean Astin are sitting across the table and Elijah seems fine; Sean's got his jacket on but that could just be Sean for you. Orlando has got his back to the sun through the great perspex shield that saves the deck from the full force of the sea breeze, and maybe that's helping. Still, between fries Sean says to Elijah, "You cold?"

"I'm great," Elijah says. "It's all good, man."

The next lot of drinks comes, but the waitress seems to be moving really slowly and carefully, putting them out. And Orlando takes a breath to speak but then realises and stops, and then no one says anything. It's Elijah who looks up at the waitress and smiles and says, "Hi!"

She stands up straight and smiles widely, and says, "Hi." And then her face sort of moves a bit without her saying anything, and then she says, "How's the movie going?"

"Great," Elijah says. "It's going great. You're gonna love it."

"Yeah," Sean says, with feeling.

"That's great," she says. Then her face moves some more, and she says, "Well, I'd better..." And she takes her tray and goes.

When they're getting towards done, Elijah slaps his wallet against the heel of his other hand, and says, "I'm gonna get this cheque."

"Hey, no, I'll get it," Sean says.

"Don't start this," Elijah says, grinning. "You know I'll win."

Sean's mouth opens.

"No," Elijah says, getting up. "Don't start it!" He makes off for the door inside.

"Outgunned, man!" Orlando says to Sean.

Orlando gives Elijah half the width of the deck's head-start before he jumps up, winks at Sean, and jogs after Elijah, calling, "I'm helping."

"Aw!" he hears Sean say. "Backstabbed!"

Following Elijah into the dusk inside, Orlando can see him rolling his shoulders a little, and Orlando is suddenly sure Elijah is anticipating seeing the waitress again. Orlando is starting to think there is something that is too much the same about Elijah half the time, like he's playing a loop of videotape out front and just wandering away for a while out back.

So what if while they wait for the cashier to respond to the bell they ring, Orlando pinches Elijah's arse, what if Orlando kisses Elijah's cheek, hard and smacky, what if Orlando says, "Love ya, sweetheart"?

Elijah flinches, is what; flinches then tries to recover: his flinch puts a wonkiness into the smile he tries to give Orlando. He protests, "Hey!", and Orlando hears the sharp intake of breath and then the catch and the sudden cropping off of the sound, hears the conscious act of will that keeps the volume of the exclamation down. That's not on the tape.

***

And what if, the next night, like a kid left alone with a stick and something that looks pokeable, what if across the club Orlando sees the violet-black strobe of the lights cycling in Elijah's hair at the bar, what if he sees a woman's blonde head drenched even brighter in violet, bent towards Elijah's. And what if he pushes his way through the throng -- hips this way, hips that way, cigarette in the air, *'scuse us, love* -- and though the din and the pulsing Elijah does not notice him, and he stands behind Elijah like a ghost, and what if --

-- having heard Elijah say to the woman, "Yeah, it's been a really great experience," which, burbled in Elijah's personable interview voice, Orlando has sure he has heard *precisely* before, as if it is being played back, thrummed forth from laser holes on a CD; and having heard the woman say she'll be back and having heard Elijah say, "Great!" --

-- what if Orlando seizes Elijah from behind, clamps him around the torso and smartarse-tall-man *lifts*, what if he bellows, "Eh, baby!" What if he spins Elijah around and pins him to the bar, what if he pokes him, one side then the other, chop-chop, and shouts, "Are you in there, or what?"

Elijah jumps in his arms, taut with fright as river salmon, is what. Elijah says, "Hey!" and, "No!"; Elijah jack-knifes at the waist from the poking but catches himself before he bends too far. And Elijah doesn't answer; trying to bend his grimace into a smile, he shakes his head and says nothing. When it's just getting too obnoxious not to, Orlando lets him go.

Later, Orlando finds Dom by a pillar, seeing a girl off with lingering, entwined fingers. Orlando winks at him over her shoulder. Orlando hasn't realised Elijah is there, but when the girl lets go of Dom, Elijah steps forward from further around the pillar and says, "I'm gonna go, yeah?"

"I'm coming too," Orlando says. He sees Elijah start to realise Orlando is there, too.

There is the arthritic goat trail they have to follow to get through the people to the door. A brief square of open, black floor in the lobby and then they're out, into a still, cloudy night. A woman is getting out of the door of a cab there already, and Elijah shouts, "Okay," and catches the door. When he is in, his head jerks to see that Orlando has jogged around and got in the other side.

"I'll come to yours," Orlando says.

The cabbie asks where to, and Elijah half-turns to tell him, distracted, eyes still on Orlando.

Elijah says to Orlando, "Uh. I, uh, I don't..." The cab pulls away.

"It's all right," Orlando says.

Elijah looks out of the window for a moment. "I was just going to go straight to bed," he turns back and says.

"That's fine, mate," Orlando says.

"Okay," Elijah says finally.

The cab drives. Orlando slouches in his seat, grins and knocks his knee into Elijah's. "Wanna snog?" he says.

"With the likes of you? I don't think so," Elijah says lightly, and turns back to watch the streetlights swimming past. But there is a moment, several minutes later, when Elijah turns again to look at Orlando -- Orlando knows this because he has been looking at Elijah. And they are caught, frankly, looking at each other.

***

Elijah's front door opens on to an open plan of living room and kitchen. He hasn't left a light on, and dark shapes hulk against the shine of the floorboards. Orlando goes to step forward, but Elijah says, "Wait!", and scrabbles for the switch. When the light comes on, some of the dark shapes become clothes on the floor, and some become the couch and the table and the chairs.

Elijah goes around the room, closing the blinds. "I really was just going to bed," he says. "Can I get you some tea or anything?"

"That's okay. Got some juice?" Orlando says.

"Sure, I got juice," Elijah says.

During the *suck-pop* of the fridge door opening, and the clink of the glass being got out, Orlando sits on the couch and bounces. "Can I sleep on your couch?" he calls out.

"Yeah," Elijah says. "Yeah, sure." He brings Orlando his juice and puts it on the coffee table. "I'll find you, um, a sleeping bag, or something," he says, and disappears upstairs.

When he's brought the sleeping bag back and given it to Orlando, he stands for a beat and then says, "Well, um, I'm going to go to bed, so. You know where the bathroom is. I'm gonna turn the light in the hall off, but if you need to turn it on again, the switch is just inside the door there." He gestures. "You got everything you need?"

"Yep," Orlando says.

"Okay," Elijah says.

Elijah is turning to go, but Orlando says, "Come here."

Elijah hesitates, but Orlando leans forward and takes his hands, one in each of Orlando's own. Then he sits back, dragging Elijah with him till Elijah's shins bump the couch, and he's standing between Orlando's knees.

"What?" Elijah demands. He shakes his head as if at an invisible audience.

Orlando grins, and strokes the back of Elijah's hands with his thumbs.

"What?" Elijah asks more softly, raising his eyebrows. Orlando just grins wider.

Eljiah smiles slowly and a bit twitchily, as if the muscles around his mouth can't quite decide what to do. He says, "Um, okay. Well." And then, "Goodnight." He pulls his hands loose.

***

Elijah is in the kitchen -- scuffle scrabble *bang* -- at the other end of the open plan when Orlando gets up in the morning. Orlando, wearing his boxers, scratches his head and wanders over there.

Five steps of cold tiles underfoot and then he can squeeze Elijah, in pyjama pants and t-shirt, from behind and say, "Eh, lovie."

"Hey," Elijah says lightly. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Fabulous," Orlando says, and pushes the neck of Elijah's t-shirt aside with his mouth to blow a raspberry. Elijah's shoulder kicks up a little.

There is the scrape of a butter knife on toast, and Elijah's arm moving. Elijah smells musky and a bit wheaty, like bed, though some of the wheaty could be the toast. Elijah says, "So, uh, why did you want to stay over?"

"I was hoping for some sugar," Orlando says.

"Uh-huh," Elijah says with a little laugh. When he turns toward the cupboard, Orlando catches him and turns him fully, pushing him against the bench. "Hey, no," Elijah says, "not this again!"

But Orlando kisses him, all pushy tongue and hand holding the jaw. "Jesus, it's too early," Elijah gets in when Orlando slows down for a bit of butterfly peck-and-retreat. "You taste..." Orlando pries Elijah's mouth open and slips his tongue in again.

"Like a fucking hamster hatch, man," Elijah finishes, when Orlando breaks off to nuzzle his ear with wet lips.

"You wanna go back to bed?" Orlando says.

Elijah stops struggling. "Wh...?" he begins. His voice is soft and small. It's a new-minted sound.

Orlando his tightens his arms around Elijah, bringing him into a hug, his cheek against Orlando's shoulder. One hand slips up the back of Elijah's neck into his hair. They stand very still.

Elijah's breath hitches and flutters against Orlando's collarbone. "Are you queer, man?" Elijah says quietly, finally.

Orlando clears his throat. "Enough," he says. "I mean, yeah. Yeah."

Still they stand still. Then Orlando gathers a bit of the back of Elijah's t-shirt up with his hand.

"Jesus Christ!" Elijah says, and twists, and shoves Orlando away.

Elijah strides out of the kitchen and across the room. "You are so fucking arrogant," he turns, before the door, and says. "I mean, just because I... doesn't mean. You! Jesus, asshole!" He twists the lock open savagely and goes out, slamming the door behind him.

Orlando stands for a while in the kitchen. Then he goes and puts his jeans on. He takes his glass back from the coffee table into the kitchen, rinses it, dithers and then pours more juice. He drinks the juice standing up.

He is just about to rinse the glass again when the bolt of the door clunks open. Elijah comes in without looking towards the kitchen, and sits on the couch, face in his hands.

Orlando leans against the lounge room side of the bench, arms folded. "Am I completely off my trolley, then?" he says.

Elijah shakes his head at the wall.

Orlando crosses the floor to the couch and sits down next to Elijah, not touching. There is the sound of Elijah scratching his arm.

Orlando slides off the couch and to his hands and knees. He rubs his temple on Elijah's knee.

"Jesus," Elijah says, with a note of a giggle in his voice, "you wanna, like, wear me down? That's the full extent of your aspiration?"

"I've never heard it called that before," Orlando says, kissing the pyjama cotton over Elijah's knee.

Elijah throws his head back and barks briefly without volume, the air punching out of his mouth. But when he lifts his head, Orlando has straightened up and craned forward, his face close enough to breathe on.

Orlando leans in and runs the tip of his nose down Elijah's. Elijah's eyes are open, and they watch each other, out of focus.

When Orlando's nose falls off the end of Elijah's, he closes his eyes and kisses Elijah. Four, five times he presses gently, closed-mouthed. Elijah's lips stay soft -- he does not retreat. Orlando nudges Elijah's mouth open and laps. After a moment, Elijah's tongue slips along his; twists over and around. Through the kiss, Orlando asks, "Mmm?"

Elijah answers him: he says *mmm* too, and it's a new sound, first taste of an uncharted vocabulary of sound-semaphore. And Orlando talks back to him in the new language: he says *mmm* again, and then Elijah says it back, and they are having a whole conversation, out of time, like the conversation of two kids bubbling over to tell the same story. And Elijah's fingertips, all pad and no nail, have found the furrow of Orlando's spine and are ploughing it, *puck-puck-puck*; Orlando has insinuated his hand between the couch and Elijah and is pushing soft fabric up into the crease between Elijah's arse and thigh. And this is it, the next thing that is going to happen is happening: they have busted open the join in the tape loop and are reeling away; they are going somewhere.

"Come on," Elijah says sharply.

-end-

Unexpected - RPS: Ewan/Liam

Sun, 10 Aug 2003 17:05:36 GMT

Title: Unexpected
Author: Jadyn
Category: RPS, Ewan McGregor/Liam Neeson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ewan travels to Tunisia for filming, and meets up with an unexpected passenger.
Disclaimer: Umm... Sorry Ewan. Sorry Liam. I know you are both devoted family men, but some temptations just cannot be resisted!
Note: Huh, first fic attempt on JF, and it's RPS. A smutty one, too! I'm a virgin at smut-writing, and RPS, be warned!
Feedback: It's my first attempt, but I don't need coddling! And if you think I don't want feedback, you are out of your mind.

( Link to story on my own JF... hope that's ok! )

So, it finally happened

Thu, 07 Aug 2003 05:57:46 GMT

I've recently been getting into reading some Beatles slash fic, and rather enjoying it (I can't really see the appeal of slash with Paul McCartney, due only to personal taste and not liking him, but there's an awful lot of John/Paul OTPing - myself I like John/George and George/Ringo and John/Ringo, etc ;)) Anyway, I've been doing some reading about George, and I'm falling in love with the idea of George/Eric Clapton. They had a very intense friendship and George was married to Pattie who later married Eric (they fell in love during Pattie and George's marriage and I'm working on a premise that maybe it wasn't all about Pattie...)

Anyway, I have a plot bunny, but it involves the death of Eric's son (Tears In Heaven was the song he wrote about it). It's not writing about the actual death (I couldn't - I can't even write too much about River Phoenix's death in Joaquin stories, it's too emotionally painful), but more the aftermath, with George comforting Eric and the comfort leading to sex (they did a concert not long after, I'm thinking it would be set around then).

But I'm hesitant to use this plot, for some reason. I'm not asking for assurance or anything - if I write it, I write it, if I post it, I post it. I'm just...venting, in a calm way I suppose.

I suppose the question is, have you ever been hesitant to write something you wanted to?

Strangely...I put the thought with other situations...I wouldn't feel strange if it was John Lennon's death that was the catalyst...

New RPS/F mailing list

Tue, 01 Jul 2003 13:51:46 GMT

Just popping in to promote a new list that I'm co-moderating and hoping to get off the ground: rpf_writers, which is a workshop/critique list for slash, gen, and het authors of RPF looking to get constructive criticism and "betas" of their work. Full list guidelines are here. Please feel free to join us or pass along this info to anyone you think might be interested. Thanks!

FIC: The Boy and the Box (Lotrips remix: OB/VM, R), 1/1

Thu, 24 Apr 2003 04:40:19 GMT

Apologies to those who may have seen this already on lj.

TITLE: The Boy and the Box. 1/1.

AUTHOR: Doom's Eyebrow (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)

URL: http://www.dombillijah.com/~eyebrowofdoom

RATING: R

WARNINGS: m/m sex; real person slash

PAIRING: VM/OB

SUMMARY: Viggo is a box that Orlando is not sure if he wants to open, but by God the locked clasp craps him off.

NOTES: A remix of Gloria Mundi's excellent Make my day, for the Lotrips Remix project.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: thanks to the fabulous Dee for a very generous beta, not to mention organising the whole thing.

FEEDBACK: Yes, please!

DISTRIBUTION: list archives and Remix archive ok; others please ask.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of amateur fiction, intended to imply nothing about reality, nor any disrespect. Further, it is based on Gloria Mundi's "Make My Day," and lifts some material direct from there.

Viggo lied, when he said he'd be out. On the bench in the kitchen, the empty glass jug is set beside the coffee maker, bottom tinged glossy amber; charcoal sticks pepper a torn-out page of a spiral parchment pad. Through the door to the lounge room, a thin jacket lies across the arm of a chair.

Orlando's beach sandals slap as they strike the floorboards. He calls down into the narrow corridor to the rest of the house. There is no answer.

Down the corridor Orlando goes. He looks out through the glass door out onto the deck, and there is Viggo, with his elbows on the rail, solid back curved comfortably.

It's getting on in the afternoon, as well you'd think, the way Orlando's arms ache from paddling against the rip and his sinuses itch with dried salt water -- even the backs of his thighs have decided to smart from sticking to the vinyl in the back seat of Billy's car. The line of Viggo's turned jaw is sharp with slanting sun. Viggo has no drink sitting on the rail, nothing with him -- he is merely looking out over the grass.

Orlando imagines what Viggo would say if Orlando asked what he were looking at, and his sinuses itch more.

Instead, Orlando says, "Here you are." Viggo's jaw cuts the light and lets it fall; he smiles.

***

There are more lies. The weekend before last, when Orlando came by, Viggo did not answer the door either, but when Orlando tried the handle on the screen, it gave way. He pushed through the striped bars of dust motes into the innards of the house, and found Viggo reading, stretched out silent and still on the couch.

Viggo blinked and looked up, and said, "Hey." And a moment later, as Orlando stood by the door, hands in pockets, "I made some coffee a while back."

So Orlando went into the kitchen. A single plate, a knife, a fork and a glass shone clean in the dish rack. The light was out on the coffee machine, and when gingerly he touched the glass of the jug, it was quite tepid. Curling both his palms around its girth, he found the afterimage of warmth.

He went back into the lounge room and sat in the armchair across from Viggo. Viggo turned the page, and there was the twang of a spring deep in the couch. Viggo had couch cushion hair, though it wasn't terribly different to his normal hair.

Orlando got up and clambered over Viggo to look at the book, knee sinking deep between the cushions, aside Viggo's hip. It was all js and ks and circles over the letters -- which had to be Danish. Orlando said, "Whatcha reading?"

Viggo said, "Nothing much." Except his eyes wandered back to the page while he was still saying, "thing."

Orlando stayed there. At last Viggo looked up and said, "You're, uh, looking to drag me somewhere?"

***

Early on, he had gone for a day hike with Viggo. They had got through the rocky bits under the trees and then Viggo had taken his boots off to walk on the grass, though Orlando hadn't. Viggo had tanned feet.

And then Viggo laughed as Orlando foundered, wading across the shallow crossing of the stream, and got his jeans wet up to the thigh. Viggo helped him up as well, and got the hem of his own shorts wet. Viggo's palm was firm and leathery against the inside of Orlando's wrist; the weight of his braced body was steady. By the time they got to the other side, Orlando was smiling again.

Viggo strode off up the next rise, and when he got there, Orlando saw him stop, and stand, and look. Then Orlando got up there, and Viggo touched Orlando's forearm.

Orlando said, looking out, "That's really fantastic, that is."

Viggo's hand dropped, and he looked down. When he looked up again, he smiled, and they went on.

On the spine of the next rise they stopped again, and Orlando made himself start counting to ten in his head before he said anything. But Viggo just swigged from his bottle and said, "Nice, huh?"

The third time they stopped was in the dimness half way up another rise, beneath trees heavy overhead. Orlando looked and looked, but there was barely a line of sight to anywhere, and he couldn't tell what they were looking at.

Viggo said, "I gotta take a piss."

He had crashed off into the undergrowth. Orlando had waited, wet denim clinging to his thighs.

***

When Viggo has been lying a lot, it makes Orlando think about things. Today, driving back from the beach, Orlando was on the side in the back seat and Dom's heavy, salt-bristly head kept lolling onto his shoulder, and on the other side Elijah was lolling onto Dom.

When they got back to the sealed road and the suspension stopped jolting, Orlando pushed Dom gently away toward Elijah, until Dom resettled over his centre of gravity. Orlando said, "Bah, come on, wake up, you bastards."

But Billy looked at him in the rear view mirror and said, "Ah, let the poor lads sleep. You can keep me awake."

"Try and stop him," Dom said blearily. He leaned toward Elijah, and Elijah put an arm around him and let him settle his head against his shoulder.

"Aw, love you too, man," Elijah murmured, eyes still closed.

"Piss off," Orlando said mildly to Dom. He shifted to unstick his thigh from the seat. "You still whinging about me talking during the news? What do you care about bloody wheat tariffs for, anyway?"

Dom grunted softly.

"I talk during the news at home, anyway," Orlando said. "You don't have to watch it just because it's there. If there's something my mum wants to hear, she'll just say, 'Give it a rest, love.'"

"Then I s'pose you go outside and talk to the clothesline," Dom said, muffled in Elijah's t-shirt.

"Actually," Orlando said, "sometimes when I got home from school and there was no one to talk to, I used to go outside and talk to Maud." He itched his leg to get some sand off it. The seaside scrub was giving way to forest proper, so he took his sunglasses off. He said, "Now there's a conversationalist. None of the bitching and moaning you get with some people."

"Bloomin' Christ!" Dom said. "Not even the dog is safe!"

"Eh, eh, eh!" Billy protested from the front seat. "That's a bit rough."

"Yeah," Orlando said, not without feeling. He twirled his sunglasses. "You know you love it, anyway." He knocked his knee into Dom's.

***

The first time wasn't Viggo's idea. It wouldn't be, would it.

There was something in the way Viggo said, "Well, good night," outside Orlando's trailer as the trees shifted darkly overheard, a gentleness that in daylight, in company, might have made Orlando's diaphragm tighten, his nose wrinkle. But Orlando was warm and buzzy and beery, and he hugged Viggo, leaves scuffing underfoot as he craned. Viggo gave an
mmph.

Viggo had that older men's sweat smell: faintly meaty, and there was the sheer, solid breadth of his torso when Orlando wrapped his arms around it, and Viggo's face was just there, his mouth right there, and Orlando kissed Viggo, wet and messy. He dragged up Viggo's shirt up at the back; hooked his leg around Viggo's solid thigh.

His stomach lurched from thinking about what Viggo was about to do, what Viggo was about to say, but his body seemed to have lost all its vocabulary except for lurches, and all of them were forward-ways.

Viggo was very still, if it were possible to be different degrees of still, which Orlando thought not, and also that he was going to be sick.

Viggo wasn't still after all. His mouth was finding a rhythm with Orlando's and he was giving quite another sort of
mmph.

Viggo's hands ran along Orlando's back, and over his arse, and then he was rubbing high up under the thigh Orlando had hooked around him, terribly high up and under, and his beard was prickling under Orlando's chin, wet with saliva, and over his voice box, and around under his ear, and Orlando had his fingers tight in Viggo's hair.

And the trees made night rustles, and the breeze flickered and died and flickered again, and it went on, and Orlando's skin felt hot and twitchy all over like embarrassment only not.

Viggo said, his voice soft and throaty, "Come inside." And what? -- because it was Orlando's trailer. But Viggo was holding his chin to look at him, and the light above the trailer door glinted off the wet surface of Viggo's steady eyes, and Orlando felt as though he had just eaten fruit pie.

***

Orlando came by, eating felafel last weekend, and leant over Viggo at the table. The food must have loomed too close over the glossy book -- Viggo caught and held Orlando's wrist.

"Boy, with waxed cup," Orlando titled himself, his wrist firm.

Viggo looked up. "You need an egg, a checked cloth and a fork, in diagonal sunlight."

He got up and took the felafel cup from Orlando and put it down on the bench, and then took both Orlando's wrists and began to pose him. Orlando did not fight so much as he resisted, stiff.

Viggo put one of Orlando's hands above his head; curled one slowly behind his back. Then he stretched Orlando's straining arms straight out to either side. Then he brought Orlando's elbows in to his chest and put Orlando's hands over his eyes.

"As if you'd stand still for long enough, anyway," Viggo laughed.

Orlando pulled his hands away from his eyes. Viggo's eyebrows went up. Viggo went to move his wrists again, and Orlando resisted hard, and Viggo pushed hard, and Orlando resisted as hard as he could, so hard his muscles shook. Viggo was not pushing as hard as Orlando because Viggo was not shaking and his breath was not catching, but Viggo was stronger than Orlando, and calmly, geologically slowly, he pushed him back against the bench.

When there was nowhere further for Viggo to push Orlando, they stood rigid, breathing on each other's faces. Viggo's breath smelled of coffee.

At last Viggo said, "It'd work better nude, I think."

Orlando said, "I haven't finished my felafel."

He pushed back against Viggo. The rod of tension down his back sang, and the muscles in his arms twitched and jumped, but Viggo was made of stone.

Viggo craned forward, and Orlando retreated, bending back over the bench, and at that angle he couldn't push back at Viggo properly, and Viggo pushed Orlando's hands down onto the bench and kissed his neck.

"As if you'd want to look at me for that long, anyway," Orlando said, and stopped straining.

Viggo made a sound in his throat that was maybe a protest or maybe a laugh, and kissed Orlando on the mouth, eyes open.

***

Viggo is a box that Orlando is not sure if he wants to open, but by God the locked clasp craps him off.

Here is Viggo out on the balcony, when he said he'd be out. Orlando was wrong when he thought Viggo had brought nothing outside with him: there's a book on the wooden railing, page marked with a thick blade of grass. It's the same nothing, bound in matte navy on heavy stock, that Viggo was reading the weekend before last. And if he asks Viggo what he's looking at in the sun out on the grass, Viggo will answer with his back already turned to the view, and if he asks Viggo what he's been up to today, Viggo will say, "This and that."

In point of fact, when Orlando says, "Here you are," Viggo merely says,

"Yeah."

A little bit later, Viggo offers him tea, but Orlando says, "Viggo, you old hippie, I need beer."

Viggo says, "No you don't. You're sunburnt."

"Am not," Orlando says. But Viggo finds the sunburn on Orlando's scalp: he leans to reach and touch, and says, "Here," and creates the prickling tightness out of nothing.

Viggo's dangling hair threatens to brush Orlando's jaw when he leans, and Orlando fends it off. Viggo catches his hand. Before Orlando can think about, he's done it --he growls.

"Make my day, punk," Viggo says, and Orlando thinks he might.

He whips Viggo's fly down: he wrenches the box open.

And this is all that's there -- he can enclose it in the curl of his fingers. He kneels, and when he glances up, Viggo is looking right at him. The arc of burn lights up across his scalp, brilliant.

-end-

Ficlet: Until It's Time For You To Go Ewan/Jude

Fri, 11 Apr 2003 19:05:33 GMT

Title: Until It's Time For You To Go
Author: Cassandra Williams
Fandom: RPS
Pairing: Ewan McGregor/Jude Law
Rating: [R]

Summary: Ewan knows he and Jude won't last forever, but he enjoys what they have while it
lasts.

Status: Finished.
Archive: Yes to RSX, fabulae, ORP, RPSlash, others please ask.
Email: bennmatt@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: This is fiction and the events described, unless a matter of public record, are
completely made up and not meant to represent any thoughts or actions taken by the real
people.

Written in the name of ORP. http://orp.deep-ice.com

Written for Ewan's birthday. May he have many more.

**************************
Ewan knows this can't last forever. He knows it when he lies with Jude every morning, treasuring the silence. He knows it when he's inside Jude, thrusting slowly, feeling Jude's muscles around his cock.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he wishes it could.

It's not about the gay thing - though he tends to think of himself as bi, because there have always been women as well as Jude. Rupert Everett managed to come out and keep a decent career, they could do that too. Not to mention Ian McKellen and Simon Callow, even though they're older.

It's them. Their relationship. It's not the kind of relationship that will survive the domestic crises living together in a committed relationship will bring up. Or the question, one day, of children. Jude wants kids. He wants them so badly he talks about them now. Ewan thinks they'd be nice one day if or when he meets the right woman.

Their differences will tear them apart if they let them. They don't want that. They want to stay friends rather than let things end in a world of bitter words. Ewan wants to let Jude leave when he's ready. Jude doesn't want to hurt Ewan.

That makes it easier. Easier for Ewan to kiss the back of Jude's neck and whisper words of love. Easier for Jude to cuddle Ewan when they separate in the mornings. Easier for Ewan to listen to Jude's talk of women.

If only Ewan didn't keep wondering which time it would be the last time. Which kiss would be the last. Which session of lovemaking would be the final one. Which hug would be the one that finished it.

But it's worth it for what they have now, Ewan thinks as he turns to kiss Jude awake.

FINIS
**************************

Fic: Dancing Slow

Fri, 11 Apr 2003 14:09:47 GMT

I always kind of figure the best way to introduce oneself on a community is to post fic, so here goes.

Title: Dancing Slow
Rating: NC-17
Fandom/Pairing: BSB--Howie/Nick
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly from the depths of my brain. I don't know these guys, I make no claims as to their sexuality. No offense is intended, no lawsuit is preferred.
Warnings: Smut, a bit of schmoop, but that's about it.
Edit: I'm a dork, sorry about the fucked cut tag.

I should have brought ear plugs. I know better. This isn't Brian and his polite Christian folk crap. This is Nick. Nick doesn't believe in quiet. Nick doesn't believe in gentle. Nick believes in rock and punk.

Which would explain why he's singing Guns 'n Roses, I suppose.

He looks awesome. Absolutely great. He looks like he's having fun; he's playing the kind of music he wants, the way he wants to play it, and the hell with the rest of the world.

Thing is, he's good at it.

I wish AJ and Brian would come to one of his shows. Maybe they'd finally understand. Probably not, though. They'd probably just give me that long-suffering sigh, and ignore it. I thought of all of them, Alex would understand. I mean, he's not exactly wedded to the whole boyband thing. At least, the Alex I knew wasn't. I'm not so sure about the Alex we've got now. The couple times I've seen him, it was because Brian had called a band meeting or what not, and he just didn't seem himself.

He's gotten cold, pragmatic. Like Brian's mini-me.

And then, there was that great statement the two of them came up with. The one where they basically said that Nick didn't have any right to use the Backstreet name or logo to promote his solo album, because it wasn't up to our "standards."

I mean, they have been around for the last three albums, right? They've seen the utterly banal crap we've unloaded on our fanbase?

Of course, said fanbase sucked up the banality and proclaimed it deep and meaningful, so I can't blame them entirely. If the people around you suck your dick long enough, telling you that you're the best, eventually, you start to believe them.

Thing is, Nick's album was good. Not great, but a good start. He kept it fun, at the very least.

Nick in concert, however, is great. Nick was made for live shows, to put his heart and soul on the line every night, and rock out.

I head backstage after the last song, slipping past the throngs of fans. It's the bonus of being the short one; I'm past them before they realize who I am. Which is the way it should be. This is Nick's night.

Mind you, it's tempting to say hello to some of them. Not all of them are thirteen year olds any more, and some of them are looking pretty hot. It's been awhile since I had the time or the opportunity to get laid, so it's taking some serious willpower.

I congratulate his band first. He's got a great rapport with them, an easy friendship that seems to come easily to Nick these days.

It's nothing like the teenager who spent more time talking with his fists than anything else. My jaw thanks Nick for growing out of that phase.

As I'm complimenting his guitarist, I feel strong arms slide around my shoulders, squeezing me tightly. "Sweet D!" he crows hoarsely in my ear. "You made it!"

I turn, hugging him back. Whew, someone's deodorant stopped working. "Of course I did. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. You were great!"

Nick's eyes light up and the smile widens. "Thanks, man. I appreciate that."

"So, what are you doing after the after-party? Maybe we can go grab a drink and catch up."

He rolls his eyes. "Back on the bus, I guess. Don't get me wrong, D. I'm enjoying the tour and all, but damn, I hate that shower."

I know my mouth is moving, I know I'm about to say something I shouldn't, but I'll be damned if I can stop myself. "I've got a double, if you don't mind me snoring in the next bed," I offer. "It'll be just like the old days."

He nods. "If it's not putting you out, I'd love a decent bed for a night."

"Mi casa es su casa, or mi hotel room at least," I grin. Why am I doing this? I had every plan to hit one of the clubs, see if I could find a warm body for the night, and not put up my band mate. You'd think I didn't want to get laid!

But it's Nick. And I figure we all owe Nick whatever we can give him for taking a sweet twelve year old, and fucking him over so badly. We were young, and we would have sold our souls to make it.

Too bad that all Lou wanted was our bodies. Pedophiliac bastard.

I should have stopped it, I should have forced Nick out of the group, but I didn't. I shut the hell up, and looked the other way. And when Lou came to me, I closed my eyes and let him do what he wanted.

I don't really know that I could have stopped any of it, realistically. Thing is, I didn't even try.

So, when Nick got older, and started swinging, I let him. I figured I deserved it.

How he grew up nearly as well as he did, I'll never know. Nick's forgiven us all for not doing more. I haven't. I don't think I ever will.

He should have turned into AJ Jr. God knows he looked like he was heading that way. But something pulled him back from the edge. And now, we have this Nick. He's not going to make the new Backstreet album easy.

That's just fine with me.

The party goes pretty much how you'd expect--lots of busty chicks hanging on Nick like he's the Second Coming, lots of booze, lots of hangers on telling him how great he is.

Nick bolts down a bottle of water, one beer and dances with one chick. The adrenaline high is dissipating, I can see it in the droop of his head, so I 'm not surprised when he comes over and asks if I have a spare key.

I slip it to him, and he squeezes my shoulder with a grin before he bids his fangirls good night, and leaves, alone. "I won't be long," I assure him.

"Take your time," he says, grinning. "Have a drink, have a chick. I'll probably be dead to the world by the time you get in."

I hang around for a little longer before I duck out. There's this really great looking guy who keeps coming onto me. If he weren't so damned pushy, I might have considered it, but once you start pushing, I start thinking that you're tabloid press.

The last thing I want to see is a headline that screams "My Gay Love Affair with a Backstreet Boy! Pictures inside!" to show up in the Enquirer.

I knew Nick wouldn't be asleep. I know him too well. Ten years of growing up together'll do that. I can hear the sound of his guitar as I step off the elevator, picking out a slow, melancholy song that sounds familiar.

I open the door quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but the melody doesn't even pause.

He's sitting on the bed, relaxed, eyes closed as he strums absently, letting the song guide him. It's one of those moments when I'm glad our fans were smarter than our management. They used to stuff him in every oversized, full-coverage outfit they could find, all because he put on a few pounds. Nick wasn't ever meant to be willowy, let's face it. He'd look stupid.

He looks good with a little padding. He looks especially good right now, half naked and on my bed.

"Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in god above, if the bible tells you so," Nick sings softly, voice still a little strained from the concert. It gives it an edge, a little bitter note weaving into the clarity.

His eyes open slowly, focusing on me. He gives me a little nod, just an acknowledgement that I'm standing there. "Do you believe in rock and roll, can music save your mortal soul."

Okay, maybe it wasn't the vocal strain, judging from the bitter twist of his lips, and the way his fingers come down on the guitar strings with a discordant jangle.

"Hey," I offer softly. "Everything okay?"

He starts to say yes. His lips are forming the "Y" sound. Then, he abruptly shakes his head. "Not really."

I sit next to him on the bed and rest my hand on his arm, over the shark tattoo. I can ignore the little flinch at the touch. It's something that everyone Lou's managed does. "You want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. It's just." He sighs softly. "For all these years, I've had people telling me what I should be. My parents, Lou, Jive. And now, I'm out here, and they're telling me to be myself. And at the beginning, I don't think I really knew who me was. But now, I do. And we're supposed to start recording in a month, and I don't know if I can do it. I don't think I fit that mold anymore. I don't think I ever did."

"Nick, you know I'll stand by whatever you decide, but you know, the others-"

"I'm gay, Howie."

"WHAT?!" Okay, that didn't sound like the patron saint of acceptance I was working on, but Jesus fucking Christ, give a guy a break. "Suck what?"

"Well, bi, probably," he amends, eyes downcast. "Shit. Brian's going to freak."

"Nick, of all the possible ideas you could have, telling Brian is the worst, trust me on this. He will not only have another heart attack, he'll also go all weird bible belt on you, and tell you how sorry he is that he won't see you in heaven. Daily. He will leave you 'God loves you' voice mails."

He blinks. "I'm guessing this is more than just your imagination," he smirks.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Well, I'll be damned. I'd never have guessed."

"That's kind of the idea of being in the closet. Like I would have guessed that a bastion of heterosexuality like-" I make fluttering motions with my hands, gasping. "-Nick Carter, was bi?"

He grins, flipping me off, and sitting the guitar to the side. Oh. Only wearing boxers. Nick is like a brother to me. A brother. No incest! Bad Howie, no biscuit!

"So, was that the only existential crisis you're having at the moment?" I ask lightly.

To my surprise, he blushes. Out and out blushes. "Nick?"

"Um. I kind of. Yeah. I might be crushing on someone I know."

"One of the group?"

He nods.

"Please, god, tell me it's not Brian," I say.

He makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Ew."

Nice tongue, would be good for-like a brother, Howie. Incest, dammit! "Who?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he walks over to the window, looking out over the Strip. "Someone who's been there for me, who's kept an eye out for me, all along."

Kevin. Well, it figures. At least it isn't AJ. Kevin'll let him down gently. AJ would have flipped out.

"What do you think? Do I have a shot?"

"Good God, no. A, very, very straight. B, married!"

"Who?"

"Kevin, of course. Who the hell were you talking about?"

"You, you dumbass," he yells, throwing his hands up. "Look, I give up. Bad idea, lack of sleep. I'll stay on the bus. Just. Yeah. I'll see you in three weeks, in the studio." He yanks his jeans on and reaches for the guitar, but I've already got a grip on the strap.

I think I'm holding the strap, at least. It might actually be my sanity, who can tell these things?

"Let go."

"Not a chance," I return, fighting down a hysterical laugh. "You're not going anywhere."

"Howie," he starts.

"You can't just drop that on me and run, Nick. Jesus, what reaction did you expect. I'm sitting here trying to remind my dick that you're my little brother, and thinking you look sexy is incest, and you tell me you've got the hots for me? Give a guy a minute!"

He lets go of the guitar, letting it fall back on the bed. "Well, I thought you were hot 'til you brought up the brother comparison, thank you so much. Therapy bills, here I come." He makes a sour face.

"Yeah, right. Nick, if you were going to go for therapy, it'd have been long ago." I close my eyes for a moment, forcing my thoughts to stop chasing each other around like puppies. "Okay. I think I've got it sorted out now."

"And what did you decide?" he asks, voice closer than I'd expected.

I open my eyes, meeting aqua colored ones. "This."

Without warning, I let my hand snake up, curling around his neck. Ignoring the intake of breath, I pull him down, until I can brush my lips over his, almost chaste, except for the phantom glide of his tongue against my mouth. That's far hotter than it has any right to be.

He leans into me, kissing me again, this time, not so chaste. He nibbles on my lip, teasing me with the slow rasp of his tongue. He's still not touching me, though. His hands are firmly by his side. I know why, just like I know Nick. He won't touch someone in a sexual way without permission. Legacy of Lou.

He shivers as my hand slides down his spine, skin warm under my touch. I keep it slow, like I'm trying to gentle a wild animal. Not too far off base, really.

Finally, I reach his arm, and let my fingers slide over his bicep, down to his forearm. Nick's getting some muscle. Without a word, I tug at his arm, bring his hand over to rest on my waist, silently letting him know that it's okay.

That seemed to be all he was waiting for. His arms slide around me, pulling me against him. Oh. Hard cock. Hard cock, good. Monosyllabic mental dialogues, not so good.

"N-Nick, um," I try, breaking off with a shudder as his fingers curl around my ass, lifting me against him. Before I can breathe, I'm pressed to the wall, strong fingers undoing the buttons of my shirt to slide inside.

I reach for him, wanting to touch, but he bats my hand away and goes back to his single-minded exploration. My shirt hits the ground, followed in quick succession by my pants.

Now, I guess we're even--Both of us in underwear that do absolutely nothing to hide our hard ons.

It's funny, I've known Nick forever, but somehow I still feel horribly exposed, vulnerable. I want to cover myself, turn out the lights, anything so I don't have to see his eyes on me. I know I'm not in bad shape, so I don't know why--Oh, holy mother of God!

Hand on my cock. Hand on my cock!

Nick's smirking at me, fingers barely moving, just tracing along the bulge lightly. He bends, lips nuzzling at my throat, moving to nip at the curve of my shoulder.

God, I'm a sucker for that.

Nick clues in pretty quick for someone who's been named the dumbest man in pop before. Maybe the moan helped him along. Either way, I don't care.

Mostly because he's focusing on that area, licking and biting until I'm moaning steadily, soft, breathy sounding little noises that rise and fall with each touch.

I almost don't notice the hand creeping beneath the waistband of my Jockeys. No such problem with the hand curling around my dick. Hard to miss that.

Oh, man. He's good at this. Way, way too good. Just the right pressure, jerking me off slowly. I can feel my knees wobbling beneath me.

"Want to lie down?" he asks. I swear, he's laughing at me.

I nod, and he steps back, finger still in the waistband. "Off," he says firmly.

Okay, now I really feel vulnerable. He pauses, tilting his head. "Everything okay, D?"

I nod a little, shrugging. "Just, y'know."

He smiles. "I know. It's weird, huh? Us." He scratches his head with a shrug of his own. "Not like I haven't seen the equipment before, but it's still kind of. Yeah."

Sadly, I understood that. "Maybe if you," I gesture towards his boxers. "Off?"

I'm thinking I'm not the only one who's a little shy, judging from the way his cheeks get red, and his hands stutter on their way to his waistband.

Maybe I can offer him a hand. He shivers as I slide my hands over his, tugging them down. God, he's gorgeous. Not in that too-pretty untouchable way that he used to be. He's real now. Solid and touchable.

So, of course, that means I've gotta touch. There's something incredibly erotic about his voice, hoarse and raspy, moaning my name, his fingers fighting not to grab my hair as I nuzzle along his cock, the short, soft breath when I finally give in and taste him. Beautiful. God, I want him.

"Can I fuck you?" I ask softly.

Nick stills, and I curse silently. Push him, why don't you? Way to go, Dorough. After a moment, I risk a glance up at him.

And he nods.

Oh, holy shit.

I offer my hand, and he crawls onto the bed next to me, awkwardly waiting for me to make the next move. After a couple of moments of stunned silence, I break the spell, nudging him back onto the bed and sliding on top of him, skin to skin. I could get used to this, I think dimly as my lips cover his.

After a minute, I lift my head, breathing hard. God, he's responsive as hell. Every touch, ever movement and he moans, arching and rubbing against me. So fucking hot.

"Please, Howie," he finally gasps.

I nod, reaching for nightstand, where my travel kit is. "Wanted this, wanted you," I mumble, fumbling a condom package open and rolling it on. Lube, need lube. Lots of lube.

I slather some on me, and then nudge his legs apart.

"Screw that," he growls, reaching for me. "Now, Howie."

"But-"

"I'm not a trembling virgin, D. Fuck me already."

I flash him a grin and get settled. He wasn't kidding, judging from the way he's arching up trying to push me in faster. I take my time anyway, enjoying the slid glide of his skin on mine. So tight. Jesus, so tight.

We're both shaking by the time I'm inside him. Either that, or it’s the earth that's moving. Maybe a touch of both. His eyes are closed, lip pulled between his teeth. "Am I hurting?" I ask. God, say no. I don't think I could pull out if I tried.

Clear aqua eyes open at that, and a shaky grin touches his lips. "Just give me a sec. I'm okay."

Only a few moments pass before he exhales hard, relaxing under me. "I'm good. Go for it."

I try a few tentative thrusts, fighting down the urge to just bury myself, but Nick's not having any of it. His hands knot in my hair again, leaning up for a near-brutal kiss. "Fuck me," he demands, arching hard, tightening around me.

Oh, man. Like anyone could turn that down? I just let go, forget everything except the feel of his body under me, the slick movement, starting slow, but just until we find a rhythm.

What do you know? All those years of being forced to stay in lockstep? They really do count for something. Nick plants his feet on the bed, arching up against me hard, and I lose it, just slamming into him as hard as I can. Like he said, not a trembling virgin, not glass.

I feel his hand sliding between us, feel it moving frantically on his cock as we move. God, that's hot. He's not letting up, meeting every thrust, voice ringing through the room with husky half words, begging for harder, faster.

I give it; harder than I've ever dared before. He's not complaining, arching, other hand tangling in my hair, yanking me close.

It's not pretty or gentle. Not hearts and flowers, but it's enough. It's what we both need right now.

He tenses suddenly, voice breaking into incoherent gasps, and I feel the wet heat bloom between us. I moan, so fucking close, just need--

"That's it, Howie. So big inside me, want to feel it. Come for me," he groans, eyes meeting mine.

My mind blanks for a moment as the wave sucks me under, shattering intensity.

When I can think again, I'm slumped on him, sucking wind. Jesus. He's not doing much better, so I don't feel too bad. I lift my head slowly, shivering as the cool air washes over sweaty skin.

Nick's smiling. Not that smarmy-yet-sincere thing he's used in countless posters, a real one, like he wears on stage. "Hey," I murmur.

The smile widens. "Hey," he returns.

"Am I too heavy?"

A faint smirk touches his lips. "Um, actually, yeah. You're kinda crushing my 'nads."

I laugh, shifting off. "Can't have that."

"Not that I don't want to cuddle and all that. I'm sensitive and all that crap, but Nick Jr. and the twins are kinda special to me," Nick teases, laughter running up his voice.

"Please, never call it Nick Jr. I just had the mental image of Blue's Clues, and that should never enter into my sex life, thank you." I grin as he joins in the laughter, relaxing.

"I can do that," he finally says. He's quiet as I go grab a towel to clean us up with. As I slide back into bed, he turns to face me. "Howie? What was this? I mean, one night thing, or is this going to be a start?"

Nick would call me on it, wouldn't he? "I don't know. I think I'd like to give it a try as a start," I murmur.

He grins again and loops his arm around me. He doesn't answer, but he doesn't really have to. We'll give it a go, and see what happens. We've all beat the odds before. Maybe we've got one or two more lucky streaks in us.

Over on LJ

Fri, 04 Apr 2003 08:49:52 GMT

Amatia has put up a "canon in RPS" poll.

Supply me with some crack?

Wed, 02 Apr 2003 15:00:53 GMT

Anyone know of any Christian Bale RPS? At all? I read one Ewan/Christian on contrelamontre on LJ but other than that...cannot find any.

Links most appreciated if they're known :)

new fic (the icon says it all...)

Mon, 31 Mar 2003 15:33:22 GMT

Title: Just a Fucking Fantasy
Author: Coreopsis
Pairing: Marshall Mathers/Nick Carter
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Of all the things in the world that are not true, this is possibly the most not truest thing ever.
Summary: Marshall wants Nick to do something new.
Notes: Somehow, my desire to write something dark turned into a love story of sorts. Many thanks to DaraQ and Lancenerd for the beta. Needless to say, feedback of all types is much appreciated.

click here since I can't seem to post anything very long in jf just yet.

New Stories

Mon, 31 Mar 2003 01:37:02 GMT

Title: Entr'acte, Falsetto, and Staccato
by Vivi and Nienor
Authors: Vivi and Nienor (vivianedesblanc@aol.com)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: Viggo/Elijah/Orlando
Series: The Shut Up series

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. We do not know any of these very nice gentlemen and know nothing about their real life activities.

Feedback: We would love it.

WARNINGS: BDSM, cross dressing, mentions of golden showers, rough stuff. You know the drill, if this isn't your brand of whiskey, better head back to the liquor store!

The Lair of the Evil Bitches