project_amy: Kailin's Keeper (NC-17)
"I suppose this is the second time I must thank you for rescuing one of my children."

Lukin was unsure of how he should respond to this; he hadn't realized the king even remembered Lukin pulling Araz from the lake all those years ago. "I was merely doing my duty, Sir."

The king nodded. "I have looked into your record. You have done better than could have been expected here."

Lukin was silent.

"I am going to transfer you to the royal guard. Kailin's guard, to be specific. He has need of a new keeper." A keeper was tasked with taking care of children, seeing to their needs and ensuring no harm came to them. The king looked down at his youngest son. "Would you like that, Kailin?"

For the first time since Lukin had met the boy, he had his first real inkling about how much trouble the innocent-looking boy could really be, for he looked right at Lukin as he answered, using Lukin's own words, "Yes, I've decided to keep him."
original  slash  fiction  wip 
september 2015
wafflehood: like a sledgehammer (NC-17)
Halfway into the third, Staal lands a hit on Mike. It’s not an illegal hit and it doesn’t injure him, but it’s enough to knock him off his feet, send him sprawling onto the ice, make his ears ring a little. He’s on his skates in a minute, shaking it off, and play continues; it’s a nice, clean hit, no big deal. It’s not until Mike’s heading off the ice at the end of his shift that Zuccarello leans over the Rangers bench and says, “Your boy not backing you up, Latta?”

Mike blinks at him, too confused to say anything back. It’s not the weirdest chirp he’s ever heard aimed at himself, but it’s definitely up there. Zuccarello smirks at him. Mike turns away, nonplussed.

A handful of minutes later, Tom’s across the ice from Mike during another stoppage of play and he’s snarling something Tom can’t make out at Staal. Staal’s grinning at him, wide and chirpy, and Zuccarello shouts at Mike from the Rangers bench, “Looks like I was wrong, eh, Latta?” and winks when Mike looks at him. He nods towards Tom, who’s still talking to Staal, the two of them standing close enough that Mike automatically skates forwards, ready to back Tom up if something goes down.

Zuccarello laughs at him. It makes the hairs on the back of Mike’s neck stand up.

The linesmen skate over to Tom and Staal and break them up. Staal’s face has hardened, but he’s still smirking. Tom looks furious. Zuccarello says, “Too bad, man, we could’ve used an easy power play.” Mike ignores him.
hockey.rpf  mike/tom  fiction 
june 2015
Ferritin4: Door to Door (NC-17)
"Hey," Jamie says, pounding on the door. "Hey, open up!"

The dogs shut up.

"Hi, shit, sorry," says the stupidly fucking gorgeous man who opens the door in a tank top and boxers. "Shit, were the dogs loud? They get really excited when I come home."

"It’s three in the morning," Jamie says. On cue, a dog pokes its head around the corner to the entryway and bounces over to the — to this guy. It’s followed by another, browner dog, and Jamie has a moment of surrealist sleep-deprived horror where he imagines an infinite string of dogs forever bounding gleefully towards —

"I work two jobs. I’m Tyler," Tyler says, extending his hand. "Do you want to come in?"

Well, he’s not doing anything illegal, Jamie thinks, shaking it, because no criminal in the history of crime has ever willingly invited a cop into their house, and there is no one in the city of Dallas who hasn’t pegged Jamie as a cop within six seconds of meeting him.
hockey.rpf  jamie/tyler  fiction 
june 2015
beatperfume & shoemaster: Nothing Worth Knowing (NC-17)
Ryan Kesler hates Andrew Ladd on sight.

Andrew Ladd is the kind of guy who is loud and confident and a good hockey player. He and Ryan are two of only three freshmen who make the starting line up at University of Vermont. So sure, Ladd's also good at hockey, but he's definitely not as good as he thinks he is.

Ladd is good in the locker room, and all the guys like him. Kesler, who has always had trouble interacting with other people off the ice, automatically hates guys like that. It doesn't help that Ladd is also really good-looking, and he knows he's good-looking, too, which automatically makes him less attractive.

Ryan's seen him flirt with everyone he comes in contact with, like that's supposed to be charming and not just sleazy.

He's working up a rant in his head about it -- one he can't actually tell anyone because the only guys he really knows in this state are all on the team, and he doesn't want to be accused of poisoning the locker room -- when he hears Alex tell Smitty to "quit being such a fag, dude."

Ryan doesn't flinch when people say that shit, not where they can see it, but it still pisses him off. If he throws a roll of tape into his bag harder than is necessary, no one notices, except maybe the tape.

"Dude, cut that shit out," Ladd says.

"What?" Alex asks.

"The gay jokes and insults, man, that shit's not cool," Ladd says easily.

Ryan tenses, waiting for the inevitable cascade of insults and ridicule towards the freshman who thinks anyone cares about his political correctness.

But it doesn't come.
hockey.rpf  andrew/ryan  fiction 
june 2015
radiophile: half the lies you tell aren't true (R)
"Let's have it, then," Dorian demands, hands on his hips.

If Bull had a hairline to speak of, his eyebrows would have disappeared into them. As it is, he is gratifyingly taken aback by Dorian, for once.

"Here? In front of everyone?" Bull asks. He sounds impressed.

"If you would prefer to do this in private, I suppose we can wait until we get back to Haven," Dorian sighs.

"Hey, whatever you're into, I'm up for it," Bull says, grinning broadly. Which is... not the reaction Dorian had expected. "Although the rocks kind of limit our options. I could pin you up against that boulder, though."

Dorian blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Well, this ground would be murder on our knees, and while I don't mind holding you up that means I won't have any hands free to--"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dorian sputters, although he has a horrifyingly good idea.

"What are you talking about?" Bull asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.

A dozen different emotions roil through Dorian, vying for precedence. Indignation wins out in the end, and Dorian hears himself saying, in scathing tones, "How could you possibly think I'd ever proposition you?"

"Ouch," Bull chuckles. He scratches his chin and shrugs, a decidedly less casual gesture when executed by that particular set of shoulders. "Alright, why did you lead me out to this secluded spot and ask to 'have it,' then?"

"Is that really all it takes for you?" Dorian asks, then immediately holds up a hand. "Don't answer that. Let's pretend the past few seconds didn't happen."
dragon.age.2  iron.bull/dorian  fiction 
june 2015
lyriumesque: Forever Bound to Roam (R)
“I couldn’t protect my family, I couldn’t stop Kirkwall from tearing itself apart…”

“None of that was your fault,” Fenris replied. “Why do you insist on doing penance for things that were out of your control?”

“I just want to make something right, for once. Whatever we did to Corypheus wasn’t enough the first time around. If I have a chance to fix that, I’d like to take it. In a perfect world, I’d have you by my side while I did.”

Fenris pressed a kiss to Hawke’s jaw. “I think we know by now, my love, that this world is anything but.”

Hawke sighed. “So you understand now? Why I have to go?”

“I understand why I cannot follow,” Fenris replied. “The rest, we will have to agree to disagree.”

“Thank you,” Hawke began to say.

“I’m not finished.” Fenris stepped forward until there was not even a hand’s breadth between them. “You must promise me,” he said. “Promise me you’ll return.”

When Hawke faltered, Fenris grabbed the front of his shirt. “I’m not interested in uncertainty. Not now. Tell me without doubt that you will come back.”

Regardless of whether or not it was true, Hawke nodded. He took Fenris’s face in his hands and bowed their heads together. “I will.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”
dragon.age.2  fiction  fenris/hawke 
june 2015
KaerWrites: Friendly Concern (PG-13)
“I’ve taken a job and I would like for you to come along,” Hawke answered at last.

Fenris sniffed the contents of a canister, grimaced, and tossed it toward the nearest trash pile. He wished he knew who brought the groceries, so he could tell them he didn’t like sardines. “Is this a real job,” he asked, noting how Hawke’s eyes followed the projectile, “Or is it another farce so Aveline can come in here and clean?”

“Hey, that was one time,” Hawke pointed out. He leaned his hip against the counter, placing himself just that much nearer Fenris. The elf snorted softly, amused despite all attempts not to be, and permitted him to stay there. “This is legitimate,” Hawke promised. “And Aveline’s agreed to come along – so no fear of anything untoward. Your precious trash is safe for now. You don’t think we learned our lesson last time? Maker’s shit, you hissed and spit like an alley cat for two, maybe three weeks straight after that.” His chuckle, deep and warm, accentuated the reminder, made it fond, amusing, rather than insulting.

Fenris snorted again, glancing at him only to be met with a small grin – an expression that had once been nearly as rare for the mage as it was for Fenris himself. Hawke wasn’t quite within arm’s reach – he respected Fenris’s wishes – but it still felt good to have him close. He felt his shoulders slowly begin to unknot despite all of his resolve.

“You would be hopeless without me, anyway,” Fenris murmured, not nearly as gruffly as he would have liked, as he picked up another can for examination. From the corner of his eye he caught a brief flash of another grin from the other man and he felt his own lips twitch, desperate to respond in kind.

“Caught onto that, have you?” Hawke asked quietly.
dragon.age.2  fiction  fenris/hawke 
june 2015
Speranza: 4 Minute Window (NC-17)
"On your left," Steve called out, running past a woman in black workout gear. Her blonde ponytail streamed behind her as she ran. He moved smoothly around her, past her, churning up the gravel of the path.

He ran on, turning at the looming white of the Lincoln Memorial. "On your—"

"Don't even," Sam Wilson gasped, and Steve grinned and slapped him on the back before sprinting past, out of clocking range, though Sam swung out with a long arm and really nearly got him.

"On your left," Steve called out, and the man, blue sweatshirt, moved away, and then abruptly jerked back into his path. Steve smashed into him, knocking him forward. They tumbled onto the grass, and Steve tried to fling himself to one side so as not to land on top of him, but even so they crashed hard in a tangle of limbs.

"Sorry," Steve said immediately, instinctively, moving to sit up. "Are you—"

"Act normal," Bucky told him. "We're being watched by one, two—at least three agents."
captain.america  steve/bucky  fiction 
june 2015
LavenderProse: All Those Things You've Always Pined For (NC-17)
“One damn minute,” he snaps over his shoulder, and the attendant falls into silence. He looks down at Steve, whose fine-boned face looks both beautiful and terrible with shimmery wetness beneath both his eyes. “We’ll be fine, Steve. We’re gonna do great things.”

“You wanna do something great, Bucky?” Steve asks, fierce determination leaking out of every pore. “Don’t get on that plane. Come back home with me. Let’s start our lives, let’s not wait a minute longer. I dunno what’ll happen, but I know that there’ll be you and me, and that’s all that’s ever mattered.” He clears his throat, presses his body as close to Bucky’s as possible, and Bucky has to bend his head at an awkward angle to maintain eye contact. “C’mon, Buck. Please. Please don’t go.”

Bucky glances back at the attendant, down at Steve, down as his ticket and back to Steve. He sets his jaw and wraps his arms tight around Steve’s middle, whispers, “I love you, Steve,” and kisses him.

With an exhale of relief, Steve kisses back. He sinks his slim fingers into Bucky’s long, wild hair and whispers, “Oh, thank God. I love you too, Bucky, I really do—“

“And a year in Germany isn’t gonna stop that,” Bucky says, pulling back. Pulling all of himself back, because he doesn’t trust himself to get on that plane, get where he needs to go, if he touches Steve for one more minute. “A million years couldn’t stop that.”
captain.america  steve/bucky  fiction 
june 2015
ecaitlin: Keep Those Secrets Safe (NC-17)
Five years is a long time, right? Not everything is going to be the way he left it, but he needs to— he needs to see Steve. His parents hadn't even mentioned Steve once at the hospital, and now that he thinks about it, why hadn't Steve been there? His sisters he understands. He's glad they weren't there, and he figures his parents were probably trying to protect them from the state Bucky's in, but Steve should've been there. Unless they weren't letting Bucky have any visitors, and Steve had tried to be there but wasn't allowed.

That seems more likely. Psychologically, they weren't sure how badly Bucky had been damaged when he'd first woken up in the hospital. They probably had to make sure he wasn't gonna attack anyone before they let him have visitors.

Bucky swigs back more of the alcohol, nodding to himself as he looks around the apartment, and makes up his mind.

He's not entirely sure how he gets downstairs. He doesn't remember the elevator ride, but the bottle is still in his hand when he stumbles past the shocked doorman and out into the brisk, late-night November air in nothing but the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing.

"Um. Your mom didn't exactly give me a list of rules, but I think I'll be fired if you get arrested for public intoxication on your first night back."

Bucky whirls around, bottle raised like a weapon, and blinks when he finds Clint standing behind him, leaning awkwardly against the car they'd driven here in, keys held tightly in one hand. Clint, who's supposed to come with him everywhere he goes, so he's supposed to drive Bucky places, too. Clint, who, Bucky is starting to realize, might be an asset. They don't know each other from before so there's none of that painful familiarity that he'd found in his condo. He doesn't care about Bucky, the way his parents do, so he's not going to ask questions like are you okay, sweetie?

"I need to go somewhere," Bucky says, the words fumbling on their way out of his mouth, weirdly thick and running together.

Right. He's drunk. That's what happens when he's drunk. He forgot.

"Okay," Clint says slowly, eying the bottle. He hesitates, just for a second, and then pulls open the back door of the car. "Where?"

"Brooklyn."
captain.america  fiction  steve/bucky 
june 2015
alcibiades: deep in this anatomy, buried (NC-17)
He squinted at the screen, wishing he could get Steve to go somewhere private so that he could talk to him, really talk to him. "Hey," he said finally, giving up and just asking for it. "Can you -- can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Steve glanced around again. "I don't know," he said, and then, "Yeah, hang on, let me just --" and he stood up, the video going rapidly to a jolting view around the room and then the chest of Steve's uniform. When he saw Steve's face again, the lighting and the white-tiled wall seemed to imply that Steve was in a bathroom. "What's up?" he asked, his brows drawing together in concern.

"Fuck, nothing," said Bucky, irritated even with himself. "I just miss you is all."

"I miss you too," answered Steve, the look of concern not letting up.

"No, I mean I --" Bucky hissed out a breath through his teeth. "I can't stay asleep in this goddamn huge bed without you," he admitted. "I can hardly fall asleep without you touching me anymore." He sighed, running a hand down his chest.

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "It's -- hard for me to get to sleep without you there hogging all the covers." The look of concern on his face dissipated a little and he smiled a small lopsided smile. Unbidden, Bucky thought of their other nighttime ritual, which was -- well, he and Steve had, he knew objectively, a lot of sex. Most mornings, almost every night lately. It was stupid to think of it now except that he realized it probably was helping, wearing him out physically enough to allow him to drift to sleep, and without it --

"Tell me something nice," said Bucky, sliding his hand down a little lower.
captain.america  steve/bucky  fiction 
june 2015
otter: No Exchange of Payment (PG)
"By 'extra shirt,' I actually meant 'clean shirt.'"

Wilson shrugs; the bag hits the floor with a muted thump, and he pushes it back under his desk with a foot. "I only wore it for thirty minutes this morning," he says. "Hardly worked up a sweat. Take it or leave it."

House takes it; he pulls the t-shirt over his head and settles the hem around his hips. It says "The Doors" across his chest. "You realize," he says, "that now everybody is really going to think we're sleeping together."

"Everybody thinks we're sleeping together?" Wilson repeats. He says it with the tone of a man waiting for a punchline.

"Apparently," House says, "after I left your office yesterday, you emerged sporting a brand new hickey. The rumor mill found a whole afternoon's worth of grist in the story, and a number of department-wide pools were settled. I for one am thoroughly scandalized."

Wilson says, "Hickey?" and the bewilderment he doesn't bother to find words for is communicated by his knit brows and open mouth.

"Don't look at me." House picks up his cane again, settles it into the groove of his hand the same sure way surgeons hold scalpels. "I don't remember a thing; I suspect I was drugged. My mother tried to warn me about men like you." He turns, opens the door, and exits with the exaggerated self-satisfied air of a man who's just enjoyed a relaxing nooner.
house.md  fiction  house/wilson 
february 2015
otter: A Momentary Lapse of Reason (PG-13)
"So," he said, while she was looking over the menu. "When are you filing?"

She didn't look up; she was lingering over the soups and salads, frowning like she was having an ethical dilemma over whether to go for the caesar salad or the beef stew. After a moment she sighed, folded the menu and pushed it away from her, finally looked House in the eye. "Next week," she said. "Tuesday."

House nodded, pushed the salt and pepper shakers to the side until they were huddled up against the ketchup. "You're okay with it?"

Julie shrugged and turned her head toward the window. "I don't know." Her fingers tapped against the tabletop. "I guess I'm still a little surprised that we didn't work." She wiggled those fingers at him when he opened his mouth, and said, "Yeah, I know. You're not."

The waiter sidled up to the table, slid a basket of fries in front of House and took their orders. Julie opted for the salad. House dug into his fries and absently noted that the waiter's eyebrow piercing -- new, from the looks of it -- was on its way to infection.

"He doesn't actually sleep with them, you know," House noted, once the waiter had gone.

"Yes, I know," Julie said. "That's not it, anyway."
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
wanderingwidget: Swallowing Smoke (R)
"What the hell was that?" He pointed towards the bedroom.

The front door opened and shut, just loud enough to be heard.

"I thought that was obvious."

"Okay. Alright." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I guess I deserve this." He was trying to be a martyr.

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, give it a rest."

"Then what. Why?"

"You weren't here and I had the sudden urge for a good fucking."

"Is that all I am to you, a live-in fuckbuddy?" Wilson said.

"Yeah, the decade worth of non-fucking friendship was just me biding my time until you came around to the arrangement. Christ, get over yourself."

"Well what else am I supposed to think when I come home to find you with another man?"

"'What's for dinner.' How the fuck should I know? You don't get the moral high ground in this discussion."

"You were with him in our bed!"

"Oh, and because you had the decency to take them to a Motel 8 you're somehow better than me? Please."
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
Maya Tawi: Safe From Harm (PG-13)
"Then why are you ranting about it now?"

"Because the depth of human stupidity," House said, "never ceases to amaze me." He popped his last Vicodin and peered into the empty bottle. "Whoops, all gone. May I please have seconds, Daddy?"

Wilson shook his head. "And here I thought you didn't care about your patients. The clinic patients especially."

"I don't care about her," House said. "She's not the one being an idiot. Except for the part where she is, because she's still with him."

"Oh, right," Wilson said. "Abused women are so weak-willed. It's a character flaw."

"She didn't have any bruises."

"That's not the only form of abuse, and you know it."

"Yeah? Well, I'm rubber and you're glue and I am so incredibly bored." House scowled at his half-eaten sandwich. "Why don't you ever take me someplace fun?"

"Because you're impossible to take out in public," Wilson said mildly. "I'd have to dig up the choke chain and the muzzle, and I think they got lost in the move."

"Kinky."
house.md  fiction 
february 2015
Gigi Sinclair: The Meaning of Marriage (PG-13)
It was hell being married to James Wilson. House had only been doing it for three days, and he already knew why those first two wives had left.

"Not only do you leave your towels on the floor and your dishes in the sink, but you don't even have dinner on the table when I get home," House said, leaning his cane against the wall to take off his jacket.

"We drove back together," Wilson pointed out, handing House a hanger from the closet.

"And I don't think that's a point we've fully explored. Why are you still here again?"

"Because Julie's away," Wilson repeated, for the fourth or fifth time since showing up on House's doorstep on Tuesday evening, bag in hand.

"Ah, yes. And, what, she's strictly forbidden you to use the stove without supervision, so given the choice of cafeteria food or starving, you decided to throw yourself on my famous mercy." House had a lot more to say, as he always did, but this time he was cut off by a knock on the door.

"Pizza," Wilson explained and reached for his wallet. "I ordered it before we left the hospital. Actually," he glanced at his watch, "They're five minutes late."

"I take it back," House said, as Wilson opened the door. "You're the husband I've always dreamed of. Stay with me forever." The pizza delivery guy looked between them, handed Wilson the box, and left quickly enough to get a smile out of House.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
Namaste: Tracking Time (PG)
“I surrender!” the other man said, holding out both hands.

“Damn straight,” House plopped down onto the grass beside him, sucked in the damp night air. “Know when you’re licked.”

“Self awareness,” the younger man said, still panting heavily. “Is the key.”

“Unless you’ve got a good disguise.”

“So they’ll never know it’s you.”

“Then I’m all about the deception.”

“Deceit does have its benefits.” The other man pushed himself up to his elbows, looked over at House in the dim light. “James Wilson,” he said, reaching over with his right hand.

“Yeah, like I’m supposed to believe a word you say now.” He pushed himself to his feet, reached down and gave Wilson a hand up. “Gregory House. If you can believe that.”

“Nah, can’t be. Chilton says House is a self-absorbed prick. Of course, Chilton is an ass with so few signs of intelligence, I’m not sure he actually counts as a sentient being.”

“It has been my finding that most air headed imbeciles spend their lives in fear of sharp objects.”

“Understandable, since the slightest pin prick could be fatal.”
house.md  fiction 
february 2015
Milkshake Butterfly: Balances (NC-17)
"If I'd known," Wilson said, with a strained sort of levity in his voice, "that you were concerned enough to wait for me, I'd have asked you to meet me at the door with a cocktail and a kiss."

"How very fifties housewife," House replied, and he was fairly certain the lightness of his tone was a lot more successful than Wilson's attempt. His mind automatically catalogued the symptoms, like this was any other problem he had encountered. There was the obvious: the tightness around Wilson's eyes, the muscle that still hadn't stopped twitching alongside his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders that was only more apparent for the lack of suit or labcoat. Those all suggested it had been bad, but the subtle signs, and what he could guess from them, worried House more: the very slight loosening of Wilson's yellow tie, not enough to make him look any less tidy in his dark dress pants and subtly-striped shirt, but enough to suggest he'd felt like it was closing in, choking him a little, how Wilson couldn't quite meet House's stare, as if he didn't want to know what House would read there, or maybe vice-versa, and the way his hands kept unconsciously flexing, like he had had them clenched on the steering wheel the whole way home, and was still trying to restore full blood flow.

"I always did have a soft spot for Lucy, I suppose," House added, trying to keep the conversation light while figuring out the next step in this particular domestic diagnostics problem. He got briefly distracted when he tried to picture himself in an apron and dress, and couldn't do it, so he tried to do the same with Wilson. Somehow, along the way, the dress got lost, and as a result he was picturing Wilson in just an apron, which was nice, if not exactly where he suspected he was supposed to go with that. "Ah, role-playing," he said out loud, in a musing voice. "Could be fun. Tell you what: I'll do the fifties housewife thing if you'll do the French maid thing in exchange."

That should have gotten a rise out of Wilson--god knows it was getting a rise out of House, though the mixture of amusement and arousal that image was causing was a bit strange--but all Wilson did was shoot him a glance which House suspected was supposed to be irritated or reproving, but mostly came across as exhausted.

That bad, then.

"So," he asked, deliberately casual, "still getting a divorce?"
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
Milkshake Butterfly: Trivial Pursuits (NC-17)
But the point remained that through all of that, House had never made that one, last, essential move that would take things beyond the friendship they had. They'd settled into an easy holding pattern, a friendship that puzzled and confused their friends and associates--although most of them were more perplexed about why Wilson put up with House than vice versa, which Wilson had always figured proved just how little they knew. Time went on, and he accumulated more divorces and breakups from the women in his life, relaxing slowly and comfortably into the stability of his relationship with House, who looked on through all of this and didn't try to change the balance in favor of the underlying tension between them that they both knew was there.

All of which meant that he was completely unprepared when House looked up at him from his cane-twirling one day while they were sitting around House's office waiting for lab results and said, "So, do you think we should go out on a date first, or just cut directly to sex?"

His first reaction wasn't surprise, because on some level he'd been expecting it for years, even if he'd become used to the idea it would never come. No, Wilson's first reaction was a combination of a guilty flush and something that came uncomfortably close to panic.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
Milkshake Butterfly: Defensive Strategies (R)
"I need a sign," Wilson told House, settling in across the booth from him.

"What, like a 'voice from above' kind of sign, or a 'tasteful font and maybe some graphics' kind of sign?" House asked, barely glancing up from the basket of fries that had arrived while Wilson had been in the bathroom.

"Either would be nice," Wilson replied, stealing a fry. House gave him a flat look. "But I was thinking more the second one, I admit," he finished, after pausing to chew and swallow. Their drinks had arrived too, sodas for both of them. Wilson had decided he wasn't yet at the stage of post-divorce where drinking was all that great a plan, though he figured it was probably a bad sign that he'd been through this often enough to know that from first-hand experience.

House, on the other hand, might drink at home but only did so in public when things were seriously screwed-up, though Wilson had never been completely certain if that was because of control and safety issues, or just because House avoided being in public as much as possible to begin with. Agreeing to go out with Wilson would have been a sign of something; the fact that he'd been the one to suggest they go out somewhere positively screamed that something. Wilson just wasn't entirely sure what that something was, or maybe he didn't want to be; if Wilson was in such obvious pain that the man who was so introverted he wouldn't even talk to patients if he could help it was trying to get him out among the happy shining crowd, he didn't think he wanted to know.

Still, he did have to admit that working their way through a different local restaurant every night did beat sitting at home in his new and still too-bare apartment, brooding over past mistakes. Even if sitting at home was safer, in some ways.

"So," House said, after a meditative fry-consumption pause of his own, "what would this sign say?"

"I don't know," Wilson said, leaning back in the booth. The vinyl creaked distractingly; it was too new to be totally broken in, but not new enough to be completely resilient. "Maybe, 'Not Interested,' or, 'Look Elsewhere,' or maybe just, 'Stop, Please, It's Flattering But I'm Not Ready To Date Again Now, If Ever.'"

"You're gonna need a big sign for that last one," House pointed out, licking ketchup off his fingers, and it took Wilson a second to remember to reply.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
Jayne Leitch: Lesser Expectations (PG)
Allison stared at him, her own mug held motionless halfway to her mouth. "You make understanding him look so *easy*. How do you do it? Practise? Exposure? Did he take you aside one day and let you in on the secret logic of his mental processes?"

Wilson chuckled. "You'll figure him out." The number of times he'd said that to someone and meant it was much smaller than the number of times he'd said that to someone.

To her credit, Allison seemed less discouraged than impatient. "Will that be before or after I do something--trying to be nice--that makes him throw me off his team?"

"Well, there's your problem. You're trying to be nice." Wilson leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and gazing frankly at her. "You think he's the way he is because he's in pain and needs somebody to fix him. He doesn't."

She met his gaze for a moment--then, shifting her weight on her seat, she glanced away, her fingers starting to play again on the lip of her mug. "Isn't that what doctors are supposed to do?" she asked distantly. "Fix people?"

"Maybe." Wilson shrugged, but didn't pull back. "But that's not always what the people want."
james.wilson  fiction  house.md 
february 2015
Kass: Knot (NC-17)
House was reading Maxim with his ankles propped up on his desk when Wilson appeared in his office. He'd heard Wilson's steps coming down the hall; at 10pm the floor was almost empty.

"Hey. You want to go someplace for a drink?"

House considered that. Drink sounded good. Going out, less so. "I have whiskey at home," he pointed out.

Wilson grimaced. "No thanks."

House put on a startled face. "You'd prefer I stocked rum?"

"I'm tired of your living room. Which," Wilson added before House could interrupt, "beats the crap out of mine, but is still a living room."

"Ahh," House said, nodding sagely. "You want to pick up chicks."

Wilson snorted.

"Think we should bring one home?"

That got a laugh. It was fun making Wilson laugh. "Fine," House said, crossing the room to pick up his helmet. "Let's go."
house.md  house/wilson/cuddy  fiction 
february 2015
greensilver: an object in motion (PG)
He finds out about Allison over lunch, where he picks at a salad and listens to Chase and Foreman take cheap shots at one another.

"I'm sure Allison won't have trouble finding another job," James says. He doesn't know why that pisses them off, but it does; in under two minutes he has the table to himself, and he fidgets with weedy-looking greenery until House sits down across from him, uninvited.

"Maybe you can sweet-talk your guy from Oncology into voting for me," House says, helping himself to the cooling remains of James' soup. "Threaten to cut his pay, or something."

James almost smiles. "That's not sweet-talking - it's blackmail."

The salad travels to House's side of the table, as well, and that's when James realizes that House doesn't even have a tray with him. What would the man have done if he hadn't found James in residence - starved?

"Blackmail is the bad one, right? Maybe we should send him chocolates." House gives up on subtlety and steals James' tray altogether, hunting down unopened packets of croutons like a bloodhound on a scent trail. James folds his arms over the table and wonders if he'll miss this, when House is gone.

"That'd be bribery," James says.

House looks up. "Another bad one?"

"So they say." James does smile, this time, and even that faint pull at his lips is enough to make panic surge up again, just short of boiling over.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
greensilver: three marriages, one guitar (PG)
"You don't know how to play that thing, do you?", House said, making one of the most terrifically displeased faces that James had ever seen.

James shrugged, shifted his grip on the neck, and swiped a thumb over the strings. "I'm learning."

"Yeah, right." House pulled the guitar away from James, sat down next to him on the couch, and plucked a single string. The resulting sound was grating enough to make them both wince. "You haven't even learned how to tune it yet."

The guitar case was open on the floor, close enough for James to pick up and discard the guitar as the mood struck him. House leaned over to the case, reached in, and pulled out a small white pitch pipe that James hadn't bothered with.

"See, it's-" House blew into one of the mouthpieces, producing a loud, clear A. When he struck the corresponding string, the sound was jarringly different, and House looked up at James like a puppy waiting to be rewarded for learning a new trick. Actually, the look was more like this is how it's done, you idiot, but with House, the rebuke and the wagging tail were practically the same thing.

James was more amused than aggravated, but he wasn't going to let House sit there and lord it over him as House tuned every single string, so he finally sat up and grabbed the guitar back. The wood was uncomfortably cool against his skin, and he had to work not to wince as he resettled the instrument and rested a hand against the neck. "I know how to tune a guitar."

"And yet, you're sitting here playing sour notes," House said, clearly unconvinced.

James took the pitch pipe, picked G, and twisted the knob until the sounds matched. If House asked him to do anything more than tune it, he'd be screwed, but he'd spent enough time around his wife to learn how to fiddle with the little knobs. Perhaps his marriage hadn't been a complete waste of time, after all.

House looked almost impressed, and his tone was half-hearted when he said, "The neck is warped, anyway."
james.wilson  house.md  fiction 
february 2015
Basingstoke: The Day After Yesterday (NC-17)
He tried to be gentle, but there just wasn't a subtle way to slip your arm from under someone else's body. The guy--and James desperately tried to come up with his name--rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Hi," James said.

"Time for the Walk of Shame already?"

"Well, it's dawn." James tugged his arm out and sat up, rubbing the tingle out of his hand.

Gah, what was his name? He was a doctor at the hospital where James was interning, so this was going to be awkward anyway. Really awkward.

"Greg House. Infectious Medicine."

"Oh, I didn't forget," James said in a rush. "I was just thinking about my schedule."

Greg rolled his eyes. "It's too early in our relationship for lies. Now is when we have the awkwardly flirtatious small talk and scar investigation. What *was* that, anyway?" he said, poking James in the left buttock.

James jerked. "Uh. Soccer injury."

"Took one for the team?"

"Fell on a sprinkler."

"When?"

"Undergrad."

"See? *Now* we can move to long silences and attempts to flee the scene," Greg said.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction 
february 2015
apple-pi: Symptomatic (NC-17)
"I'm not nearly as pretty as Julie," House said afterward.
house.md  house/wilson  fiction  dead.link 
february 2015
alibi-factory: the slow pace of the body that skin is (PG-13)
He finds facial cream in the cabinet above the sink in his bathroom, hair gel and tiny scissors and nail clippers and shampoo that smells like flowers.

"You moisturize," he says as soon as Wilson comes home, before he's even taken his coat off.

"You read teen girl magazines," Wilson says. He lets his briefcase slip from his hand to the floor. "I'm not cooking tonight, nor am I calling for take-out. It's your turn to pretend to be a normal human being."

"Vogue is not a teen girl magazine," House says, but Wilson's already shut the bathroom door behind him.
house/wilson  house.md  fiction 
february 2015
alibi-factory: The Order (PG)
"What I'm really interested in," he said, swinging his cane on to the desk; "what I'm really interested in is your other record. Spent some time in Juvy, huh? What for? Drugs? Carjacking? Holding up a 7-11? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your secret's safe with me. Granted, this all was a very very long time ago, and you are of course entitled to move on with your life free of the stigma of crime. But like I always say, what's past is present."

He paused for breath. Sniffed, scrunched up his nose, tapped his fingers quickly against the desktop. "Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Yeah," Eric Foreman said. "Do I get the job?"

House gave him an almost appreciative smirk. "Nice. Sure, why not, take the job; I was sick of interviewing people anyway."
eric.foreman  house.md  fiction 
february 2015
alibi-factory: Heart of Oak (PG-13)
Chase made the mistake of telling House that his father owned a yacht. He'd almost winced in anticipation before House started talking about rum and pirate wenches, and then smiled in spite of himself, like he always does. Like now: some poor kid whose body is rebelling against him, and Chase knows it's something interesting because House has that glint in his eye, that same sharp insult on the tip of his tongue. Lively, now.


"Do you know what you're doing, or are you just making stuff up again? If you're wrong, the kid could - "

"Oh, don't wimp out on me now. Whatever happened to 'heart of oak', sailor boy?" House grins with more energy than is strictly needed.

Chase thinks about saying I haven't been at sea since I was twelve or maybe just it isn't funny anymore, but he shrugs, smiles, looks away: House has already moved on, awkwardly rushing ahead of him.
house.md  house/wilson  house/chase  fiction 
february 2015
alazysod: Conclusions (PG-13)
"Let me guess…you've either just committed murder and you need my help to bury the body, or you've been dumped by another wife," says House in mid-yawn.

Wilson looks up. "Wife."

"I figured." House is wearing a robe and leaning on his cane. The only thing he's missing is a pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth and a good scotch in his hand. "She kicked you out?"

"Yeah."

"Want a beer?"

"Yeah."

They walk inside. Wilson sits on the couch, suitcase on the floor, as House reaches into the fridge for two bottles of beer. He tosses one to Wilson, who twists off the cap and takes a long pull. House takes a seat in the armchair opposite the couch. Nobody speaks for a few minutes, and the only sound is the gulping of beer.

"How did she find out?" House asks.

"One of her friends," says Wilson. He swallows another mouthful. "Gossip gets around. I think she has a friend that has a cousin who works at the hospital."

House doesn't say anything. He's fumbling in his pocket, finally pulling out a white bottle. He pours pills onto his palm, swallows one, and puts the bottle onto the coffee table along with his beer. "There's a blanket in the closet if you want one."

"Okay." Wilson hadn't expected a deep, meaningful conversation about his soon-to-be ex-wife with House. That was why he came here. "Night."
house/wilson  house.md  fiction 
february 2015
aheartfulofyou: Explication of a Prefix (PG-13)
House nodded. “Do a drug screening, and go wipe some peanut butter on her arm.” Cameron looked skeptical, but all three of them turned to head out the door. Wilson took a glance at House, who looked thoughtful, rocking his chair back and forth on the back two legs, before:

“Hey!” The three turned to look at him. “Give her a bath, too.”

“A... bath?” He would’ve thought Chase would be used to such arbitrary instructions by now.

“And tell me what her hair looks like afterwards.” The team glanced at each other, and then went off down the hallway.

Wilson looked at House carefully, still not exactly sure, as always, how to fathom the way his mind worked. He turned up the volume on the TV, and House stole his chips bag, emptying the remaining crumbs into his mouth. At Wilson’s still-inquisitive stare, he gave a tiny smirk.

“You’ll see.”
house/wilson  house.md  fiction 
february 2015
shukyou: Our Lives in These Empty Spaces Aside (NC-17)
"So," she said, turning her attention to Galen but still speaking to Rainer, "when is he sitting for you?"

"Sit?" asked Galen, wondering if the conversation had somehow made the shift from cats to dogs.

Rainer's blue eyes went wide. "He's not ... he's not here for that."

"What am I not here for?"

Madame Prochazka swatted Rainer on the side of his arm. "I wish I had taped you the other day. Oh, no, Madame! Drawing people is so difficult! And I say, what? You practice! Life drawing. You stare at the sea for years, and you learn to paint the sea. You want to paint bodies, you need to stare at bodies."

"You need a model?" Galen asked.

"No," said Rainer, his voice pitching high, before he turned back to Madame Prochazka. "I will attend the sessions at the University."

"How many times have you promised me this? A thousand! How many times have you gone?" She held up her hand, fingers touched tip-to-tip in a clear zero, the answer to her question.

"I've been getting ready for a show--"

She made a noise so disgusted, Galen thought she might spit right there on the floor. "Excuses forever!"

Galen didn't want to stick his nose into this one; in fact, he had known since elementary school that to volunteer for anything was a fool's game, especially when it was for something he didn't understand. So when he heard himself saying, "We could do that," it was as though some alien force had possessed him for long enough to give his consent, then left him there to face the consequences.
original  slash  fiction 
january 2015
yavannauk: Goodwill To All Men (NC-17)
"Well?" snapped Klaus, eyeing the carrier and his agent both with equal misgiving.

"Sir," began G, "please understand that I did everything I could, but all the best costumes were already hired out."

Klaus sighed, his meagre patience waning still further. "Show me."

G swallowed audibly as he stepped forward and placed the bag on the desk. Carefully he began to unzip it. He was already mentally cataloguing his warmest outfits in anticipation of the major's probable response. He pulled the large carrier open and from it spilled a cascade of material - all of it an intensely offensive shade of red.

"What the fuck is that?" Klaus grated out at last.

G cowered back. "Your costume, sir," he replied miserably. "It was the only appropriate thing they had left in your size..."

"It's red," said Klaus, trying to keep his voice even and barely succeeding.

"I know." G hardly dared go on. "A Santa Claus suit generally is... sir."
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Kadorienne: Spring Fever (PG)
"Or I could leave all these petals in your hair. You do look rather charming, like a satyr or a faun."

The Major scowled again. "Get them out, then. And be quick about it."

Dorian followed the first instruction but not the second, pretending to be intent on his task while actually pondering the brief wariness in his darling's green eyes a moment earlier. It was a look he saw often, and it was most intriguing. It was not the look of a man expecting to have to fend off irritating and unwanted advances. It was the look of a man afraid of something in himself. And to Dorian's mind, that could only mean one thing.

His poor darling. Why was he so afraid of pleasure?

Klaus abruptly lost patience with Dorian's attentions and stepped away, brushing at his own hair vigorously, not looking at Dorian. Dorian sighed.

"There are times when I wish that I didn't love you," Dorian said wistfully, without thinking.

"I wish it all the time," Klaus snapped back.
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Joram: Moonlight Shadow (NC-17)
Hovering in the doorway, Dorian looked about apathetically, noting the changes in the room he had once known so well. Although little could be done to change its basic unwelcoming sterility, no longer was it quite the bare, functional place it had once been. Pictures hung on the pale walls and a photograph, presumably of its owner’s family, adorned the desk, whilst standing on one of the filing cabinets was a vase of flowers.

It was the roses, more than anything, that brought home to Dorian that this was no longer Klaus von Eberbach’s office. That a stranger sat in the chair where Iron Klaus, the terror of the German branch of NATO intelligence, had once sat and chain-smoked, glaring through the open door at his subordinates. And even they had changed. Some of the faces he recognised, Agents A, B, and Z and a handful of others - the inner core of Klaus’ Alphabet Soup - but many of the others were new to him. He wondered briefly where they had all gone but he didn’t allow it to matter to him for long. Nothing much mattered these days.

Not since Klaus von Eberbach had died.
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Sylvia: Peripeteia (NC-17)
Weddings. Klaus loathed weddings.

A car was coming up the driveway behind him. He'd heard the gate open a minute ago, but hadn't really paid attention. The realisation that he was neglecting to pay an appropriate amount of attention to his surroundings shook him from his unproductive brooding, and he quickly stubbed out his latest cigarette, got out of the car and was already striding towards the entrance with his suitcase in hand by the time the latest arrival pulled up behind him.

Klaus didn't turn around. He didn't care who it was and he didn't want to acknowledge their presence. If he did, he would have to greet them.

The butler opened the door just as Klaus set foot on the last step up to the portal, looking as staid and impassive as always. Klaus wondered how long the old man had been watching him from the pantry window.

"Sir," the butler intoned sombrely. "It is good to have both you and the Baron here again. Your father will be pleased to see you."

Klaus chose not to respond to the obvious lie. It was better to start this ordeal out on some kind of good foot.

"Hmm," he said instead in an only vaguely grumpy tone.
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
K. L. Fidelius: BROTHER OF THE SUN, BROTHER OF THE MOON (NC-17)
Eberbach gave a snort. “It won't be hard to guess Eroica's next mission, will it? Someone's sure to show him this, if he doesn't know about it already. What artist decided to immortalize that fop? Perhaps we should do the owner the favor of warning him to expect a robbery.”

“That's just it,” said the Chief. “It's not a piece of modern art, Major. Read the text.”

Eberbach's eyes moved to the facing page, where he noted for the first time the title of the journal: Modern Archaeology. Archaeology?

Inca Sun God read the description of the mosaic. A remarkable find in the Andes mountains of Peru.

The Major looked up, frowning. “What's this got to do with NATO?”

“Actually ... nothing,” replied the Chief. “It may have something to do with some very strange bedfellows, though.”

Eberbach got up, clenching his fists. “Don't talk to me about perversion!”

“I was speaking metaphorically,” his boss replied. “Leftist guerillas in South America and neo-Nazis from Germany have joined forces to run drugs into Europe.”

“Isn't that a mission for Interpol?”

“Haven't done much to stop it, have they? Eberbach, it was you and your friend Eroica —”

“Don't call him my friend!”

Ignoring the familiar interruption, the Chief continued smoothly, “ — who prevented the neo-Nazis from disrupting the peace conference in England. They have a grudge against both of you.”

“You think if Eroica goes to Peru to try to steal this ... archaeological find ... the neo-Nazis will try to kill him?”

“I think they released this photograph specifically to lure him there."
fiction  from.eroica.with.love  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Sandy K. Herrold: Calamity is Virtue’s Opportunity (NC-17)
"What are you doing here?" Klaus barked.

Fighting a desire to salute and click his heels together, he said, "Hoping to see you, my dearest Major." He didn’t mind being honest when truth was as likely to annoy Klaus as any lie he could think of. With a elegant flick of his wrist, he clicked their champagne flutes together and took a sip, as if they’d just toasted each other. Braced for a tastefully diplomatic version of Klaus’ usual abuse, he was surprised by Klaus’ absent "Stop that" and downright startled to have Klaus take his elbow and start guiding him around the ballroom. Dorian allowed himself to be led, enjoying the press of the crowd slowing their progress and occasionally driving them together.

They had nearly circumnavigated the party—Dorian refreshing himself anew from waiter-held salvers of champagne glasses as necessary, Klaus merely holding a glass—before Klaus began abruptly. "Dorian, I’ve heard rumors about you and the new Egyptian display at the National. I know how you love gold work, and how much a slave to your passions you are—"

Klaus’ frown on that line was the only detail that had rung true since Dorian had walked into the Embassy. Who had written this script? More importantly, who’d had the balls to teach it to Klaus? He wanted to laugh, and concentrated on Klaus’ nearness to stop the urge. Opportunities like this came too rarely to waste. "—ut you simply must not try to break in. The security is unbeatable, and I would hate the embarrassment of catching you and putting you in prison."
fiction  from.eroica.with.love  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Kay Reynolds: Angel (R)
"Well, here we are, locked up together again," Eroica said attempting a faint stab at humor. "It's getting to be a habit."

"Do not start with me," Klaus warned, as always, unamused. He began a more thorough exploration of their cell, checking for any possible avenue of escape.

Eroica watched him work and stayed out of the way. "What do you think King wants with the gold, Major?" he asked after a short interlude.

"Could be one of several things," Klaus said. "NATO's interested because it is an important historical piece that means a great many things to a great many people. Cole could hold out for the highest bidder. Or he could simply be interested in the gold alone."

"But you don't think so?"

"King Cole rarely extends himself to work for himself alone. He is a mercenary, always hired by others. We will have to wait to find out what he is really up to. Not that we have any choice."

The thief's blue eyes sparkled under long lashes. "We may not have to wait as long as you think. Look, when I stumbled against that guard, I picked something up – just for you."

Eroica pulled a lock blade knife for a hiding place in his shirt. He offered it up to the Major with the air of an ingenious child. Klaus took it from him, opened the long, thin blade. It was clean and sharp.

"So," the Major said. "I see you didn't lose all your brains."
from.eroica.with.love  klaus/dorian  fiction 
january 2015
Kay Reynolds: By Any Other Name (NC-17)
What an impossible fool he was! What a child, an idiot!

"He says he loves me and I hate him," Klaus told his reflection in the mirror over the bar. The Major was furious. Again. "Eroica is a genius in his field and I need him. He is brilliant, he is reckless - he takes far too many chances ... too many risks. He will get himself killed one day and-"

Klaus finished his brandy and poured himself another.

"That thief is making me crazy. What am I doing in here talking with myself at this time in the morning? I do not need this happening to me. No, I do not."

The Major found his cigarettes, took one, lit it and inhaled deeply. He dropped the flute into the pocket of his robe without another glance. Tomorrow, Klaus vowed, he would be rid of the damn thing - even if he had to throw it into the Rhine himself.

If only he could dispose of that obnoxious thief as easily.
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
BT: Cantiques de Noël (NC-17)
"Major?" said Dorian Red Gloria in an astonished whisper. "What are you doing here?"

Klaus stared blankly at him, wondering if this was another delusion of the night and cold. It was enough to make one think of fate. But whose? Finally he said, "Nothing. What are you doing here?"

"Celebrating the season. I didn’t feel like London this year, and the shooting lodge is comfortable. Is someone chasing you? Or are you hunting someone?" His eyes gleamed, perhaps with amusement.

Klaus stood on the threshold and thought about the questions. "No one is following me. Why do you ask?"

"Because," said Dorian, hands on hips, "you look like hell’s after you. Come in and let Monty close the door, for God’s sake."

For God’s sake and Monty’s, Klaus stepped into the warmth of the entryway. "Perhaps it is," he said, a little shaken. "But I’m not on a mission. I’m here by accident."

Dorian’s eyebrows rose. "Didn’t you just drop in because you were in the neighborhood?"

Klaus was beginning to wake up. Dorian and his house, however improbable, were real. The welcome was sincere. "If I’d known which neighborhood I was in, I’d have found another one. But beggars can’t be choosers." The warm air carried, as always near Dorian, the scent of roses.

Dorian, arm around Klaus’s snow-wet shoulders, gave him a sparkling glance. "What have you come to beg, Major?"
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
Filigree: Evening Star (NC-17)
“Herr Gloria, I will make no more such wagers with you.”

Dorian ventured a complex spin, ending plastered once more against the Major’s body. Concealed by their coats, he ventured an even closer contact, thrusting his hips forward. No answering passion tightened the other man’s abdomen, or swelled his groin.

Klaus snorted disdainfully, “Wanton.” His mask never cracked.

Dorian felt crushed. (Cold, bleak, stone-hearted man. Why do you have to be so beautiful? You either do have iron control, or none of this lavish body contact means a thing to you. I’d feel it, if you did. You don’t want to play--and now I don’t, either.) “Enough. You’ve proved your point, Klaus. Why should I bother? Leave, if you want.”

“I cannot.” Klaus had enough faith in his deadpan face and body, to let himself think: (It felt good, holding you against me. Without you guessing.)

“Why not?” Dorian asked, standing frozen on the dance floor. “Isn’t it what you want?” (I will not cry in public. You would just laugh at me.)

Klaus considered. (What do I want? I consented to the wager, so I must have wanted this.) The song wound down into a sultry clarinet solo. (I think I still want to dance.) But he and Dorian walked away from the dance floor. “I want nothing but my freedom,” said Klaus, “But I have an obligation to fulfill, first. I drove you here, Herr Gloria. I shall return you to your home.”

“Be happy, Major. You’ve won by losing. I’ll get my wrap.”
from.eroica.with.love  fiction  klaus/dorian 
january 2015
BT: Caged Flight: The Nightingale and not the Lark (NC-17)
"Eroica. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the new museum they’ve just opened on the Königplatz, would it?"

"Königsplein," said Dorian, absently. "How do you know about the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts?" His voice was full of interested surprise, but his delivery was a little artificial, Klaus thought.

"The Danish delegate wanted to see it. C and D escorted him, and Mr. C was kind enough to point out how much you would like it."

"Did he now?" Dorian tried a yawn, then snuggled back to the task of playing hands and lips over Klaus’s back. "He should know better than that. I can’t abide so much modern art. Not all in one place. Too much of it isn’t even trying to be beautiful."

"My men recall your attitude toward all art very well, Eroica. Remember that."

"I’ll be careful," promised Dorian, hands working delicately down Klaus’s spine.

"I want your word that you aren’t planning to steal anything in Brussels."

"I am not planning to steal anything from the Musée d’ Art Moderne. That’s the new building. Interesting architecture, by the way. Not bad."

"Or anything else?"

"Or anything else," said Dorian peaceably, pinching a tender spot. "Although there’s something right here that I like enough to visit again and again."
from.eroica.with.love  klaus/dorian  fiction 
january 2015
BT: Caged Flight: Le Coq d’Or (NC-17)
"Feeling better?" he inquired cheerfully.

The expected snarl of outrage did not materialize. The Major looked up from a Roman-style pool full of steaming water and foaming bath salts. " Yes."

"I guess you mean that." Dorian, seldom at a conversational loss, had to consider carefully how to handle unadorned truth. "Do any of those bruises still hurt?" He came around to look at the Major’s back, but it was the long, calloused hands that were scraped raw. "I see you tried to fight fairly."

"No," said the automatic voice. "I did my job."

Dorian filed away this nicety of the Major’s conscience for reference if need be. A further inspection convinced him the injuries were superficial, so he fetched mercurochrome—thinking of a Greek cliffside—and sat down to wait.

"Are you staying in here?" asked the Major, abruptly.

"Until I’m sure you won’t go to sleep and drown in the bathwater, yes. I should have thought of it earlier. Shall I," he asked with glee, "scrub your back?"
from.eroica.with.love  klaus/dorian  fiction 
january 2015
twentysomething: Phone, Please! (PG-13)
Have you ever realized after it was over that you were on a date?

He doesn't sleep well. He keeps waking up from half-remembered awful dreams and fretting until he falls back asleep. There are just -- so many reasons why it's not just a bad idea, but a terrible idea. He's worked so hard to get to a place where he feels like they're really friends that he doesn't want to risk that.

But when he thinks about the way Jack smiled, the warmth of Jack’s hand on his face, he wonders if some things aren't worth the risk.

He needs advice. He almost always asks his mother, but Eric thinks he'd throw up or explode if he tried asking her about this. So instead he asks Shitty.

He catches Shitty in the hall on the way to his morning beer and drags him into the room. "I think I went on a date with Jack last night," he blurts out.

"Okay," Shitty says, which is not the world-rocked reaction Eric was expecting. "How did it go?"

Really well is Eric's first gut reaction, but that's not the point. "Did you -- did you know this was a date?" he asks.

"I mean, Lardo and I basically took you guys on a double a month ago," Shitty says. "And Jack is pretty obvious about you, dude."

"What?" Eric says.
check.please!  fiction  eric/jack 
january 2015
spock: left the city, my family, my precinct (R)
Nutrition isn't overly hard. Jack's good with numbers, and from that point on it's easy to figure out his minimum caloric intake based on his body factors and the amount of energy hockey takes. It's basically what the team’s nutritionist at Samwell has been yelling at them all about since his freshman year.

Grocery shopping is a little harder, but not by much. The store they take them to has basically every type of grain known to man. Jack is so unexpectedly amused that he actually remembers to pull out his phone and take a picture. His first thought is to drop it into the team's group conversation, but he thinks the better of it just before it's too late. He doesn't need to give the whole team an excuse to chirp him.

Instead, he pulls open Snapchat and snaps it just to Bittle. Feeling accomplished, Jack stuffs his phone back into his pocket and grabs a few bags of rice with different grain lengths, and a box of funky colored pasta too.

When they get back to the kitchen at the rink and are waiting for ovens to preheat and water to come to a boil, Jack checks his phone and sees that Bittle's replied to the snap with a quick video of himself spazzing out, asking Jack a million questions that Jack can't actually hear, because he always keeps his phone on silent with the volume turned all the way down. Inexplicably, it makes Jack smile — a small piece of normalcy around all the new things that he's been learning, unexpected but welcome all the same. A couple of the guys standing nearest to him try to peak over Jack's shoulder to see what he's smirking about, so Jack thumbs off the screen of his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

His cooking attempt is a disaster, but Bittle's never been an asshole about stuff like that — or anything, really, not even when Jack's given him cause to — and Jack's still feeling good from Bittle's excited reply earlier, so he sends a picture of his failed pot-pie and subpar fried rice Bittle's way.
check.please!  fiction  eric/jack 
january 2015
Sophie: Hockeyed Up (R)
“Did you just tweet my email address?”

“Uhm,” Bitty says, eyes wide.

“Why did you think that was a good idea, exactly?”

“I... I don't really have that many followers?” Bitty answers, looking like he does when they have checking practices.

Jack sighs and doesn't even try to explain how much he does not care. “Delete it.”

“Yes. Sorry.” He pulls out his phone and presses keys for a while. “Some retweets have comments,” he says, and Jack gets from his tone that that is supposed to mean something.

“And?”

“They won't... get deleted when I delete mine.”

Jack purses his lips and thinks for a few seconds. If someone realises that the initial tweet is gone, it might turn into a story. It's not his personal email address, and he's not going to use it anymore next year.

“All right, leave it. But don't tweet any of my personal information again.”

“Sorry,” Bitty repeats, sheepish.

Jack nods and leaves to go work out.
check.please!  fiction  eric/jack 
january 2015
eyebrowofdoom: Sleeper (R)
‘You’ll wake up stiff,’ Tom scolded.

‘Don’t care,’ Peter said. His eyes were drifting closed again.

Tom got to his knees and put his arms around Peter, in the guise of coaxing him to his feet. Already the scent of Peter’s body was familiar to him – he could have found Peter’s coat in a cloakroom on smell alone. Somewhat to his surprise, Peter roused himself, and allowed himself to be helped up. Peter’s weight bore down on Tom’s shoulder as they made their way across the floor to the foot of the stairs leading to the bedroom. ‘Come up,’ Peter said. ‘The sofa’s too lonely.’ It was the dreamy way he had of speaking sometimes, amplified by his being half-drunk with sleep.

One of Tom’s anxieties was that the American detective, MacCarron, had not been convinced by Tom after all, and had remained behind in Venice to surveil him in secret, thinking that Tom would give something away now that he thought he was in the clear. He felt suddenly as though MacCarron were watching him now, and that Tom had better be very careful of what he said.

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ Peter said. And when Tom had confirmed he was, Peter embraced him in farewell, enfolded him full-bodied, chest to chest. Tom felt the rising of Peter’s clavicle as he breathed in as if it were a mechanism of Tom’s own body. In his half-asleep state, Peter was guileless as a child. This was what Tom imagined explaining to MacCarron.
talented.mr.ripley  fiction  tom/peter 
january 2015
Jane St Clair: Light (R)
Tom upright is a quiet affair. His slouch locks him away from people
except when he's seated at the piano, and then he doesn't admit anyone
into the space between himself and the instrument. Even his
occasional bursts of self-confidence have a brittle edge to them.

Tom laid out in their bed is different. Pale under the first-layer
tan he picked up on the southern beaches. Fine-skinned and freckled.
Soft, slightly curving belly. Lovely legs, marked with hair so pale
that Peter can detect it only by touch. A crooked smile that lights
when he's on his back, propped up slightly to watch the man kissing
him from sternum to navel. Radiant.
talented.mr.ripley  tom/peter  fiction 
january 2015
liketheroad: how we are hungry (R)
Bucky’s better than him at most things, and hiding his need for Steve is no different. The pull is the same but it manifests itself differently with each of them, their personalities shaping their need for each other and how they express it.

Bucky has no problem asking for what he needs, no trouble going after what he wants. He doesn’t need less than Steve, he’s just more comfortable asking for it.

Steve is stubborn, always fighting for the independence his body refuses to let him have. Proud, Bucky calls it. Selfish he whispers sometimes, into Steve’s skin, when he’s hidden himself away too long, until he’s huddled on the ground, tucked into himself in a ball by the time Bucky finds him. Bucky always knows where to look, where to find him, but when Steve wants to hide Bucky lets him, allows him that choice, that freedom, until it’s too painful for them both.

The hurt is different too, but it hits both of them whenever they’re apart for too long.
fiction  captain.america  steve/bucky 
january 2015
mardia: a lack of pretense (PG-13)
“Jack, come on now, wake up.”

Finally, he starts to stir, a soft groan escaping his lips. Phryne holds her breath, waiting until Jack’s eyelashes begin to flutter, his eyes finally opening to look at her, dazed. “Phryne,” he murmurs as he sees her, and Phryne lets out a shaky sigh of relief.

“Yes, Jack, it’s me.” She cups his face with her hand, as much for her own sake as to make sure his eyes are still on her. The lighting is awful here, but she’s sure his pupils are dilated--no doubt the result of whatever drugs have been pumped into his body.

“The gang--”

“Are all being arrested as we speak,” Phryne reassures him. “Hugh’s out there making sure of it.” She tries to smile, adding, “And, I’m sure, putting the fear of God into them all while he’s at it. He was so very worried, Jack. We all were.”

Her voice catches a little at the last, remembering that awful panic, Jack having disappeared and knowing the most dangerous gang in Melbourne had him, that they only had so much time before he was shot or strangled or bludgeoned to death, his body dumped in some alley or off into the sea.

He leans into her hand, and murmurs, “So you found me. Thought you would.”

Phyrne’s throat is too tight for her to speak at first, but she eventually manages to smile. “Yes. Of course I did.”
fiction  miss.fisher's  phryne/jack 
january 2015
Lenore: New Mutiny (PG-13)
"Jack!"

The voice reaches him first and then what sounds like—but can't be—the click-clack of a woman's heels. She appears around the corner of a barricade, an apparition in white: pale skin, a flash of white blouse. An incendiary rage burns through Jack as he imagines the desk-bound fool who thought sending nurses onto an active battlefield was a good idea. Before he can call out to her to get down, get out of here, go, his beleaguered brain sorts through the rest of the picture: the sweep of a well-cut coat, ruff of fur at her throat, the soft clutch of her hat against the sleek bob of dark hair.

She kneels down and touches her fingers, cool and gentle, to the burned strip of skin on his cheek. "I'm afraid your head seems to have taken the brunt of it. Gang wars aren't good for anyone's health."

Her voice is light, but the way she dabs at the grime on his face, sacrificing a pristine handkerchief to the cause, is exquisitely careful. He finds the concerned pinch between her eyes surprisingly touching given that he has no idea who she is.

"Jack," she says, leaning in, studying him more closely.

She smells of French perfume, something light and subtle that makes him think of weekend leaves spent in Paris. He's fairly certain that he's not in France anymore, however, and that might actually be funny if his head hurt just a little bit less.
miss.fisher's  phryne/jack  fiction 
january 2015
Fahye: fighting vainly the old ennui (PG-13)
"Miss Fisher?"

"Yes?"

"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Might I have a word?"

"Goodness, another policeman. And even more handsome than the last." The red shape of her mouth took on a coy angle. "Your charming young constable already took my statement, Inspector, but you're certainly welcome to take it again. Especially if you think I can be of any assistance to you. This Bowerbird! I hear we aren't safe in our beds!"

That name really wasn't going anywhere. Jack bowed to the inevitable. "Miss Fisher, the Bowerbird's tastes seem to run to jewellery. Not violence."

"Is it true, then, that the Bird only steals things that are blue?"

Jack folded his hands in his coat pockets and prayed for patience. "So far, madam, this thief has stolen one sapphire bracelet, one antique brooch shaped like a peacock, and now one triple-strand necklace of grey pearls. But apparently that's all the Melbourne press needs to give them a silly name."

Miss Fisher blinked up at him with thick-lashed, impertinent eyes. "You must be quite the expert."
miss.fisher's  phryne/jack  fiction 
january 2015
Sandrine Shaw: maybe tomorrow (maybe next year) (PG-13)
After Brad pulls the door shut behind him, Nate doesn't hear from him again. When his leave is over and there's still no word, Nate shoots off a text. I'd appreciate if you interrupted radio silence long enough to let me know you made it safely across the Atlantic.

He knows it's unnecessarily bitchy. It doesn't entirely surprise him when there's no response.

He tries calling Brad once, almost six months later. It's 2am on a crisp, cold winter night in Boston, which means that it's morning in the UK. Nate is back at his dorm after going for drinks with some guys from his Finance class. He's drunk and he's lonely and he misses Brad. He also knows from his military connections that Brad's assignment should be over and his unit is back at the base, so he dials Brad's cell phone.

A polite female voice tells him that the number is disconnected, and Nate realizes for the first time that this is it. They're really done.
generation.kill  fiction  brad/nate 
january 2015
riverlight: (Let's Be) The Boys Time Can't Catch (PG)
“Mr. Colbert, Nate Fick,” he says, and sticks out his hand to shake. The tiny office that the TAs use is small enough that Nate can do this without having to cross the room.

“Call me Brad,” Brad corrects. Nate is tall, with a lean runner’s body and short-cropped blond hair, and, Brad is curious to note, clothes that are just a little more formal than the standard undergrad frat-boy outfit without being overtly preppy: nice jeans, loafers, a button-down shirt under a v-neck sweater. Interesting. “What can I do for you, Nate? Come on in.”

Nate slides into the chair across from Brad’s desk. “I had some problems with the Gould readings,” Nate says.

“Okay,” Brad says, gesturing him to continue. Usually at this point students confess to not quite understanding the argument of whatever article they’ve been reading, and usually it’s due to a lack of contextual knowledge. Not that Brad blames them, precisely—he’s been repeatedly startled by the difference between the education he got at Friends versus the education a lot of these kids got, at public schools or otherwise—but he often has to tread carefully to figure out how to give them some suggestions without insulting their intelligence too badly.

“Well,” Nate says, “Gould focuses so much on hard power that he’s ignoring the way soft power shaped the exact military interventions he’s discussing.”

Brad raises his eyebrows. “Uh huh,” he says, and Nate leans forward in his chair. “Tell me more.”
generation.kill  fiction  brad/nate 
january 2015
Josselin: Just Talk (R)
“What would it have been like,” said Laurent, “if I had been your slave, in Akielos?” His finger caressed the inside of Damen’s wrist.

Damen laughed, keeping his voice pitched for the space between them. “I am sure you would have taken over the entire palace within a matter of hours.”

Laurent seemed to ignore that remark. “Tell me how it would have been. How are new slaves presented to the king?”

Damen looked at Laurent for a moment. Laurent’s expression was intent but his face seemed free of concern, his brow smooth. His eyes were wide and blue and met Damen’s easily.

“You want to hear about slaves in Akielos?” said Damen. It was not necessarily a pleasant subject upon which to think. When Damen thought upon the slaves who had been presented to him in the past, he was forced to remember that they had all been killed when he had been loaded in a ship for Vere.

Laurent’s finger stilled but kept pressure on Damen’s cuff; his tone was light. “I want to know how it would have been if I had been your slave in Akielos.”
captive.prince  fiction  damen/laurent 
january 2015
Josselin: A Game of Pretend (PG-13)
Despite all of Laurent’s explanations, Damen could not really picture what it would be like to have Laurent pretending to be his slave until it was happening.

Laurent was shockingly good at it. Damen did not know how he had learned the behaviors of an Akielon favorite: if he had had instruction, and if so, from whom, or if he had simply observed carefully in his way, and then applied what he saw to his own behavior.

In either case, it was startling. Laurent, who so often commanded the attention of whatever group he was in, now faded into the background, standing a step or two behind Damen and so quiet that Damen hardly noticed when he was present. He performed a slave’s duties as if he had been born to them and nothing could bring him greater pleasure, and when the slaves served at meals, he appeared next to Damen with cups of Damen’s favorite drink and plates of the choicest foods.

It was Damen who was failing to perform his role. Laurent was a submissive shadow, tending to Damen’s needs and doing nothing that would have ever caused the slave master Adrastus to frown. But Damen could not play Laurent’s master.
captive.prince  damen/laurent  fiction 
january 2015
Ximeria: A Roll in the Hay (NC-17)
"Can't hear 'em, but we better wait here for night."

Mal nodded and sat back, trying to get comfortable on the hay strewn wooden floor. "Neither of us have slept since yesterday. We've got around ten hours till dusk. Means about five hours of sleep for each."

Jayne grunted and shifted Vera around. "Can't sleep, too keyed up."

"I know what you mean," Mal sighed. "But we need rest."

"I need to blow some steam before I can get any shuteye," Jayne complained.

"You could always jerk off," Mal suggested, half in jest and feeling no less jittery.

Jayne watched him for a moment, obviously giving Mal's suggestion some thought. "There is that."
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Ximeria: Helpyourselfish (R)
"Now, normally you're not the tense kinda guy," Mal mused as he kept walking, slowly. "You normally don't need much in the way of blowing steam, 'cept normally you go out, find a whore or a bar brawl -- or both -- and come back fine."

Jayne turned his head a fraction.

"We've had these trips before, long periods of time and I've never seen you this tense before," Mal mused. "Question is what's gotten into ya this time around."

"Ain't nothin' gotten into me, Mal," Jayne said, his voice oddly tired.

Mal frowned a little. "You're angry," he said. More a statement than a question. "You never relax your guard."

Jayne stood perfectly still and Mal wondered if it might blow up in his face, but since he'd already launched his plan, he might as well go through with it. Zoë always did say he was a stubborn mule.

Problem was; Mal weren't none too sure he'd get out of it without some serious injuries.

"You need a fist fight?" Mal asked softly. "Only whore we got aboard is 'Nara, and she don't service the crew."

"Don't wan' her," Jayne said in a low voice.
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
voleuse: With Their Eyelids Shut (PG-13)
She makes the first move when he doesn't expect it.

One minute, he's explaining the difference between a triceratops and a stegosaurus, not because she asked, but because he thinks it's important to know.

The next minute, she's straddling his chair, her tongue is in his mouth, and he thinks his heart might slam out of his chest from the shock.

Given that, he thinks he recovers quite nicely.

*


The second time, he's just thankful the first time wasn't the fluke.
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
voleuse: Simply Perfectest (PG-13)
It's unfortunate, Wash thinks, that Zoe isn't a fan of dinosaurs.

He had halfway constructed an elaborate scenario, in which he created a lush, primordial diorama on the mess table, using molded protein to sculpt a volcano in the center of it. There might even have been choreography.

That was before she had noticed his stegosaurus balanced on the helm and rolled her eyes.

Upon reflection, he decides the volcano was too obvious a symbol, anyway.

Courtship of Zoe Plan #1: Thwarted.

But he isn't defeated yet.
firefly  zoe/wash  fiction 
december 2014
velvetandlace: Like Breathing (PG)
Zoe couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when Wash stopped being irritating and became endearing. It was just natural. World is what it is, and Zoe found herself in love with Wash.

Could be to do with his patience, his determination. He never pushed, never forced his obvious emotion onto her. Just made himself a constant presence; jokes and clever quips. And the quiet glances, all concerned-like, that Mal and the others never really noticed. As Zoe grew accustomed to him, she found all the quirks...Welcoming.

Wash knew she was strong (wasn't a person on the ship that didn't know that right from steppin' on it), and he was happy to let her be commanding and realistic and terse. But when the door closed in their quarters, he let her gently shed the reservation and really feel. She was never going to stop being surprised about how gentle he was with her. No one was ever gentle with her - they all figured she didn't need it.

Sometimes she needed it more than anything else in the 'verse.
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
van donovan: Took the Sky (PG)
“You told me t’give it a go and if it didn’t work out you’d see what else you could do.” He shrugged and turned around to look at Mal. “So, here I am. Didn’t work out so well.”

Mal turned to face him, holding the now empty feed bucket. “Jayne, it’s been well over a year since I told you that.”

Jayne shrugged. “Yeah, well, I tried hard t’make it work.” He looked around the stable. “And it took me near a month just to track you down.” He touched one the walls. “Nice place,” he added. “Don’t imagine y’get much business out here though.”

Mal was aggravated. He was cold and hungry and rather sleepy. He was sore from sleeping on the ground and riding all day. He wanted a little peace and quiet, not to be explaining things to a man with half a brain. “I like being alone, Jayne,” he stated, rather forcefully. He turned on his heels to get more feed for the rest of the horses.

Jayne grinned and nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
mal/jayne  fiction  firefly 
december 2014
Van Donovan: Sock Thief (PG-13)
“Something wrong?”

“Think we got bugs, sir,” she stated. Off his confused face she elaborated: “In the laundry machine.”

Mal arched an eyebrow. “Well, have Kaylee take a look at it?”

Zoe glanced to Wash, who was smiling beneath his little mustache but not interrupting the conversation. Her eyes returned to Mal. “Did, sir. She said there’s nothin’ wrong.”

Mal crossed his arms and cocked a hip. “Then why do you think there’s a problem?”

Zoe seemed to hesitate a moment, debating whether or not she wanted to speak about this with the pilot present, but then she nodded. “I’ve got no socks, sir.”

Mal broke into a grin. “What?” He laughed very lightly.

Zoe didn’t find this funny. “They’re missing. Every time I do a load they don’t turn up. Just lost my last pair.”
zoe/wash  fiction  firefly 
december 2014
Somedeepmystery: Comfort (R)
“Zo, you in there?” She didn’t answer but he could see enough of her outline through the deformed glass to know it was her. He pulled it open a crack and looked inside. Zoë leaned against the wall, her saturated curls stretching with the weight of the water forming a long curtain that shielded most of her upper body. “You alright, Baby?” he asked, brow furrowing in concern. She didn’t respond vocally, but simply turned to look at him.

There wasn’t much to read in that beautifully stoic face, but he’d had six years of practice. The hard set of her jaw told him of her anger and frustration, the almost imperceptible, sardonic down turn at the corner of her lips told him she was worried, but her eyes told him everything else. While she had the ability to make those gorgeous orbs as unreadable as endless black space, this time she didn’t hide what was there. Everything she couldn't carry alone she shared with him in those rich, dark eyes.

Wash stripped out of his clothes and stepped inside with her in record speed. The space was cramped with two, and Zoë stepped back into the water a bit. Naked, and standing on bare feet, he actually had two inches on her. It had been so long since he’d stood naked with his wife that he’d nearly forgotten.
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Somedeepmystery: Collisions (PG-13)
It was a small white box, simple and unassuming. The card it came with, still attached, bore her name in familiar handwriting. Not that she’d admit to any but herself that she recognized that annoying little gadfly’s handwriting. Bu ke jiu yao de sha zi of a man.

How had he found out about this particular yen of hers? The man seemed harmless enough at first, in a completely off putting, goofballish sort of way, but he could be irritatingly observant at times. She had only stopped for a moment to look at the small offering of fruit that had graced the tiny, unsanctioned farmer’s market on the last border world they’d visited. But she had stopped, and wished for a moment that she hadn’t needed to spend all her coin on more important things like ammo and gun oil, and new boots. As much as she prided herself on the care she gave her weapons, there was still a part of her that cried out every once in awhile, demanding that it wanted to be just a little frivolous.

She supposed she was glad of it really, that it hadn’t been burned clean out of her in the war, and that beneath the hardened soldier, there was at least still part of a woman. Flesh and blood. So many people had lost all hope and humanity in the long drawn out battles waged on planet after planet, the odds against them in their fight for freedom. Even those that didn’t lose their lives often lived as though they had. She didn’t want to be one of them; she wanted something left the Alliance hadn’t taken.
zoe/wash  fiction  firefly 
december 2014
skripka: Vignettes (R)
"Not the smoothest take-off," Zoe states from her perch near the storage locker. That voice alone is enough to create a visceral reaction. He's turning red, he can feel it.

"Not my gorram fault. Engine's needing some work." He feels judged, he feels watched, but most of all he feels anxious. Why is she still here? Is he going to get punched, or shot or something? At least, he figures, if Zoe kills him, her face will be the last thing he sees. Now, isn't that a shiny thought, he thinks.

The stars beckon her closer, and he can feel the flush move to the back of his neck. He's refusing to look at her. And he's willing to bet a pack of protein that she's not looking, either.

"You wrote that note, today." It's a statement. She never questions.

"Yeah."

"Do you mean what you said?" Well, almost never.

"Yeah," and he's feeling reckless, what the hell, let's spin languidly in the chair, and .... wow. There are her eyes, deep and dark, and looking straight at him. Zoe's toying with something in her hands, but her eyes hold him like a magnetic grappler. "Um," finding his voice, barely, "Is that a problem?" He is so going to either die or get thrown off Serenity.

"Still trying to decide," dry as ever, when suddenly she leans in, and brushes her lips over his. Startled, he half rises out of the chair, and deepens the kiss suddenly. Her gasp is electric, and he falls back, stunned. Zoe has a bemused smile on her face.

"Next time," she purrs as she hands him the triceratops, "that moustache had better not be there."
firefly  fiction  zoe/wash 
december 2014
Gigi Sinclair: Orange Plaid (R)
Jayne had worked for a lot of folks, and none of them was like Mal. Most of them were black-and-white, legitimate-or-criminal (most usually criminal), fight-for-your-share-or-get-it-stolen-while-you-sleep cut-and-dried types, which wasn't always shiny, but at least you knew where you were. A few of his bosses had been greyer, folks who picked up jobs on both sides of the law, robbing old ladies one day and giving money to abused dogs the next. That was fine, too, because Jayne's philosophy of life was you could do whatever the gorram hell you wanted as long as you paid him in full and on time. Mal was none of those things, though. In a black, white and grey world, Jayne thought, Mal was bright orange plaid.

With a grunt, Jayne set the barbell back onto its supports and sat up, peeling off his T-shirt and using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He'd been working out extra hard since the thing on Ariel, partly because both the doc and his nutcase sister had taken to looking at him like he was the last bullet in a shop full of six-shooters, and Jayne liked to look good when he knew he was being looked at. The other reason was because Ariel had shown him just how little he knew about Mal.

He'd been crazy, trying a double-cross, but Jayne hadn't seen any other choice. It wasn't just about greed, although the money would have been nice if he'd ever gotten a look at it. It was about boundaries, and Jayne needed to know where they were. He figured Mal would either not notice, or he'd find out and kill him. Either way would have worked for Jayne, but once again, Orange Plaid Mal showed up and did something completely different.

Mal found out and not only didn't kill him, he didn't even dump Jayne on the nearest backwater planet, or turn him over to the feds. He hadn't even told the doc, and that made Jayne feel worse about the whole thing. Not only did he have a kind of painful feeling in the back of his head that he thought, after a couple of subtle talks with the preacher, might be guilt, but Jayne was even more nervous about the captain than he'd been before. If you didn't know what a guy was going to do, Jayne knew, then chances were, he would stab you in the chest while you were busy watching your back.

And Jayne never knew what Mal was going to do---about anything.
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
inlovewithnight: Cupid (PG)
Jayne couldn't quite remember who came up with this idea, but it was a good one. A damn fine idea. Downright shiny, in fact.

Well, if he thought about it for a minute, he could remember. And look at that, he had a minute right now, from when the waitress took the empty mugs away from him and Mal to when she brought them back again nice and full.

Yeah, now he remembered. It was Zoe's idea. Wash and Zoe's, but she was the one who handed him the money and said he could have the same amount over again if he kept Mal at the bar till sunrise.

That sure as hell wouldn't be a problem, he thought with a grin as the waitress set the next round of drinks on the table. The beer was cheap and the girls were pretty- there wasn't nothing like that back on Serenity.
firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Philomel: If All the World (PG-13)
He bothered her.

It wasn't so much about anything in particular, or even anything in general. He was just ...

Too irreverent, too glib, too compassionate, too ...

Maybe it was the insouciant smile, or the incessant quips, or those silly dinosaur toys that littered the bridge.

Maybe it was his ability to make a damned fine cup of coffee, or his need to always be in on every joke, or the slightly insecure quaver in a voice that was always rocksolid in a crisis.

Maybe it was the way he looked at her.

He just bothered her, was all.

Mal thought she was being ridiculous, and ignored her various complaints, until she kept quiet about them. He was the pilot, she was the first mate, and they had to find a way to work together. That was that.

And then it changed.
firefly  zoe/wash  fiction 
december 2014
musesfool: Tending to Grace (PG-13)
Grace is a farming town on Angel, not far from the foothills of the Corpus Christi Mountains. It's small, but growing, and the people there are mighty glad when the new doctor arrives. He's a bit stiff, but they figure it's 'cause he's young, and used to the more formal ways of the central planets. He's awful handsome--some of the local spinsters were all excited when he waved the town elders to accept the job; they spent weeks getting the little white house ready for him and dreaming about what it'd be like to live there.

They were a mite disappointed he'd brought a wife with him. She's a pretty little thing--good with animals and children, if prone to odd fits and starts on occasion. She likes to dance around barefoot, and she carves poems into the dirt with a stick sometimes, and little Danny Griffin swears one evening he saw her shoot a coyote a hundred yards away without even looking, but everyone knows that kid's a born liar.

Dr. Tanner says it's because she was ill for a long time, and she's still recovering. The ladies think it's sweet how devoted he is to her, and she to him.
firefly  fiction  river/simon 
december 2014
musesfool: Love is a fool star (R)
She pushes him down onto the bed, and eases open his shirt, blood red nails flicking quickly over the buttons.

"Mal, Mal, Mal," she whispers, as if his name is some kind of mantra and she's meditating on him like he's the road to nirvana.

He kind of likes that thought. Likes the feel of her hands, too, gentle against his chest, brushing above and below the white bandages the doc wrapped him in.

"You stupid man," she mutters, and that sounds more like the Inara he's used to, makes him sure she knows who she's with, but then her lips, those lush, red lips he's been dreaming of for the past year, press against his and she's kissing him, no art in it at all, just soft heat and ragged breathing. She tastes of tea and lipstick and desire, better than anything he's ever imagined, and he's imagined a lot in the year she's been renting his shuttle.

He wraps his arms around her, ignoring the stinging pain, and tangles one hand in her hair, which is softer even than the silk she's wearing.

"I got shot," he says when she pulls back.

"You could have died," she answers, her nails bright against his bloodless skin, the stark white bandages. "You could have-- And then we'd never have-- You stupid, stupid man."
mal/inara  mal/jayne  mal/kaylee  mal/zoe  mal/river  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Mosca: Something in Leather (R)
"So," she said. "Whatcha got your eye on, over there?"

"Oh, nothing," he said. "An outrageously expensive present for Zoe. "

"Show me," Kaylee said.

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "They're just-"

"Come on," she said.

"All right," Wash said, and he led her over to the table.

She lit right away on the gloves he'd chosen - apparently, they were just the thing for Zoe. "Re gai si," she said. She stroked the leather with her fingertips, and Wash felt like he was somehow cheating on his wife. "But you ain't got enough for 'em?" Kaylee said.

"All I've got are myself and my skills," Wash said, "and there's not much demand for comically gifted man-whores on this moon."
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Mosca: Shone a Light and Called It a Star (NC-17)
"All I'm saying is," Jayne said, "it's high time you picked up and moved on. In my estimation. Not that my estimation's ever counted for a hill of beans 'round here."

"It counts," Mal said. Before Jayne could start listing examples of how it really didn't, Mal added, "It counts as far as I weigh it in my head for a couple seconds before deciding you're wrong as usual."

"Well, maybe you oughta weigh this one longer," Jayne said, getting up for more coffee.

"You know, someday, you're gonna say something smart, and I'm really gonna regret not listening to you," Mal said, not sounding the least bit genuine. He had a way of making it so anything Jayne could think of to say would come out sounding stupid as hell.

But Jayne wasn't good at not talking. "Grenades," he said.

"Grenades?"

"I was right about the grenades. On Lilac," Jayne said.

"Who knows?" Mal said. "Someday, maybe you'll be right again."
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Mosca: Different For Girls (R)
Zoe was in love with the pilot, and she wasn't at all happy about that. It was true, she'd been the one to start courting him, but she hadn't expected things to go this far. She'd hoped for a few weeks' distraction: a way to get him out of her head, and a way to convince him that those longing looks he cast in her direction weren't worth the energy it took to keep his eyes open. A misguided plan, to be sure, but she hadn't been thinking clearly. She'd been thinking about his body under hers.

The pilot had a name. He'd informed her of that fact after his first month on board, in the context of being sick and tired of hearing her refer to him constantly and disparagingly as "the pilot." She'd told him that she would refer to him as she pleased, and he would learn to like it. It had sounded convincing when she'd said it, and he'd seemed convinced.

Now, she was doing the convincing, and the person who needed convincing was herself. It had become a lost cause, this campaign to keep thinking of him as the pilot, because the pilot had a beautiful name, and she wanted to stretch it out like taffy while she held him down naked on her bed. James Washburne Warren, Junior. While he protested that she ought to come up with something shorter, and "Wash" would do him fine if she had no objection, she considered other possibilities: sweetheart, bao bei, husband.

She liked the sound of "husband." If she'd still been capable of fear, that would have frightened her.
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Mosca: Camp As a Row of Little Pink Tents (NC-17)
Jayne was in his bunk, spit-shining his boots in the most repulsive possible manner. "Thought you said you didn't need me for this job," he said. "Thought you was fixing to leave me behind with the womenfolk."

"Well, Simon's had a sudden fit of insecure in his masculinity," Mal said. "It's a two-man job. If you don't go, we gotta give up the opportunity."

Jayne shrugged and spit onto his boot. "I'm in."

"Ju da de niu shi de dui," Mal said. "There some reason you're so eager to go on this job?"

"Can't work out why you'd even take Simon," Jayne said. "No weapons at Aduvani, I woulda figured you'd want someone who could land a punch." He sounded almost like he wanted to go. It sounded almost like he was motivated by reasons other than greed.

"All right, then," Mal said. "You're in. We got an appointment with Inara's tailor soon as we get to Persephone."
mal/jayne  fiction  firefly 
december 2014
Moonloon: The Rules of Engagement (R)
They got rules. The first rule is that they don't ever talk about it. The second rule is that it never happens on Serenity. The third rule is no kissin' on the mouth. And the fourth rule is that Mal ain't the captain in bed.

~

It started one night on Persephone. Mal and Jayne got drunk in some dive that actually had decent booze, and it just seemed like sense to get a room upstairs rather than stagger back to Serenity. In the morning, when Mal was nursing a bruised ass along with his hangover, and Jayne was looking in horror at the bite marks on his chest, they blamed each other. That's when the first rule came into effect.

"Two people can keep a secret. If one of 'em is dead," Jayne said conversationally.

"You ain't going to kill me, Jayne," Mal said, wincing as he pulled on his pants. "Serenity's the best berth you'll get. And much as I'd like to right now, I ain't going to kill you either."

Jayne shrugged and that was it.
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Moonloon: To See the Best (R)
She doesn't like him, the new pilot... Wash. And what sort of name is Wash anyway? But Mal needed a pilot, and this one seems capable, and more importantly, willing to sign on. Zoe knows why he signed on. She saw it in the way he sneaked looks at her as Mal interviewed him. She also suspects that Mal had her there as bait, and that's annoying.

So Zoe waits for the inevitable come-on. She's had plenty of practice at shooting men down; she's been doing it since she was twelve and the only female in Zephytus military outpost. She amuses herself by imagining how she'll do it: a long diatribe about how she wouldn't if he were the last man alive, or a curt explanation about not fraternising with the 'hired help', perhaps just a dismissive 'no' before he's even finished asking.

The fantasies are so entertaining that Wash has been aboard for a week before Zoe notices he hasn't actually said anything to her. She's peeved, she was looking forward to crushing him like a beer can. That night at dinner she watches him. He chews on the vaguely meat-like protein with the same suppressed disgust as everyone else, but he's still sneaking looks at her. She looks back, and he drops his eyes.

Interesting.
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Macha: Embracing a Life of Crime (PG-13)
"Things devolved into shooting," Wash surmised.

"Right. Gunplay, threats, the usual."

Wash leaned a little closer. "The usual?" he prompted. Because he wasn't a big fan of guns. Didn't really like them being pointed at him or anyone he liked, or anyone at all, really. So it was a little worrisome to hear that guns might be a recurring theme of life on Serenity.

Zoe watched him closely. "There's still quite a bit of tension out among the border planets."

"Right," Wash agreed.

"It pays to protect yourself," she noted, shifting so that the really big-ass gun at her hip drew his attention.

Much as he disliked guns, something about the confident way she wore the thing was compelling, and Wash found himself nodding his head with enthusiasm. "Yes. Definitely. Protecting yourself is good. Did you call the local law?"

"Was the local law doing the shooting," Zoe answered, the barest of smiles quirking her lips.

"Ah," Wash continued, somewhat distracted by a rare sighting of Zoe's smile, "so we are criminals." Not that he had a problem with the concept, generally speaking. After all, they were probably very Robin Hood about the whole thing -- stealing from the Alliance to give to the border planets had a certain appeal to it.

"We?"

Wash shrugged. "Sounded less accusatory."
zoe/wash  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
Kira: An Angry Blade. (R)
There’s Mal, who confuses him a bit. Mal is smart. Not so much smart. Clever, that’s the word. He’s got a quick mouth and a quick hand and quick eyes. He’s always noticin’, always thinkin’, always lookin’ for opportunities where most folks wouldn’t see ‘em. Jayne likes that, they’re good qualities for a ship’s captain to have, but this bothers him too because other captain’s have been clever, and Jayne knows how it goes. One day he’ll be clever enough to find some better muscle and Jayne’ll be out, stranded on some moon without a gorram thing to his name.

Which is why he always does the double-crossin’ first.
mal/jayne  firefly  fiction 
december 2014
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