Ruric's Den

Sanctuary - Firefly/Angel the Series (Simon/Angel) for maleslashminis

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 02:19:33 GMT

Title:: Sanctuary
Author: ruric
Fandom: Firefly/Angel the series
Pairing: Simon/Angel
Written for: The Simon round at maleslashminis for Meltha bookishwench who wanted Simon/Angel, a clock, someone laughing, Angel's tattoo mentioned.
Rating: PG
Word count: 2458
Disclaimer: They’re not mine. Thanks to ely_jan for a speedy beta. As ever all mistakes are mine.
Summary: Set shortly post Serenity, Simon finds a way to deal with his grief.
Author’s note: I’m rather making the assumption that if Angel has been around post the fall of LA and the migration from Earth That Was he’s found a way to enable him to live more normally and pass for human.

Sanctuary

They’ve been coming here to this house on the hill for years now.

It’s a long way past the back of beyond, even for the isolated worlds that make up the Outer Rim – but it’s always been easy to hide here. Well away from regular Alliance patrols, if they’d been in this sector of space it had never been difficult for them to sneak in and lie low for a few days or a week – take the time they needed to lick their wounds and muster their resources before heading on out.

They hadn’t come here often and when they had they were usually running hard from something.

The front of the house stands on a small hill, looking out over the expanse of the valley and the good, rich pasture land, and you can see company approaching for miles. Behind the house are the guest quarters and bunk house, and the barns and corrals nestle in a hollow, beyond those are the gardens. Formal planting and the fenced in kitchen garden give way to scrub woodland leading to the foothills and the deep gully where, under Wash’s instruction all those years ago, they’d rigged a fairly simple but extensive arrangement of camouflage. The gully is big enough to hide Serenity and only a couple of miles from the house, and whenever they come here there are always horses or a rig waiting to make the journey back so much easier on a tired crew.

Foothills grow rapidly taller leading to the mountain range which seems to almost enclose the house in its embrace, and those mountains give more protection than they’ve ever needed. Three days ride from town, the danger of anyone noticing them around has always been slim and the man who lives here and his hired hands have been nothing if not discreet.

They aren’t running now nor are they mustering resources.

Mal has retreated into a stony silence, the warmth that heated his eyes has dimmed and turned to icy rage. The whipcord tenseness of his body belays the silence, and more than once Simon has heard the sound of china shattering, of a fist connecting with wood. Inara follows him as closely as his shadow, always a few steps behind, her once graceful movements gone jerky and fragile. When his shoulders slump she leans in close, a hand placed carefully in the center of his back, words whispered soft and low into his ear.

Jayne spends his time with the hired hands.

This manifests in sessions of target practice with guns and knives, and Simon has had more than one occasion to stomp away, furious at Jayne’s obliviousness. He never seems to notice how they all flinch with each shot discharged or at the solid thunk of metal into wood – all of them but River. She is entranced with Jayne’s collection of weapons, and she follows him as closely as Inara follows Mal. Quiet and watchful, she sometimes reaches to snatch a gun up before Jayne can get to it, to load, cock and fire, always hitting the target dead center before dropping a curtsey and handing it back with a small secret smile.

Simon doesn’t know what Zoe and Kaylee do.

He’s barely seen them this last week – sometimes he hears horses leaving early in the morning just as the sun is rising, and they don’t come back until well after sunset. Other times he hears the sound of crying from Zoe’s room, overlain with the soft sounds of Kaylee’s voice muttering nonsense words and he’s leaned against that door many time, his forehead resting against smooth planed wood, wanting to go in but he has no idea of what he could say to either of them.

Simon’s never handled death well.

His job was to heal, to save and he’d been brilliant at it. But when he lost a patient, when fate or fortune tore one from his grasp he’d never really known what to say, how to offer comfort.

He could mouth some pretty and appropriate words easily enough, he knew how to say the ‘right’ things, but none of it ever helped the people around him. It didn’t back then and it won’t help now. The crew have all been damaged by the loss of Book and Wash and there’s nothing under this sky or any other that he can do to fix that. The remains of the only man who might’ve been able to offer them all words of comfort lie high up in those hills.

Today he’d had to get away from the house and the aura of pain that seemed to have settled around it.

He’d ridden up into the hills, to the plateau where the graveyard, if it could be called that, nestled on the canyon’s edge. The small memorials to Wash and Book had been placed out towards the edge of the plateau, and he’d like to think if there was anything beyond the finality of death that they’d both be happy with this place.

A view across the canyon to the wide horizon and beyond; it should be enough to satisfy Wash’s need to see open sky and Book’s pleasure in exploration. He’d spent an hour there, whilst the sun rose to its zenith, trying to find the words to say goodbye to men who’d become his friends – but in the end there were no words, just memories of shared experiences and the times they’d had. He lacks Book’s faith and the universe has never given him a sign to show that there might be something beyond what he can see and feel.

By the time he finally rides around the back of the barn, he’s tired and grubby, the pristine white shirt he’d donned this morning turned almost the color of rust by the layer of dust it has attracted. Cotton clings wetly to his skin between his shoulders, in the small of his back and under his arms. His throat is dry, his eyes sore and his scalp itches, but he knows better than to see to his own comforts first.

Everything is quieter than usual as he dismounts and leads the horse into the barn. There’s no sign of anyone else, so he removes saddle and bridle, rubs the horse down, because although Jayne would laugh and Mal would, in better times, have teased him about getting his lily white hands dirty, he knows how to look after a horse.

He settles the horse and cleans the tack, partly to do something that will keep him away from the house for a little while longer, but also because he cares about his own instruments so why would he not care about cleaning these? And there’s grease on his hands and a slight smile twisting his lips when he realises he’s constructing refutations to a convoluted argument with Jayne in his head just for something to keep his mind occupied.

The soft clip of hooves over packed earth stills his hands and brings his head up and he finds himself look straight at bare skin.

A taut belly above jeans and a leather belt and he feels the flush heating his cheeks as he keeps on going, because to stop now would be just too embarrassing. Waist flaring out to the broadness of chest, the hollow at the base of a strong neck, a well shaped chin, and past lips that are curving into a small smile even as he looks into the deep brown eyes of the man who has given them sanctuary so often before.

“Breaking horses is hard work, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

Simon’s tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, because it cannot be right that all he wants to do is place his hands on tanned skin, to feel muscles shift and move. And for a moment he’s dizzy with hunger and need, until he can tear his eyes away, to look down where his fingers have closed tight on the saddle, nails digging into leather.

“Angel.”

He swallows hard and if he believed in prayer he’d ask God to make Angel not see, not answer the look that he knows was painted so clearly on his face.

Angel steps into the tack room, settling a clean halter back into its place and Simon is conscious of every move he makes, but he keeps his eyes on the saddle, forces his hands to unclench and smooth the polish into the leather, and his fingers aren’t really shaking with each stoke.

“Simon.”

The sound of his name breaks his concentration, pulls his gaze from the saddle to Angel’s face, and his hands stutter to a halt. He flinches reflexively when cool fingers close around his wrist, and the saddle is pulled from his grasp to be returned to its rightful place in the room.

“Come up to the house, you look like you need a drink.”

The hammering of his heart is loud in his chest and he doesn’t recall moving or standing, doesn’t know what makes him move his feet to follow – only knows that he couldn’t stop this now any more than he could stop what happened to Wash.

Boots kick up dust as he follows Angel from the barn to the house, and all he sees is Angel’s broad back and the intricate ink decorating one shoulder.

He’d seen drawings from old books, supposedly from Earth That Was, back in his father’s library, had spent hours with River, their heads close together as they’d poured over the stories, of myth and legend. He knows what a griffin looks like, but he’s never seen one impressed upon flesh before, and his eyes are trying to make sense of the overlapping spirals and curls of ink. He only realises they’ve reached the house when his boots thump down onto wood rather than dirt, and the beating heat of the sun is replaced by the coolness of the interior of the house, his boots scuffing softly over a thick carpet as he’s led into a study.

The study takes his breath away, makes his belly clench with a wave of homesickness and loss.

On either side of the fireplace is a huge glass fronted bookcase crammed from floor to ceiling with books of all shapes and sizes, and his fingers itch to touch, to feel paper under his hands and read. And for just a moment he’s not here but he’s back there. Back in his father’s house when life was simple, when River was still River, before she went away, back to a time when he had hope – and he sees that room not this. Shelves of textbooks and encyclopedias, their rich leather bindings and gold leafed lettering glistening in the firelight on a winter evening, River’s head bent over her work and even then she was years ahead of him. His bright, brilliant little sister.

The coolness of glass pressed into his hand and the smell of whiskey catches at the back of his throat and shatters his trance, bringing him back. He uses the steady tick-toc of the clock on the mantelpiece to try to get his ragged breathing under control. Blinking hard, he takes a long swallow of whiskey to ease the ache in his throat, letting its acid bite roll down into his belly even as he turns his back, one hand waving towards the shelves he’s trying to ignore.

“Nice collection.”

“I’ve been putting it together for....a while.”

Simon’s out of his depth, made claustrophobic by the things he’s trying to ignore. The books are a reminder of a life he’ll never have again, a life he’s not so sure he’d want anymore. The closeness of the half naked man next to him brings a bitter taste to his mouth at the thought of what he could have, if only he knew the right words.

He can’t look at the books, not yet, nor at Angel so his gaze finds the one remaining wall covered in pictures and half-finished sketches. Pencil sketches that barely give an impression, drawings in pen and ink, watercolor canvases and oil paintings. He can’t help but move closer to see more detail. A young girl, a tumble of honey blonde hair falling over her shoulders; two darker haired girls, one with a body made for sin and dark shadowed eyes; a tall man with short hair pouring over a table of books; a black man dressed in loose clothes and holding what looks like an axe and then dressed in a suit; another man playing a guitar, his head tipped forward to almost hide his face, and next to it the same man, wearing a suit and looking angry.

“Who are they?”

Compelled to ask regardless of how rude he might seem, not caring that he’s transgressing his own boundaries of good manners.

“People I once knew.”

Angel’s voice is soft and filled with regret, and Simon watches as he reaches out, fingers touching gently the frame of one picture, brushing carefully across the face of the blonde girl caught forever under glass.

“They were lovers, colleagues, friends.”

The same faces and figures are frequently repeated, looking a little older and a little more tired, and there are other faces, too.

A delicate looking dark haired girl, a teenaged boy, a beautiful, fragile looking woman and the guitar playing man again, this time with no shirt, his body covered in symbols. This time when Simon feels the blush heat his cheeks he doesn’t look away, but turns from the picture of the body sprawled across a rumpled bed to look into Angel’s face and search his eyes.

“And him? Was he a lover or a friend?”

Angel’s laugh is soft, his lips twisting into a bitter attempt at a smile and Simon wants to reach out and soothe away that pain.

“Both...neither. Probably even an enemy. I’m not sure it really matters anymore.”

Simon swallows the last of his whiskey, sets his glass down carefully feeling the liquor it curl warm fingers into his belly, and his muscles relax.

“Does it ever get any easier?”

“What?”

“Losing people. Losing the people who’re important.”

“No...it doesn’t.” The words are almost whispered as Angel leans in close, his breath stirring against Simon’s mouth. “It never gets any easier, but I can make you forget how much it hurts just for a little while.”

Simon’s fingers close on skin he’s been aching to touch, and he feels muscles shift beneath his hands.

Angel's mouth is warm; his kiss, flavoured by whiskey is as hungry as Simon’s own, and if a little while is all they can have?

Then it will be good enough for now.

Beyond All Expectations - Firefly (Mal/Simon) for maleslashminis

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 23:04:24 GMT

Title:: Beyond All Expectations
Author: ruric
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Mal/Simon
Written for: The Mal round at maleslashminis for itinerant_vae who wanted Mal/Simon, with give and take, stars and dreams.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1805
Disclaimer: They’re not mine. Thanks to ely_jan for a speedy beta. As ever all mistakes are mine.
Summary: Simon reflects on how far he’s come.

Beyond All Expectations

Simon never expected this.

From the moment he’d set foot on Serenity he’d been, whilst not exactly afraid, very much wary of this crew and her captain.

For months he’d slept lightly, senses hyper-aware of every rumble and groan the ship made.

Each night when he closed his eyes he’d dream about the ship being caught by the Alliance or other traders, like Patience or Badger, who lived out on the edge as they did; people who’d sell them out without a second thought, their only concern to make enough credits to keep them alive. He became used to recurring dreams of situations where they were trapped, where Mal couldn’t get them out with some fancy fast talking or Wash with his seat of the pants flying. Dreams which would startle him into full wakefulness, sweat slicking his skin, his heart pounding fit to burst. And always his first instinct was to look to River, to see her curled in her bunk, her face smoothed of worry, and she looked so peaceful, gaining back some of her childlike innocence and wonder out here amongst the stars.

For months he’d thought he’d never fit amongst this crew, never find a place even with all the medical skills he brought with him to their decks. Being their doctor was one thing, being a member of the crew, becoming their friend, was something different and Simon was only too well aware he didn’t fit.

Until one day, shortly after their adventures on Ariel.

Jayne had met him in the corridor, bulky body blocking Simon’s attempts to pass and get to the infirmary. Jayne’s hand had closed his arm, half-pulling half-dragging him through the corridors and down into Jayne’s bunk with Simon protesting every step of the way about his responsibilities, his need to check the medical supplies before they landed once more on Persephone to trade. And Jayne ignored every word, just towed him along like so much cargo with a muttered “I got something you need to see.”

He’d eyed Jayne warily, taking in the wicked grin, the nod of his chin towards the bunk and begun to plot his escape. Jayne had reached out to flip a switch and instead of the cabin plunging into darkness a panel behind the bunk slid away to reveal a startling array of guns, knives and who knows what else kind of weapon. The wink Jayne sent him said that he knew only too well what Simon had been thinking and Simon found himself looking down and away, trying not to think about the blush staining his cheeks.

“Meet the ladies, doc. You need to know how to defend yourself.”

Simon had been half amused, half outraged that Jayne thought him so defenceless. When Jayne reached out again Simon had dropped his shoulder, twisted fast, shifting his body weight as remembered moves returned, his ankle planted behind Jayne’s, elbow to the solar plexus and a hand on his chest which put Jayne down firmly on the floor.

Simon had expected anger, not the rueful grin and a hand extended so he could help Jayne back to his feet.

“So you’re good at close quarters and that’s somethin’. Now I’m gonna teach you what to do when they ain’t nowhere close to you.”

Hauling himself to his feet Jayne had proceeded to introduce Simon to each of his guns, Vera and Lily, Marie and Lucy and there’d been a wicked twist to his lips when he pointed to an unprepossessing little weapon which turned out to have the kick of mule and called her Saffron.

To both their surprise, learning how to take the guns apart and put them back together had become almost second nature to Simon - the logic of the actions, the way all the pieces fitted together appealed to his sensibility. Not so much the shooting. Since he’d joined the crew he’d seen up close and personal too often the effect of projectile weapons to ever be comfortable firing them. But his co-ordination between hand and eye, his determination to be something other than their doctor and a responsibility they thought they had to protect, meant that he had a good aim which improved with Zoe, Wash and Kaylee sitting and cheering him from the sidelines.

He did hit the target more often than not - even if he closed his eyes every time he pulled the trigger.

Of them all Mal had been the biggest mystery to Simon.

From his first day, fingers wound into the soft linen of his shirt, his back slammed into the bulkhead, a fist connecting with his jaw and the copper bright taste of blood on his tongue, he’d been more than aware that his and River’s continued survival depended on Mal’s mood.

He’d tasted fear that day, fear that had taken up residence and refused to leave.

But he’d watched and learned and tried to fit.

He learned that Mal talks to his ship. So do Zoe, Wash and Kaylee. To them Serenity is the tenth person of the crew. She’s real and she lives and breathes and she’s a part of them all. Simon wasn’t sure he’d understood it, wasn’t sure he ever would. Until the day another job went bad, and they’d come back limping and dragging one another into his infirmary.

Jayne sedated to the eyeballs to keep him from moving, the scent of charred flesh in the air as Simon worked frantically to clean and seal the deep burn across his belly. Zoe’s arm splinted and tucked into a sling, Inara leading her from the cabin. A sudden lurch and the groaning sound of metal as Wash fought to take Serenity through a series of manoeuvres that would lose their pursers and Simon had reached out, hand pressed flat to the white metal of the bulk head.

“Ta ma de. Jen dao mei. Tyen shiao-duh...hold together, you can do it.”

He’d looked up to find Mal’s gaze fixed on him, staring back into shuttered steel grey eyes he’d had no idea what their captain was thinking.

*****

The bridge is quiet at this time in ship’s rotation. He’s learned not to think of it as night. Night and day don’t mean much when you spend most of your time out amongst the stars on the edge of the black. They keep to ship’s hours and ship’s rotation even when they land, unless they’re staying more than a few days.

And at this time in ship’s rotation he knows he’ll have the bridge to himself. The rest of the crew retired for their version of ‘night’ and he has the intercom open to River’s cabin just in case she wakes.

He values this time alone, this quiet hour that he has to himself, to just sit and think.

He’s less afraid now, of the vastness out there, of the black lit up by pinpoints of light. He’ll never be able to don a spacesuit and walk out onto the hull of the ship with equanimity – that’s just not who he is. But the one thing about being out here is there are a lot of places to hide, places for them to disappear.

The scuff of boots on metal, the soft whisper of a body moving behind him and he finds his lips are curving up into a smile. Regular as clockwork this routine and he doesn’t need to check his watch to know his hour alone is almost up.

“You coming down?”

Simon doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Mal is lounging in the hatch to the bridge because this is part of their routine, something they’ve made for themselves out here.

He stands, hands smoothing the wrinkles out of his clothes and looks once more out into infinity.

He doesn’t know whether it’s Shepherd Book’s presence on the ship, or whether it’s his own need to believe in something bigger than they are, but in the last few months he’s started to pray again. He doesn’t tell Mal, because he doesn’t think Mal would understand, but every night, before he leaves the bridge he sends a prayer out in the black. A prayer of thanks and of gratitude, for what he has and what he’s found here, and a plea to whatever might be out there, whatever entity might be listening, that it lets them continue on their way.

He turns to find Mal waiting.

Mal’s back is pressed against the hatch to the bridge, a little furrow between his brow as he watches, small rueful smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Simon’s getting better at reading Mal these days, but then again, spending so much time naked with someone, getting used to seeing hunger in their eyes, does give more of an insight into what might be going on.

Currently Mal’s wearing what Simon has decided to call his “I’m-not-sure-I’ll-ever-understand-you-but-I’m-going-to-have-fun-finding-out” smirk. He sends one of his own back and gets right up into Mal’s personal space. One hand pressed over Mal’s heart to feel the steady thump, the other sliding lower over the cool metal of his belt buckle to find soft cotton, fingers lightly pressing into the heat and hardness he can feel there. And this is something else he never expected to find gentleness as well as strength. A moment to tease, for his lips to brush Mal’s before licking into his mouth, with a kiss that promises more and soon.

“I’m ready, are you?”

***

Later, lying in the bunk, his body caught between the heat of Mal’s and Serenity’s gun metal grey hull, listening to the steady thrum of her engines, the regular whisper of Mal’s breath, he feels safe.

It had taken him months before he’d realised that the minute he’d set foot on Serenity’s deck he’d become part of her life, part of her crew. He has a place here, he’s more than just their surgeon, he’s their friend and he’s Mal’s lover.

When he dreams he doesn’t dream of research grants and seeing his name in academic journals, nor does he dream of traps and being caught - those dreams are a part of his past. He doesn’t even dream of River being wholly River again. He knows she never will be. River is what she is and they are learning to live with her.

Now when he dreams he dreams of safety for them all. Enough gas to keep them afloat and jobs that don’t go bad.

Out here wandering the stars, out to the black and beyond, he’s found what he least expected and what he has now, here, right at this moment, is beyond all expectations.

He’s part of a family and that’s something he’d almost forgotten how to be and he’s found a home and a place to belong.

~ end ~

“Ta ma de. Jen dao mei. Tyen shiao-duh” ~ Damn it. Just our luck. In the name of all that’s sacred...

Icon drabbles - ely_jan's writing women

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 19:51:11 GMT

Also...in the post on writing women, ely_jan posted some icons based on pulp novels from jillicons and challenged people to go off and drabble or write something around them.

After a little thought this is what I came up with:

Good girls don't

Good girls don’t...it was the refrain of her childhood.

From her mother and father – good girls don’t...don’t play outside, don’t make a noise, don’t get their clothes dirty and torn. Good girls don’t laugh out loud, good girls don’t have fun.

Then there were the children’s homes, passed from one to another like an unwanted parcel - overseen by tired people who had too many kids to try and look after and no time. Good girls don’t ask questions, good girls sit quietly, only good girls will find new homes.

Finally there were her step parents: good girls don’t wear make-up, good girls wear clothes that cover skin, good girls don’t flirt with boys or stay out late. Good girl don’t have their ears pierced or decorate their skin with ink that can never be removed.

Is it any surprise that when she finally gets away she wears red lipstick, an angry slash across her mouth, her eye shadow is smoky and smudged and silver glitters in her ears and around her wrists. Her clothes are chosen to cling to her curves, fitting her like a second skin to let her move and run and dance.

Good girls don’t...but she knows the one thing they never did.

She was born bad.

Responsible

Dutiful daughter, adorable wife, devoted mother.

The weight of their expectations hems her in and slowly suffocates her year by year. Her parents hopes for their only child, the promises she made when she stood in church and made her vows, the needs of her daughter.

Each and every one of these things are as solid and real as the iron bars of a prison keeping her here. Responsibility, duty - words she doesn't take lightly.

From her parents house, to her husband’s, to being a mother and when she looks in the mirror now she sees the lines around her eyes, the hint of grey in her hair and wonders what happened to the woman she thought she was going to be.

It isn’t until her husband leaves and her daughter starts college that she begins to rediscover the woman she always wanted to be.

Writing - 2006 review

Sun, 31 Dec 2006 21:27:22 GMT

What is says on the tin. A review of output this year.

Fics, drabbles, challenges and responses to prompts

Jan 28th: Some Place to Call Home for a prompt ‘belonging’ on btvsats_love. Jayne’s pov, post Serenity (445 words).

Jan 31st: untitled drabble Angel/Lindsey, Angel drabble for menomegirl (100 words).

Feb 8th: Agitato written for stagesoflove ‘attraction’ prompt, Angel/Lindsey, Angel (500 words).

Feb 15th: Glissando written for stagesoflove ‘romance’ prompt, Angel/Lindsey, Angel (485 words).

Feb 22nd: Staccato written for stagesoflove ‘passion’ prompt, Angel/Lindsey, Angel (499 words).

And yes, I still have two to complete for this series. *headdesk*

Mar 16th: Here in the Moment at Hand for ficinspiration prompt #1 ‘you’. Feel free to choose your own pairing, (513 words).

Mar 24th: Eternal for ficinspiration prompt #2 ‘sunset’, Methos/Duncan, Highlander (725 words).

Apr 3rd: Life’s Enchanted Cut But Sparkles Near The Brim for ficinspiration prompt #3 ‘smile’, Methos/Byron, Highlander (456 words).

May 22nd: My Tongue Falls Silent for slashthedrabble prompt #77 ‘sweat’, Chris Kane/Steve Carlson RPS, Troubador gig *g* (500 words).

May 24th: Buckle Up Tight written for highwaymiles for prompt # 234 "We're trapped in the car and it's raining again", Sweet Carolina Rain by Kane, Chris Kane/Steve Carlson RPS, (5763 words).

Jul 2nd: in desperation I asked for prompts to help deal with shit going down and people came through resulting in:

Dude, I’m Always Right prompted by an icon of Dean provided by bittersweet_art which ended up being 141 words on Jensen (with guest appearances by Chris and Steve).

Last Dance from a Lindsey icon provided by remember_nomore and 180 words on Lindsey.

Germany Bound, 252 words of Chris/Steve on a train for without_me.

The First Touch Angel/Lindsey icon and 274 words for blueswan9.

Nothing Left to Lose another Lindsey icon and 204 words for killerweasel.

Beginnings and Endings a kick ass Lindsey/Dean icon from meredevachon and 380 words of a ‘verse I want to revisit at some point!

One More Shot Lindsey/Lorne, beer and sunflowers where what azrayal asked for and got 290 words.

On The Circuit 313 words of Chris/Steve for candygramme.

TSP tagging
Mar 26th: By the light of the moon unfinished thread with Josh.
Jun 18th: Enjoy present pleasures 25 tags to finish a thread with Jon.
Jun 22nd: Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air…current thread with Tyler.
Jul 9th: When Ideas Come completed thread with Jon.
Aug 7th: Welcome Home (cont) completed thread with Marc.
Oct 25th: The Blues Run the Game current thread with Chris & Marc
Dec 8th: Four Parts Clarified Satan completed thread with Jon
Dec 30th: All Familes Have Skeletons. Ours Dance current thread with Jon

Still owing
* 2 icon drabbles long, long, long overdue
* a how Draco Malfoy met Lindsey McDonald story for ravurian
* 2 x 1sentence challenges for Mal/Jayne and Steve/Chris.
* 2 x Big Damn Tables for fanfic100 for Chris/Steve and Lindsey McDonald
* my entry to the You Got Cash ficathon run by vylit
* the prompts people gave me for the 5 things meme that was going around.
* damn it I must finish the whole Body Language saga (which had at least 4 more parts if I can find the notebooks)

Well that well and truly sucks.

The year started well, at least for the fic/drabbles/prompts and then took a huge nosedive. And the amount of tagging I've done is negligible compared to 2005. Feh. How utterly and throughly depressing.

Where's the Lagavulin?

Writing update - Oct 2006

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 12:06:33 GMT

Owing:

* 2 icon drabbles long, long, long overdue
* a how Draco Malfoy met Lindsey McDonald story for ravurian
* 2 x 1sentence challenges for Mal/Jayne and Steve/Chris.
* 2 x Big Damn Tables for fanfic100 for Chris/Steve and Lindsey McDonald
* my entry to the You Got Cash ficathon run by vylit
* the prompts people gave me for the 5 things meme that was going around.
* damn it I must finish the whole Body Language saga

Then there's the prompts regularly posted on the challenge comms.

Heh - must get ass in gear.

Icon drabbles and prompts

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 13:24:41 GMT

So I asked over on my LJ for prompts to help me shake something loose and keep me occupied on the train to Sheffield. Many thanks to those who replied - the results aren't quite drabbles...more snippets *G*

bittersweet_art asked for this icon - and I'm sorry but it ended up Jensen rather than Dean *G*

Jensen knows he shouldn’t, he really knows he shouldn’t but he just can’t help himself. Steve hardly ever loses it but Chris has so many blinky buttons, it’s more than he can stand not to do a quick two-step across them just to see the fire ignite in blue eyes.

He sets the long neck on the floor with the careful precision of a man who’s had one too many, lets the buzzing hum wash over him as his ass slides a little lower in the chair. Legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest, he squints across the room to where Chris is sprawled on the couch, head pillowed in Steve’s lap.

“Dude, I’m always right.”

He draws a breath and catches Steve’s lazy grin out of the corner of his eye.

“The Sooners are shit, man. Worst. Team. Ever.”

remember_nomore went easy on me (*beams*) and asked for this icon

The bump of the truck’s wheels rolling over Angel’s body sends a flood of heat over his skin and how fucked up is it that he got hard? He’s out of the cab the second the truck shudders to a halt, fire in his belly climbing higher, scorching his throat to settle behind his eyes and paint his vision red.

The copper bright taste of satisfaction in his mouth rolls over his tongue, sweet and heavy. He doesn’t even realise he’s bitten though his lip and it’s his own blood staining his teeth and sliding down his throat.

Too many times when he’s been the one laid out on the floor or shoved up against a wall, bruised and battered, panting for breath as hands fisted into his shirt and his hair.

Turnabout is fair play.

He’s crashed and burned, lost everything he thought was important, lost the one person he loved. Don’t need no excuses anymore, now he’s got reasons. Been looking forward to this for years and there ain’t nothing gonna stop him from having himself some fun.

without_me asked for Chris/Steve on a train or other form of transport.

Chris’s head is half-turned to look out of the window, his eyes unfocused, staring out at the fields and woods, eyes closing in a long, slow blink every so often. Steve’s not sure whether Chris is taking in the landscape or is lost in his own world, but he sure as hell knows there’s more rich lush greenery out there than either a boy from Oklahoma or one living in Cali are used to seeing.

The train rocks over a set of points sending his shoulder swaying into Chris’s. Sleepy blue eyes look at him, full of promise, and Chris’s hand curves over Steve’s knee. Palm flattening, his nails hooking under the seam of Steve’s jeans, sliding slowly up the inside of his thigh. An arched eyebrow and Chris sends him that look, the one asking whether he’s got the balls to follow where Chris’s going to lead, the look he’s never been able to resist.

A glance across the carriage shows Eric’s chin tilting higher, his head rocking into the back of the seat with a huffed snore, and Steve knows he’ll be out for hours yet.

Jerrod’s lips twitch up into a smile, his fingers hooking over the brim of the hat.

“Go to it, boys,” he drawls at them in a voice gone all home town, accent sweet and rich as honey, a slow wink sent their way as he pulls his hat down over his eyes.

It’s all the privacy they’re going to get but it’ll be enough.

blueswan9 asked for Angel/Lindsey based on this icon

Lindsey never liked Winters. There was something old, cold and so very alien in Russell Winters eyes that showed he thought all humans were prey, good only for their entertainment value or food.

So his heart doesn’t exactly bleed when the chair’s propelled backwards and glass shatters; rather he feels a grim sense of satisfaction hearing Winter’s howl and he hopes to God it hurts the fucker as he plummets down to burst into flames.

But he’d worked hard to get the account and having a new player kill his top client isn’t going to look good on his record. Can’t help but admire the cajones on the guy who’d walk in and do that and he feels his dick twitch when Angel plucks the card from his fingers.

Solemn brown eyes meet and hold his, old and different, but those eyes have more warmth, more life, than he’d ever seen in Winters’ gaze. A whisper of air brushes across his cheek as Angel leans in close and Lindsey can smell him. Angel doesn’t smell like a vampire, not the old ones. There’s nothing musty and dead about his scent, it’s sharp and bright and strong and it makes Lindsey’s mouth water.

Softly voice threats won’t work on this one.

The card is tucked back into his pocket and there’s a promise in the words spoken into his ear. A promise echoed in the fingertips that linger a little too long, a promise in the press of a palm over his chest feeling for a heartbeat.

The only thing left for Lindsey to work out is whether that promise is for pleasure or pain.

killerweasel asked for something on this icon...

His shirt is ripped open, cotton sliding over damp skin and the protective tats inked into his body over weeks are revealed, but it don’t really matter any more, ain’t no point in hiding anything now.

His tongue slides inside his lower lip to find and play with the cut caused by Angel’s fists smashing into his face, and if he squinted some he could almost make believe it was like the old days.

A twisted smile curves his mouth, the bright acid taste of blood and sweat sliding down his throat bitter as the realisation that everything he’d heard was true and there’s no way in hell this is anything like the old days. Cause if it was it would be Angel on the side of good and glory and Lindsey lying on the floor curled into a fetal ball.

Looking down at the vampire sprawled at his feet Lindsey feels the last of his hopes and dreams burn down to ash and drift away.

Cause there ain’t nowhere to go, ain’t nuthin’ left to do when your heroes have sold out to the bad guys, except play the hand you got and hope you’re still standing at the end of it all.

meredevachon asked for Dean/Lindsey based on this icon...and I;m sorry but this is what came out.

When Dean thinks about the first time he set eyes on Lindsey he remembers angry blue eyes peering at him through a straggle of sweat dampened hair; the flash of light off the steel blade of the biggest fuck off sword he’d ever seen anyone handle; the ozone bright string of demon blood behind his own eyes and at the back of his throat.

Dean didn’t know what the fuck was going on, only that the guy in front of him was taking on something that shouldn’t ever have been walking the earth, and he was damn close to losing.

Blue cotton shirt hanging in tatters, skin torn by claws and blistering under the acid bite of viscous demon blood, and Dean didn’t think twice. It was all reflex, the shotgun came up, locked and loaded firing off both barrels of Pastor Jon’s specially made blessed silver shot.

He got a pissed and angry Lindsey out of there, back to a rented motel room and patched him up as best he could. Somewhere, somehow that first night curses born of pain turned to ones of pleasure, Lindsey’s mouth was hot and demanding as he rolled Dean onto his back and took what he needed to make him whole again.

That was how it started.

Now the phone is crackling, the line fuzzy with too much interference, interrupting the husky voice whispering in his ear. And the distance between them is caused by more than miles.

“What do you mean I can’t come to LA?

“It’s not your fight…you need to stay clear of this.”

“Fuck it Lindsey, I know how to fight these things as well, if not better then you.”

“I know you do.”

Dean’s never heard Lindsey’s voice so raw, and there’s a sick feeling coiling in the pit of his belly but still he has to ask.

“So why can’t I come?”

In the pause that follows, the one that seems to stretch forever, Dean’s counting his heartbeats and not breathing, praying with the frantic fervour of a new convert to a God he stopped believing in years ago.

“Because you’d be fighting on the wrong side.”

The line goes dead and Dean is left staring at the phone in his hand.

This is how it ends.

azrayal asked for Lindsey/Lorne, beer and sunflowers.

One too many beers with tequila chasers and the room lists crazily to the left. Lindsey’s palms hit the bar, fingers splayed wide, trying to force his body upright against the force exerted by gravity well that seems to have opened just beyond his left shoulder.

A soft huff of laughter whispers into his ear, long green fingers closing over his right arm and a warm body presses tight against his back, from hips to shoulders, offering support.

He’s squinting at the hand that reaches over his shoulder, trying to get past fuzzy and bring it into focus, when a practised twist of a green wrist sends the remaining shot glass sliding down the bar.

“I think you’ve had more than enough of those tonight ,Sweetcheeks.”

And if there’s one thing Lindsey will never get used to in his incredibly fucked up beyond belief life, it’s the sight and sound of a six foot tall green demon with hellfire red eyes calling him Sweetcheeks. It should offend his dignity, it should piss him the hell off but it doesn’t.

Lorne’s fingers tighten their grip and Lindsey’s practically lifted off the bar stool. His arm snakes around Lorne’s waist, fingers snagging in material for support when his knees threaten to give out. Lindsey’s cheek brushes silk, his eyes closing against a shirt so garishly coloured it threatens to make his brains bleed out of his ears.

“Come on Sugar, come and sleep it off upstairs.”

He sucks in a breath to make a protest but his tongue is too thick and heavy in his mouth to form words. The last coherent thought he has before the world fades to grey is that he’ll never understand why Lorne always smells of sunflowers.

candygramme wanted Chris/Steve

It’s the final set of interviews following the latest showcase and Chris is getting more than a little pissy.

He’s answered enough inane questions that he’s almost ready to shoot himself rather than agree to sit down to any more interviews regardless of the opportunities they present; and if one more person looks down their nose at him and takes a superior, snarky fucking sideswipe at country music he’s gonna go medieval on their ass.

The last journo is ushered in and they’re off on another tedious round of questions he’s heard before, to be answered with replies he could sleep walk through because they’ve been rehearsed again and again until he’s word perfect.

And he knows it’s dangerous when he’s praying that one of them, for the love of God just one, would show a spark of god damn originality and ask him something different, something he might actually have to think about before he opens his mouth.

“So Chris, as the heart of Kane…”

Touch paper to fire and his mouth is open, words spilling out before he has time to censor.

“I might be the heart, but that guy right over there is the soul.”

Blue eyes look at him from across the room, a blush of colour staining Steve’s cheeks and slow grin is sent his way before Steve’s head drops, his face hidden by a fall of sun streaked hair.

The reporter turns to follow his gaze, but Steve’s no fool, and there’s only the snick of a door closing as he slips away.

Eric’s hand closes on Chris’s shoulder, Eric’s body blocking the journo and Chris can push his chair back and get away at last, crossing the room in a few hasty steps, to slide through the door out into the alley where he can breathe and where he knows Steve will be waiting for him.

Buckle Up Tight - RPS (CK/SC) written for highwaymiles

Wed, 24 May 2006 00:14:57 GMT

Fic title: Buckle Up Tight
Author: ruric
Fandom: RPS Chris Kane/Steve Carlson
Written for: highwaymiles
Prompt: #234 - "We're trapped in the car and it's raining again", Sweet Carolina Rain by Kane
Word count: 5763
Summary: Chris and Steve head out to Ojai for a little reunion ~ set at some unspecified time in the future when Steve has just wrapped his third solo album.
A/N: this is very, very, very late. It’s for cloex_brosluvr for the prompt, for gingerpig who writes such a hot and believable CK/SC anything I do pales in comparison, and for ely_jan who saw an early draft and set me straight about some very obvious weaknesses. Needless to say any mistakes are mine and mine alone. It was supposed to be 1000 words of schmoop. Then the Steve who lives in my head woke up and the damn story fought me every step of the way.

Buckle Up Tight

Dragged from a too deep sleep by the incessant buzzing of his cell, he nearly fumbles it onto the floor before fingers made clumsy by one too many late nights, too many beers with whiskey chasers last night, manage to get a secure grip on it.

The plastic is cool against sleep-warmed skin and he flips it open without looking at the display, too damn tired to even try to open his eyes. Doesn’t know what time it is, doesn’t fucking care, just wants the fucker on the other end to go away and let him sleep. Cutting a new album always leaves him feeling wasted, even more than the wrap party last night to celebrate them laying down the final track which had gone on long past when he wanted everyone to go home.

Six months spent wired.

Six months of writing all day and chasing every opportunity to get his songs placed, evenings spent playing in the studio over and over again ‘til it was right. No energy left to play any gigs. Getting home to fall onto his bed too exhausted to sleep properly, only to wake in the small hours haunted by the formless shadows of nightmares he can’t name and he’s more than ready to chill. The third album bearing his name finally in the can and ready to go and he knows his style has changed again. There’s a bitter edge to these songs that wasn’t in his earlier work.

Six months spent waiting for a phone call he’s not even gonna think about right now.

“Yeah?”

He knows his voice is rough with sleep, whiskey and the sweet smoke of pot. He hopes to fuck there isn’t some wide-awake, bright-eyed, over enthusiastic record exec on the other end of the line full of plans for co-writing down in Nashville, wanting to speak to the obviously very fucking absent other half of the band.

“Hey. Goin’ to Ojai. You comin’?”

Wide awake and swallowing hard before the sentence is even finished, he can tell from the rawness of the voice in his ear that it isn’t a request, never is when it’s asked like that. Not when Chris’s accent is as thick and sweet and sticky as molasses, gone all deep south, home town, good ol’ boy.

He blinks hard a couple of times to bring the room into focus, his gaze slowly clearing to see the early morning sun slanting in through the window and realizes he’s not had more than a couple of hours sleep. His tongue feels hairy as an old rug, like something small and furry died in his mouth.

Tension thrums through the air, increasing with every passing second when he doesn’t answer. He can hear it in the raggedly drawn breath at the other end and his fingers grip his cell so hard they lose all feeling, nails bending against plastic.

“When the fuck did you get back and where are you?”

Words spoken to give him a second to collect scattered thoughts, to try and get a brain fuzzy from lack of sleep and dulled by a hangover back on-line and into the game. He tries to recall whether he’d made any plans for today, tomorrow, who the fuck knows how long, that need to be cancelled, and isn’t it a damn good job the wrap was yesterday and the album’s in the can.

“’bout an hour ago and I’m outside your door. You comin’?”

Staring up at the white ceiling, though the motes of dust dancing in the air in front of his eyes, he breathes in deep and counts to ten real slow.

“Give me a few minutes.”

Head rolling on the pillow, he snaps his cell shut, puts it back on the table and looks at the mass of hair beside him. Carefully sliding his other arm out from under Caitlin? Carolynne? Whatever – her name was probably about as real as the rest of her. Wavy blonde hair, wide blue eyes, long, long legs, pneumatic breasts that don’t move the way real ones do. She mumbles and burrows deeper, pulling the covers higher over a slash of scarlet lipstick smudged across full lips, and he smiles remembering a sweet mouth that can talk real dirty and do a few more things beside.

Easing his way out from under the covers to sit on the edge of the bed, he reaches for the notepad he keeps close by - used to the way his creativity works – knowing that some of his best songs are born in the moments just before sleep comes, or in the precious few minutes before he fully wakes up. Balancing the pad on his knee, he scrawls a quick note of apology, tears it off and leaves it on the pillow beside her. He doubts he’ll ever hear from her again, they both got what they wanted – he had a warm and willing body in his bed, she’s got a story to tell to her friends at parties - and neither of them had expectations beyond the one sweet night together.

He pulls on his jeans, grabs his rucksack and stuffs a couple of changes of clothes inside, shoves clean socks into his boots and tucks them under his arm. Pads silently out of the room, down the hall and into the bathroom. A couple more minutes taken to wash and pull on a slightly crumpled, but clean, shirt from the rack over the bath where they’ve been drying. Not thinking about who and what is waiting for him outside the door cause there’s no point in borrowing trouble.

He takes a quick look in the mirror and sees the dark circles under his eyes, skin pale from too many days and nights in a studio and not enough time in what passes for fresh air around here or out under the sun. A few days away from LA may be just what he needs too.

Rucksack hoisted over his shoulder, he steps into the hall one hand reaching for the guitar, still in its case where he left it last night, the other snagging the hat off the hook where it hangs behind the door. A Stetson isn’t the kind of hat he’d ever have bought himself, not enough redneck in him to carry it off well, and the truth is he always feels slightly silly wearing it. But Chris got it for him and so he wears it, and he does need something the keep the sun off his head in Ojai.

Fingers catching the screen, he slips out of the door, taking care not to let it bang behind him, and sure enough the truck is there and ready to go.

The engine coughs to life as he throws his rucksack in the back on top of the sleeping bags and other kit kept there for just this kind of getaway, and he tugs the tarp down over them. His guitar always comes in the front with him. He slides it into the cab of the truck, settling it deep in the well, his boots and hat tossed in to follow. One foot inside and the door’s still half open, his ass nowhere close to being on the seat when Chris floors it and the truck lurches forward with a squeal of rubber on concrete.

The door closes with a slam louder than he intended. A bitten off half-growled sigh escapes as his balance is lost, shoulder banging into the windshield, the top of his scalp grazing the roof of the cab. Ass finally hitting leather, shoulders pressing into the back of the seat as he shifts and makes like a contortionist, setting one leg either side of the guitar case giving it some protection. The sole of one bare foot presses against worn leather, the metal of the hinge cool against his skin, his fingers wrapping around the neck, hands twisting it to pull it close until he’s satisfied it’s safe, protected from the insanity of Chris’s driving.

Thankful as fuck that it’s early enough on a Sunday morning for there not to be traffic cops around.

But there's no wicked grin and a flash of teeth, no blue eyes dancing with laughter, no joking questions about why he’s tiptoeing out of his own house with his boots in his hands, still smelling faintly of sex and sweat.

If he hadn’t known before, he damn well knows now it’s gonna be one of those trips.

He cuts a glance over at Chris to see him staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed against the early morning glare, little creases radiating out from the corners, curving up towards his eyebrows and down to line the top of his cheeks. Lips thinned, jaw clenched, a muscle jumping high under the cheekbone and if Steve listens carefully he could probably hear Chris grinding his teeth. Boy’s got a real head of steam going and no mistake.

Took Steve a black eye, a split lip and half his ribs cracked to learn there are times to talk and times to keep quiet. Not that Chris didn’t walk away with just as many bruises and marks in return. But nine years and a whole hell’vua lotta mileage later they’ve got something figured that works.

He knows when to swallow the questions, when asking them will get him nothing but the patented, narrowed-eyed, thousand-yard stare and absolute silence. But he also knows when to wave the red rag to Chris’s temper, when to hunker down and hold on and ride the whirlwind.

It’s all about timing, and Steve’s timing over the years has grown damn near perfect.

He slides his ass across the leather, ‘til his butt almost hangs off the seat, the body of the guitar nestling under his balls and the neck pressing into the crease of his thigh. A long, slow, deep breath whispers over his lips, his head tipping back to find the comfortable curve of leather under bare skin. His fingers catch the edge of the hat, set it on his head, and pull it down over his eyes, muscles relaxing one by one, his body easing down into a comfortable sprawl.

Sometimes you talk, sometimes you just shut the fuck up and let the minutes tick by in silence.

Let the truck eat the miles up, her engine running easily, knowing they’ll clear the city in no time and the sun will climb higher as they head into the hills. There are too many things it could be, no point in worrying about what kicked it off this time until Chris’s ready to talk or until Steve gets tired of waiting.

Not enough sleep in weeks, nowhere near enough last night and Steve knows he’s gonna need it to deal with whatever’s coming. His eyes flutter closed, soothed by the hum of the engine, the warm sunlight painting his skin easing away aches and tension as he drifts into a dreamless, deep sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
He doesn’t wake until the truck’s bumping over a dirt road, tires bouncing over gulleys and potholes worn by flash floods and still he keeps the hat tilted down over his eyes. He waits until the truck shudders to a halt and the engine cuts, waits until he hears the jangle of keys and the slam of the door.

Pulling the hat off, he puts it on the dash squinting out at a landscape lit by the harsh brilliance of the near noon sun. Sliding a little higher on the seat, his skin prickles as feeling returns to an ass numbed by the lack of movement. Smiling a little, he recognizes the surrounding hills, the hollow protected by low scrub. First place they ever came out here, the one only they ever come to be alone. Oh sure, they might bring other people out to Ojai, but neither of them has ever brought anyone else to this spot.

Blinking, Steve peers past the layer of dust on the glass to see Chris standing in front of the truck. His back to the windshield, arms raised high above his head as he stretches, twisting to the left and right, rolling his shoulders, loosening muscles locked by whatever the fuck is eating him up and from driving for so long.

Bending down Steve pulls on socks, shoves his feet into the boots and laces them, cracks open the door and breathes deep of clear, fresh air not polluted by the smell of car fumes. Dry and arid, carrying the faintest hint of sage and orange in the slight breeze that ruffles his hair, he fills his lungs again and feels some of the tension ease out of his neck. Shouldering the door open and he jumps out of the cab pulling the guitar after him, stowing it under the tarp in the back, now it’s safe from Chris’s driving.

An hour spent setting up the camp. A hollow dug for the fire, a circle of stones arranged to bracket in it. Enough wood in the truck, under the tarp, to keep them warm for a few nights when the temperature drops. No more than half a dozen words exchanged, just the “here’s” and “thanks” and the “want more?” and “please’s” as they pass things between them. They’ve done this so often that the set up is smooth and easy and there’s no need to talk.

Another couple of hours to take a walk into the hills, reveling in the chance to get away from the ever present buzz of traffic in LA. The only thing they hear is birdsong, crickets chirping in the scrub and the scuff of boots over dirt and rock. They’re not exactly walking together, not exactly walking apart, settling into a rhythm where one ranges ahead for a while, then waits, and they change places.

It’s easy not to think out under a limitless sky.

Easy to just let his eyes absorb the surroundings, attracted by the glint of crystal in rock, the shiver of vegetation as something rustles in the scrub, gaze drawn curves inscribed in the sand where a rattler has been basking in the sun. Easy to let his mind freewheel, and Steve finds he’s humming a refrain that might or might not turn into a song as he walks. Pausing to take a breath, his fingers pick out notes on his thigh while he waits for Chris to catch up, a jumble of words in his head aligning into a simple refrain which may be the first line of a chorus.

Both of them keep an eye on the sky, turning back when the first fast-moving gray clouds darken the horizon. Pace quickening a little, walking shoulder to shoulder now, and Steve wonders whether they’re going to beat the approaching storm back to the truck or get caught in the open. Sunlight is rapidly replaced by dull overcast skies and the temperature drops.

“Wanna make a run for it?”

Steve turns to look because that’s the most words he’s heard out of Chris since the phone call this morning, and that’s when he feels the first spot of rain on his cheek. Nodding as they break out into a jog, little puffs of dust rising with every step as the rain starts to spatter down. Speeding up when they hear the distant roll of thunder, an opening fanfare, but they’re too late. The heavens open and rain pounds into them with the force of a monsoon, beating across their shoulders, sliding between cotton and skin.

Fingers grab the brims of hats pulled hastily from their heads as they race flat out for the truck. Hair plastered seal sleek to their skulls, cotton and denim sticking wetly to skin, slipping and sliding, racing over dirt turning rapidly to mud with every squelching step. Yanking open the doors, they half-fall, half-climb inside, breathless and shivering at the contrast of cold water to the earlier heat.

All their kit still on the flatbed of the truck, but at least it’s protected by the tarp. Leaning forward, Steve’s panted breaths fog the glass. His fingers rake through rattails of wet hair, dragging it out of his eyes, off the back of his neck to wring it out in an attempt to stop the river of cold water running down his back. Soft curses next to him pull the corners of his mouth into a grin, as Chris twists and turns trying to tug something out from behind the seat.

A bottle of Jack produced with a flourish and a ‘”Got you, you bastard,” but Steve’s huff of laughter is drowned by the rain. A twist of Chris’s wrist and the bottle is opened, Chris’s chin tilting to the roof of the cab as he takes one long, deep hit, coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and passes the bottle across.

Whiskey fumes combine with the scent of wet clothing and mud, and Steve’s fingers brush Chris’s as he takes the bottle. A skitter of anticipation snakes up his arm and across his chest, breath stuttering once, before he tilts his head back and swallows just as deep, eyes watering as the burn of the liquor warms him inside even as his skin gooses.

Panted breaths slow and fade to be replaced by the chink of silver on glass, as they pass the bottle back and forth in silence, except for the hammering of the rain against the windshield.

A shiver climbs from the base of his spine to his skull, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, when he turns to pass the bottle back to Chris once again, and sees the naked, wounded look in his eyes. Chris’s lips are moving but Steve can’t hear the softly spoken words over the buzz of alcohol in his ears and the staccato gun rattle of rain against metal.

“What?”

The bottle is passed back into fingers that reach too eagerly for it.

“We’re over.”

Steve doesn’t have to ask who the ‘we’ is or what’s ‘over’ – he’s lost count of the number of times they’ve been here in the last few years, every time Dave gets a guilt trip about the wife or kid, or when some new asshole director or his publicists are riding him hard.

Too much Jack on an empty stomach loosens Steve’s tongue dangerously past diplomatic, and the snort that emerges is way the fuck over towards exasperated rather than sympathetic. Words follow fast, tripping across his tongue and pushed between his teeth, before he’s has a chance to censor them.

“Yeah, I heard that one before too.”

He sees nothing but the back of Chris’s head, the curve of his shoulder, muscles outlined under wet cotton, hears only the clink of metal on glass as the bottle is wedged between the seat and the door. But he can taste it in the acid flooding his mouth. Feel it coiling deep in his belly and in the prickle across his skin. Choke on it in the bubble of air that seems caught in his throat.

His timing is still good.

Not the way he’d have chosen to do this if his blood wasn’t mostly whiskey right now, but it’s far too late to change it.

When Chris turns and comes at him faster than anyone has the right to move in such a cramped space, eyes burning with anger, there’s no doubt the red rag has been waved good and well. Nothing he can do now but hang on and reap the whirlwind.

Knuckles graze Steve’s chin, sending his head slamming into the back of the cab and, for a timeless eternity, a line of stars dance and gyrate across his vision. Hands fist in the front of his shirt, Chris’s nails grazing, digging down through damp cotton to score lines of fire across his chest. Lips mash against his, teeth not far behind and the coppery taste of blood is bright as his lip splits and Chris’s tongue, whiskey-warm, snakes into his mouth.

A knee bumps his hip, a boot grazes down over his calf and Chris eels from the driver’s side on over. Chris’s other knee lands on the soft part of Steve’s thigh with enough force to pull a moan out of his chest, and he knows he’ll be wearing at least one mark for days to come.

One arm caught beneath Chris’s forearm, the other trapped between their bodies, Steve’s hips buck up and twist.

Chris’s body shifts, and there’s just enough room for Steve to get one hand free. Fingers winding into long wet hair, dragging Chris’s mouth away, panting into the scant inches of space between them. Steve stares up into eyes blown black, pupils haloed by the merest sliver of stormy blue and kiss bruised lips carrying a smear of red.

Buttons pop when fingers tear at his shirt, nails scratching down over bared skin to tug at the buckle of his belt and pop the button on his jeans. Hair tightens around his fingers as Chris leans forward, stubble grazing across his cheek, a whisper of hot breath over his ear. The growl that slides into his head and down his spine might just have contained the words “Want you” or he could’ve imagined them, conjuring them out of need and months of silence.

Steve doesn’t want to fight this, six months of waiting and he’s skin hungry too.

Releasing his hold on Chris’s hair frees both his hands to work at the shirt, numb fingers trying to fumble button through holes, wet material fighting him every step of the way. Giving up to let his hands slide down over muscles shifting under wet cotton to grab the bottom of Chris’s shirt and pull it up and over his head.

Muffled curses spat out to be drowned by wet cloth, but the heat of Chris’s breath sears through the material brushing Steve’s cheeks. Shirttails pushed into one hand, his fingers curl around the collar to strip cotton from Chris’s skin, skin that’s always hot to the touch. The itch in Steve’s fingertips intensifying as they slide down Chris’s ribs, over a tautly muscled belly, to dip between denim and skin.

His hips rise from the seat as Chris’s fingers yank at his jeans, wet material peeled away and pushed down to Steve’s knees, a tangle of denim and limbs and that ain’t gonna work. Fingers close tight around his left ankle and under his knee and he gets it. Boots lifted to be planted on the dash as Chris ducks low under his leg and twists cursing as his back scrapes against the truck door and cold glass. Steve’s knees almost brush his nose and two sets of hands push denim lower, down to the top of his boots.

Twisting on the seat, Steve leans forward to strip his shirt away, finally baring as much skin as he can, needing to touch and taste and be touched in return. Skin goosing at the slide of wet hair under his calf when Chris ducks down again, and Steve can see a long red welt marring evenly sun-tanned skin where Chris’s back dragged against the door handle. Hands placed either side of Steve’s hips, kisses bitten into his lips chase away any vestige of coldness.

His skin floods with heat, an aching hunger settles low in his belly and Steve’s fingers drag over material to close on the silver belt buckle and tug until it comes loose in his hands. Slide of skin on skin as Chris leans into him, Steve’s fingers slipping behind denim to brush damp cotton and pluck at the waistband. Chris twisting against him, fighting to get out of his jeans and tangles of wet hair sneak into Steve’s mouth, shivering at the heat of Chris’s breath on his neck.

“Bet you wish you’d gone commando now…”

His words are greeted with another growl and the press of teeth, Steve’s neck arching into the bite and his hips rock up hard – body demanding as his mind and hands struggle to keep up. His fingers knot into Chris’s hair again, fighting the kisses bitten into his skin from his neck and along his jaw, wanting only to have Chris’s mouth on his right the fuck now, aching to have Chris’s dick inside him.

Chris’s mouth covers his in a deep, wet, hungry kiss that leaves them both panting when Chris rocks back. A question in his eyes, cause everything is in the back, and Steve’s chin drops in a nod of assent cause there’s no way in hell he wants to stop now. Chris raises his hand to his mouth, spits into his palm and it’s gonna be hard and fast and Steve doesn’t give a fuck, just knows that six months has been too long. He’s waited long enough.

Steve’s boots spread mud all over the dash as his feet push a little further apart until material drags tight. Heated press of Chris’s cock sliding slowly into him and Steve’s the one growling when Chris pauses and tries to take it slow, cause it’s not nearly enough. Steve’s fingers dig into Chris’s shoulder, tighten in his hair, dragging him close, legs tightening around Chris’s hips and both of them are sucking in ragged desperate breaths.

Shoulders pressed into the seat, spine bowing and there’s no way he can fucking move. The plastic under his boots groans when his hips lift off the seat, weight braced from shoulders to feet and he really does think his spine is going to snap. Chris’s hands on his hips, lifting him, the long, slow burn as Chris’s cock presses deeper, his knees slipping under until Steve’s practically sitting in Chris’s lap.

Fingers twining in Chris’s hair, nails grazing the scalp beneath, and his groan is fed into Chris’s mouth. The one clear thought skittering across his mind - that they’re too damn old to be making out like a couple of horny teenagers in the cab - is burned to ashes as Chris’s hips twist.

The only way he can move is to rock from the knees, his shoulders braced against the seat, the muscles in his thighs knotting and releasing with even the slightest shift. Ten bright points of fire where Chris’s nails dig deep into his skin, holding him up, taking his weight. Steve’s gaze follows the bunched muscles in Chris’s forearm, the curve of his bicep, and what he really wants to do right now is lick a path from wrist to shoulder, wants it so bad he can taste it, salt on skin, making his mouth water . Steve wants to sink his teeth into muscle until Chris makes that growl from real low down and fists his fingers in Steve’s hair.

But he can’t reach and so he settles for the next best thing, grazing teeth and gentle licks followed by softly mouthed bites along Chris’s collarbone from shoulder to neck. Mouth covering the pulse he can see beating there, sucking hard on it until he can feel it throb against his tongue, its rhythm matched by the beat of Steve’s heart.

Stubble grazes his cheek as Chris’s mouth closes on his ear with a clink of metal against teeth. Chris’s tongue slides through the silver ring and flicks, and damn if that doesn’t make Steve try and climb closer, as if there was any way he could get any closer other than to climb inside Chris’s skin.

A warning growl slides into his head, Chris’s teeth closing around metal to tug when Steve bites down a little too hard on the ridge of shoulder muscle under his mouth. There’s a laugh trapped somewhere deep in his belly, and he’s grinning into suntanned skin as his teeth bite deeper, cause there’s a sweetness to hearing that growl again. A skitter of anticipation flares brightly along nerves, pleasure almost teetering on the edge of pain as the ring is pulled hard.

Streams of warm air blown over hot, wet skin and they’re shivering against each other when Chris leans back a little, his weight shifting, his hand sliding over Steve’s hip to find the small of his back, fingers spreading wide.

Licking his lips, wanting to taste skin that has been torn from his mouth Steve looks up into eyes gone black and fathomless as a moonlit night, pupils wide and dark and eating up the blue. Chris’s fingers stroke from his elbow upwards, nails grazing lightly over skin, fingers curling around Steve’s wrist. Thumb sliding over the softness to pause and press on veins and tendons until Steve’s fingers loosen and untangle from Chris’s hair.

Chris’s grip tightens, pushing his hand down, and Steve fights it, his palm cupping Chris’s jaw, thumb drawn down over swollen and kiss bruised lips. He fights it to feel the teasing flick of Chris’s tongue over the pad of his thumb followed by the bite of teeth. Fights it to feel Chris’s grip tighten hard until bones grate in his wrist and Steve’s breath hisses between his lips.

Surrendering finally, palm pressed flat to Chris’s skin as his hand is pushed down. Fingertips tracing the dip behind Chris’s collarbone, fingers splaying wide across his chest, nails curving to drag over a nipple and feel it harden under his touch. A flash of teeth as Chris sends him a grin gone wild and feral, and Steve’s palm ghosts over the tightening muscles in Chris’s belly.

“Touch yourself.”

Chris’s words are half-growled, half-whispered, hungry and needy and wanting and Steve feels like he’s dancing close to the sun. Skin burning to a crisp, muscles charred away, fire searing his mouth and throat as moisture evaporates.

Fingers release their grip on his wrist, slide oh so gently over the back of his hand and pause. Steve blinks, the sting of sweat and water making his vision hazy and looks down to see Chris’s hand cradling his…waiting…and swear to God he cannot help himself.

Fingers lacing with Chris’s he drags their joined hands up, holds them close, but not close enough to touch. Holds them close while his body screams, feeling the ghostly touch in the slight disturbance of air drifting over heated skin, tightens his grip when Chris tries to push their hands down. Holds them close while the ache in his balls rises to his belly, claws its way up his throat, until he can feel the desperate whimper trapped behind his teeth.

Steve looks up to meet Chris’s eyes, eyes that burn into his promising this won’t be forgotten and revenge can be very, very sweet indeed. Dancing with the devil, no mistake, and Steve’s laugh breaks free, as his fingers wrap around his own cock, never taking his eyes from Chris’s as he drags him close, sucks that pouty lip through his teeth into a biting kiss.

Chris’s hand curls around his hip, slides under his back to join the other at the bottom of his spine, muscles flexing in his arms. Takes them a minute to even halfway find a rhythm they not gonna be able to keep cause it’s always like this when they haven’t been around each other for a while.

Chris’s hips twist impossibly and hit that spot right there and Steve’s losing the battle to hold out. Hands lifting his hips higher, Chris’s nails digging into his ass, the muscles in his thighs screaming and knotting, his boots scraping on the dashboard, shoulders pressing back into leather.

He’s dancing on the edge of a fucking precipice, toes curling in his boots, scrabbling for purchase, his fingers digging deep into the swell of Chris’s bicep. But Chris never gives quarter and this is a battle neither of them can ever hope to win.

One more twist, one more slide of his palm over his own skin and Steve’s head rocks back against the cab, eyes fluttering closed. Heat pulses over his hand and onto his belly, body clamping tight, flying so fucking high he’d swear he could touch the stars dancing behind his eyes.

Legs tightening around Chris’s hips, riding the whirlwind for sure, hot breath scalding his neck and cheek, sticky fingers peeled from his skin, sliding up Chris’s back touching as much of him as possible. Both hands fisting into Chris’s hair, pulling his head back, finding the heat of his mouth, swallowing mumbled words and curses as Chris’s body shakes, tremors threatening to break both of them apart.

Panted breaths and slowing heartbeats and Steve’s nose is buried deep in Chris’s hair smelling the musky scent he never realizes he misses until moments like this. Chris’s tongue and lips are warm on his neck, licking and kissing away the sting of teeth marks.

Rain pounding against the cab and maybe they’ll drive into town, grab a motel room and come back out tomorrow. Maybe they’ll crash in the cab, or sleep under the tarp if the rain stops, the scent of wet earth and fresh vegetation a contrast to the smell of sex and sweat and come on their skin. Nothing they haven’t done before and won’t do again.

They’ll take as much time as they need and Steve knows that when they finally head back to LA he’ll have burned that wounded look right out of Chris’s eyes, buried it deep under something else.

Until the next time.

Steve’s not the guy who gets called first. He hasn’t been since a month after Chris walked onto the set of Angel and an old friendship turned into something else altogether.

He knows it and lives with it because in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter. Chris always comes back. After nine years there’s much more to them than the slide of skin on skin and a few moments stolen from the responsibility of family and the prying eyes of a camera.

There’s more to them even than just the music.

He can’t explain it to anyone, can’t even explain it to himself. It just is.

He won’t deny that sometimes he’s pissed that he’s the go to guy who gets to pick up the pieces and put Chris back together until the next time. But he knows he’ll keep on doing it until Chris decides enough is enough and that for some things there are no happy endings.

~ fin ~

My Tongue Falls SIlent - RPS (CK/SC)

Mon, 22 May 2006 22:43:21 GMT

Crossposted: Written for slashthedrabble prompt #77 - Sweat
Author: ruric
Fandom: RPS - Real Person Slash
Pairing: Chris Kane/Steve Carlson
Length: 500 words
Time: *cough* Troubadour gig *cough*

My Tongue Falls Silent

Hot lights in his eyes and his shirttails are pulled loose covering the bulge in the front of his jeans.

“I need to pee.”

He grins at Chris’s glare and hands him the guitar. Ducking behind the curtain, shoulders press into brick and his eyes close. Hand pushed down the front of his jeans, adjusting himself to ease the brand of the zipper against his cock.

Skin prickling under a whisper of air, his eyes open to see Jerrod’s grin.

“Need some help?”

Reaching out to take the beer waved at him, he bats away Jerrod’s hands.

“Nope.”

Jesus there is something fucked up in seeing a six foot redneck built like a barn faking a pout.

“Shouldn’t you be hitting on the blondes out there who’ve been buying you drinks?”

Jerrod’s “Planning on that” is drowned by thunderous applause and Steve’s moving back on stage into the wall of heat.

Chris’s fingers slide over Steve’s skin, the guitar strap settles on his shoulder, resting on the spot where Chris’s teeth marked him earlier.

He can smell it around them, can taste the oestrogen on the air. Sweet and pleasant and warm, from girls young enough to be his daughter through women old enough to be his mother and most of them would willingly give it up for one night with them.

Sometimes it’s enough, when Chris is filming and away for months, a warm body in his bed, laughter and love, and no promises to keep.

But it’s never enough on nights like this.

Nights when the energy rolls off them, curling round them like a living thing; pulling them closer with each song, each chord, each note played and sung.

There’s a promise in blue eyes, a promise he sees every time they play together.

Fire and hunger and a need so deep it could drown them both. Red cotton, the colour of old blood clings wetly to Chris’s skin, damp hair pressed to his face, sweat sliding from temples to collect in the hollow of his throat.

Steve’s mouth waters and he pulls the guitar closer, looks up when he hears his name, takes the offered shot glass and downs it in one. Anything to get him through, ‘til his tongue can follow the path from Chris’s temple down his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble, breathing in the scent of musk, before he finds sweet saltiness in the hollow of his collarbone.

A whispered “Later” in his ear followed by a whiskey soaked laugh is enough to turn his knees to water.

Fingers moving over the strings, sound swells around them and Steve lets his tongue slide over his lips real slow, holding Chris’s gaze just to see pupils flare and the fire ignite.

Just a few more songs and the 3J’s - Jerrod, J and Jon - can keep people amused while he drags Chris into the private room out back waiting for them, sinks to his knees and wraps his lips around Chris’s dick.

~ fin ~

The title is a quote from Sappho:

“When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over.”

Life's Enchanted Cut But Sparkles Near The Brim - Highlander (Methos)

Mon, 03 Apr 2006 20:56:49 GMT

Title: Life's Enchanted Cut But Sparkles Near The Brim
Author: Ruric
Prompt: Smile ficinspiration #3 challenge
Word count: 456
Fandom: Highlander

The smile curves his lips upwards and a radiating arc of tiny lines is creased into his skin, rippling out from the corner of his mouth towards the barest hint of a dimple that marks his left cheek.

So easy to see a warm welcome and humour there, but you know better.

As you reach out to take his hand your gaze moves up, from the lips which slowly part to reveal the merest hint of white teeth, the pink tip of his tongue sliding to rest behind his upper lip.

You note the fluttering twitch of a muscle below his cheekbone, so brief that if this wasn’t you, wasn’t him, you’d doubt the evidence of your own eyes and convince yourself you hadn’t seen it.

But you have. Because this is you, and this is him.

Your eyes meet just a fraction of a second before you touch. Wide green eyes bathed in innocence, until skin meets skin, and you see emerald fire flare in their depths as his fingertips slide over your palm, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.

But you know the look, you recognize it too well.

You’ve seen it often enough in your own eyes, standing in the bathroom, staring into a mirror for hour upon hour as you tried to bleed the experiences gained, through actions you’ve committed and things you’ve witnessed, from your face. Easy enough to relax muscles, to see frown lines slide away, making you appear younger, but the eyes give you away. Innocence lost cannot be regained, knowledge once learned cannot be forgotten.

You feel the heat from his gaze as your skin burns, from wrist to elbow to shoulder, turning your blood to Greek fire, drying your mouth and throat, searing into your lungs, to curl down and settle in your belly.

His grip tightens, pulling you in, and you have to take a step forward, a step closer to him so as not to lose your balance.

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

His breath whispers across your cheek, is warm against your ear, and it takes all that you are, all that you have learned over so very many years not to shiver.

Rocking back, a little space gained between you and his smile widens, full of wickedness, and the promise in his eyes sends sparks skittering up your spine to detonate at the base of your skull.

His fingers caress the soft skin of your wrist, pressing against the pulse beating there and his eyes go feral when he feels the beat increase.

You feel heat bleed into your own eyes and know that you’re looking at him the same way.

“Never underestimate the mysteries of the universe Byron.”

~fin~

Title from the following quote (by Byron of course!):

Years steal Fire from the mind, as vigor from the limb;
And life's enchanted cut but sparkles near the brim.

Source: Childe Harold (canto III, st. 8)