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Fic: Eyeliner Smudges (Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt/Tre Cool)
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07 Jul 2005 | 11:34pm
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Title: Eyeliner Smudges
Author: ![[info]](http://www.deadjournal.com:8080/userinfo.gif) lannamichaels
Pairing: Billie Joe Armstrong/Mike Dirnt/Tre Cool (Green Day)
Rating: R
Warnings: Drumporn. Kink.
Dedication: For sorchar
Disclaimer: This never happened, to the best of my knowledge, and never will happen, again to the best of my knowledge. I'm not making any money off of this. And since I've never been to a concert in my life, I have no idea how it all works at the end, so it's highly unlikely that anything could have happened like this. And, screw it, I have no idea if they were touring in December 2004. So, yes, this was all pulled out of my ass. Trust me.
Summary: After a show, Billie Joe goes headtripping.
( ''Mike Dirnt has crossed the picket line.'' )
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10 Oct 2004 | 03:50pm
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Double Drabble: Mostly Sweet
I've been having the dreams again.
In ancient times, in various parts of the world, it was customary to drink the blood of your fallen foes. They believed that you could drink in their magic and their power with their blood.
I've been dreaming of Kronos' mouth, smeared red with Immortal blood, stained teeth below. I've been dreaming about the thrill of the chase, the rush of the Quickening. I've been dreaming about raping virgins, pillaging houses, burning fields. I've dreamt of destruction, of pain, of murder.
And I like it.
I have changed with the years, but beneath it all I am still the same man I have always been. No one can truly change their essence, their blood. I am Methos, and a thousand other names, a thousand identity changes, cannot alter who I still am. I would ride thunderously down a mountaintop, I would still burn cities to the ground, I would still carve my name in quivering flesh. Time has made these desires worthless and useless, and their modern alternatives lack style. There is no joy in being able to kill without the intimacy of blood.
I may be Adam Pierson, but I am still Death.
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23 Sep 2004 | 03:46pm
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Title: Leather Hips
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Michael Phelps/Ian Thorpe (Thorpedo/Speedo)
Rating: PG
Series: Second in a cross-fandom Franz Ferdinand-inspired series. First is here.
Disclaimer: This didn't happen. And even if it did, I would have no way of knowing. So there.
Summary: Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips, sticky hands, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips. The typical party fic.
A/N: No, this is not the first fic because of this song. This will not be the last fic because of this song. Deal.
Ian watched from across the room as Michael danced in the middle of the crowd. His long arms were clasped over his head as he swayed with the beat. The crowd had seemed to part when their golden boy had entered into their midst and then had closed in around him, eager to dance with the hero of the hour. And Michael did not disappoint. Ian could see Michael's famous hips peaking up from above his signature low waist band and if he could, all the way by the bar, then so could every eager autograph seeker, every photographer with too much empty film in the camera, so could every horny man in the room. So much of Michael was the world's now. There were still so many people who wouldn't recognize him clothed, but none of those people were at this party.
It had been thrown by one of the sponsors - Ian couldn't remember which - and he had followed Michael here with all the aborted grace of a fall into the pool. His gold medal was a ticket inside and no one blinked that he was still wearing his warm up gear. Apparently some allowances were made. None of those lining up outside to get a glimpse into the exclusive party were wearing anything that cost less than two hundred dollars. At least.
Maybe it was all the logos on his jacket. Maybe they thought he worked for the company. Right. And Everest was just a hill. Buckingham Palace was just a house. Michael was just a teenager.
The Thorpedo was just an underwear model and occasional world-record holder.
Ian laughed and finished off his drink. He couldn't remember what he had ordered, but he couldn't taste it anyway over the roar of the room. The slam of the glass on the table was just a ding and then Ian was pushing his way through the crowd. Michael was always easy. To find. To find. Not easy in any other way, of course. Not at all.
I need to be drunker.
"G'day, mate!" Michael screamed over the song. He was grinning like an idiot on speed and he threw out his arm in a parody of the freestyle stroke and grabbed Ian by the sweater. "Hey everyone! Thorpie's here!"
The crowd around seemed to laugh as one and Ian couldn't help grinning. This was perfectly stupid. But there Michael was and there he was and, bloody hell, somehow or another Michael had lost his shirt. Glitter or something it was, Ian remembered, mesh maybe. See through. Perhaps some fan grabbed and tugged and Michael was too high on adrenaline to notice.
But there Michael was, hot and sweaty, his hair matted to his scalp and forehead. Jeans so low on his hips that Ian could see the Olympic rings peaking out. He was mesmerized by the colours. Green, red, yellow.
"Hey, Ian, you staring at my cock?"
Michael laughed. Ian blushed. And then he grabbed Michael around his hip and groped him. In public. In front of what seemed to be a thousand dancing fans.
"Blowjob," Michael yelled into Ian's ear. "You, me, bathroom, now. Sound good?"
Ian nodded. "Brilliant. Meet you there." After all, that was all that he had wanted.
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19 Sep 2004 | 03:43pm
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Title: Chocolate
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Kink/Vanilla
Rating: PG
Dedication: For ashinae, because this is All. Your. Fault.
Summary: Vanilla isn't kinky.
Vanilla was pure. Vanilla was perfect. Vanilla would never ever think of tying his lovers up and beating them bloody. Never. Or of teasing them out of a desire stronger than just to be fun. Or of calling them up and ordering them to jack off over the phone and then deny them orgasm. Never. Vanilla was too innocent for that.
Vanilla had a friend named Kink. They were unlike as unlike can be. While Vanilla would frolic in the park, professing love, Kink would teach his submissives how to beg, how to plead, how to bleed. Kink worked in a fetish shop and was never seen without his leather pants. While Vanilla would say it with chocolate, Kink would say it with chains.
That's not to say that Kink is unable to love, Vanilla would often protest. Kink could love with all the burning passion Vanilla could. Kink's love just manifested itself in different ways.
Vanilla would take his lovers out for a cup of tea. Vanilla would never think of turning it into a roleplay and finding himself blindfolded, loaded into the back of a van, and taken to be interrogated. Vanilla would never. It just wasn't done.
So Vanilla didn't know what to do with himself when one day he found himself on his knees in front of Kink.
Kink was gentle. Took Vanilla through it slowly. "We're not so different, you and me," Kink said as Vanilla tried to deep throat him. "I'm just more forceful than you are. There's no shame in submission."
Vanilla wasn't sure he understood. Of course, he's knelt before his lovers before to give them blowjobs, or help them out of their shoes, but this was different. There was a power dynamic he'd never felt before. It was exciting. It was exhilarating.
It was dangerous.
How could he trust Kink? How could he be sure that Kink wouldn't hurt him? Vanilla began shaking in fear. So Kink went slowly. He taught Vanilla all the terms he'd need to know. Terms like safeword and power exchange and please.
And one morning, Vanilla woke up, took off the nipple clamps, the vibrating plug, the nine-ring gates of hell, the leg shackles, and the collar, and looked at himself in the mirror. Took in the bruises and love bites and circular marks from where his lover's fingers had been last night. And screamed.
He had become Kink.
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11 Sep 2004 | 03:42pm
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Drabble: Leather Sex
Sean. Was standing. At the foot of his bed. Wearing leather. All leather. Black leather. Gloves. Boots. Jacket. Trousers. All of it.
Pierce squinted in the morning sunlight. "Do I know you?"
And then the leathered man, oh so leathered man, pounced on the bed. Pierce would have complained about that had Sean not immediately rolled him over and sat on his hips. Covered his body with his own. Leather against Pierce's rapidly-hardening erection. Pert arse rubbing against him, a leather-encased finger tracing Pierce's nipple. Pinching it. "Sex now."
Pierce was never one to refuse an offer such as that.
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10 Sep 2004 | 03:41pm
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Triple Drabble: Born With It
When Bron was seven, he dug through his sister's makeup drawer and took out her eyeshadow. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and dabbed at his cheeks with the black powder, smudging it, blending it in. After three short minutes, he took his hand away and realized that, at a distance, it looked like there was a bruise on his cheekbone. It wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, but close scrutiny was never necessary when he wanted to scare his mother.
And scare his mother he did.
It was an epiphany that changed his life. He didn't even mind having to replace all the supplies he'd ruined. Or apologizing to his sister. Or promising that he would not "act gay" around the house, or where people could see.
When Bron was ten, he took his carefully-hoarded supply of powders and creams and smuggled them into school. His class photo that year had twenty-three smiling boys and one scowling ruffian with two black eyes, a yellowing bruise on his neck, and a split lip.
He was careful to wash it all off before class.
When Bron was sixteen, a teacher took him to the side and asked if someone was beating him at home. After that, Bron bought special products to hide what water didn't wash off.
When Bron was seventeen, he discovered make-up remover.
When Bron was twenty-three, his cousin got him a job putting love bites on extras. He also was a clown on weekends, a waiter on weeknights, and blew blokes for a dollar a job behind the supermarket.
And he thought that life was going to last. For a little while, at least.
But when Bron was twenty-six everything changed.
When Bron was twenty-six, he met Pierce Brosnan. And nothing was ever the same again.
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08 Sep 2004 | 03:39pm
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Double Drabble: Personal Nature
Peter Wingfield/Valentine Pelka (Methos/Kronos)
As an immortal, Methos both loved and despised the sword. It saved his life, but made him fight for it as well. And, at times, the hatred overwhelmed the love. He hadn't taken a head in two hundred years.
Peter, on the other hand, loved them. The zing through the air, the resistance when blade met block. It was exciting. It was exhilarating. It was life.
But most of all, he liked the gun. He liked the way the sleek metal fit into his palm, the recoil when he fired it. He liked cleaning it and loading it and holding it up to a lover's head and pulling the trigger.
Kronos wasn't one for gunplay. He preferred knives. Cleaner, he said. More precise. But when Peter had Valentine on his knees, a round in the chamber, even Valentine could appreciate the splendor of man's triumph over gunpowder.
He would tongue the barrel, mouth attached firmly, and suck hard. He would drape his lips lower and almost touch Peter's fingers on the trigger. And he would keep doing it, even when he heard the undeniable click of the safety being pulled back.
It was pure sex and there was nothing better.
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06 Sep 2004 | 04:29pm
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Title: Posing
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Paul Hamm/Morgan Hamm
Rating: PG
Warnings: Twincest.
Disclaimer: I assure you, this never happened.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Morgan and Paul pose for this picture.
A/N: For milochka. Exactly 500 words.
Paul's hands were warm as they curved around Morgan's shoulders. The lights were bright on them and so Morgan kept his eyes tightly shut. One side affect of that, unplanned, was that he felt everything that much keener.
He could feel Paul's breath warm against his neck when the photographer let Paul relax enough from bracing himself on his brother's back. He could feel Paul's legs between his own, entwined like at home, in the room they'd shared since coming birth. He could feel Paul check against his back as Paul collapsed down on top of him as boneless as only a gymnast could be. And he could feel Paul's cock, so close to being hard despite their surroundings, pressing down into his ass.
He was more than grateful that the photographer had chosen him to be on the floor. "More photogenic that way," he had said, then mumbled something about the size of their faces, round verses narrow, dark verses light. Morgan had just shrugged and done as he was told.
Now he could kiss the arrogant bastard's feet. He's lying spread-eagled against carpet, wearing nothing but short shorts, and his brother is perched on top of him. And no one can see Morgan's erection.
The set up had been easy. Morgan had gone into a split and then went all the way down to the floor. He propped himself up on his elbows as Paul balanced up on his brother's ankles and then leaned down carefully...and then his fingers had brushed Morgan's skin-
-and it was suddenly all those nights when they'd hold each other not for warmth or protection but for comfort and for sex and it was all the times they had ever shared a laugh and it was all the meets over the last decade and a half it was the adrenaline and the sweat and broad grins as their scores moved from the low digits to hitting eight and then nine and suddenly there were olympic dreams and they weren't dreams anymore but reality and athens would welcome them and it was all the times they had fallen from the high bar only to find that the spotter was their twin brother or hit too hard on the parallel bars and rubbed salve and aloe vera and did all the exercises they had to so that their muscles didn't grow wrong and it was all the times they had psyched each other up and every time they had competed against each other and it was every gold and every silver and every touch and thought and smile -
-and it wasn't innocent anymore. Touch was so much more than touch. It was skin against skin and warmth against warmth, so primal.
It hadn't been innocent in a long time, Morgan thought. If ever. There had always been his other half around him, teasing, prodding, urging him on, and always would be. He never would have gotten this far without Paul.
Nor Paul without him.
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04 Sep 2004 | 04:28pm
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Title: Switcheroo
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Paul Hamm/Morgan Hamm
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Twincest.
Disclaimer: I assure you, this never happened.
Spoilers: 9-3-04 Jay Leno
Summary: Morgan wants to meet Jay Leno. Paul has a plan.
A/N: I love the boys. And I knew it was Morgan ALL ALONG. Word.
"I can't believe you got on Leno." Morgan held Paul's printed out schedule in both hands, mouth gaping open from reading down the list of Paul's appearances. One show, then another. This celebrity, then another. All just names to two boys from Wisconsin and now Paul was going to meet them, talk to them, charm them. They had agreed long ago to never hold each other's success against them, but for this one, Morgan couldn't help but be more than a little jealous.
Paul knew that Morgan had always been more a Leno fan than he was and that was why he had chosen Leno over Letterman. Not to lord it over him, but to let Morgan meet his comedic idol. "Friday afternoon taping, while we're around there for the Rock and Roll tour. And then run back to change and stretch." He ran his finger down the list and tapped it twice next to 'sleep'. "I went in for a prelim interview with the Tonight Show people yesterday and I asked them point-blank about you. We've got enough of a reputation that I think they think I don't go to the can without my older brother there to hold my hand."
Morgan snorted. "They may have a point, but it's not your hand I hold. Let me guess. You used your marvelous powers of persuasion to get the invitation to include me as well."
"Not quite." Paul leaned in close. "First thing they asked, wanted to know if it was really me. If we were identical, we could pass as each other without thinking."
"But we're not identical."
"Identical enough that people who don't study our pictures can't tell the difference." Paul pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote "& M" next to the Leno listing. "The powers that be have no problem with you coming to the green room with me. We make sure we're wearing different shirts. Inside there, we switch. We make sure no one looks too hard at us. Jay won't be able to tell the difference. And if the producers do, they aren't going to stop the show."
"You want me to do an interview for you?" It wasn't out of the question. When they were younger, they had often taken tests and done projects for the other. The freckle patterns hadn't solidified until they were out of elementary school and so it had been harder to tell them apart then.
"No, I want on that couch as well." Paul knew that Morgan could pull off an interview as Paul. And Paul could as Morgan. Like all twins they knew, there was something between them. They weren't complete without the other. And there was a kind of sixth sense about them. Sometimes Paul knew where Morgan had hidden his socks, or Morgan knew where Paul had put the chalk. They thought alike, they lived alike, and neither could imagine life without the other. "But you go on as me. Wear the shirt, take the bow. I told the interviewers that we liked to answer questions about passing as each other, so I know Jay will lead with that."
Morgan caught on quickly. "I spill that I'm not Paul. And they're not going to kick me off. They'll bring you on from the green room and we'll be there."
"Both of us," Paul confirmed. "We got here together and we're going to do this together."
Paul was such a great brother. Morgan turned and kissed him. It was open mouth and rough and thanking. Paul took the schedule from Morgan from behind his back and set it down on their hotel suite's table. "Knew you'd want to fuck me after that."
Morgan grinned and started pulling his shirt off. "I love when you're considerate."
Paul did the same, a perfect mirror image. "You'd do the same for me."
"Beijing," was Morgan's immediate response. His grin grew feral. "I will kick your ass."
Paul straightened from pulling his sweat pants off. "Look forward to it, Morg." He grabbed a condom from the bag on the wall and tossed it to his brother. "But let's move the meet to the bedroom."
Morgan caught it, ripped it open, and put it on. And without further ado, tackled his twin.
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24 Aug 2004 | 04:24pm
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Title: Heckling
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Paul Hamm/Morgan Hamm
Rating: PG
"Everyone's against me," Paul grumbled.
Morgan came up behind him. "Judging's fucked tonight. We both know that."
"They're going to put me higher. They're setting me up." Just like with the all-around, Paul didn't say.
Morgan nodded. They'd already talked about the mass repeats of the same score earlier that night. "Don't let it get to you. One of us is going to win tonight and it can't be me. So let's bring one home for us."
"They haven't stopped booing yet."
"They'll stop," Morgan said with a confidence neither felt.
Paul got up onto the platform and the booing, if anything, grew louder. Paul's shoulders slumped. He chalked up and checked his wrists twice, carefully wrapping and rewrapping. He needed the grounding the ritual supplied. First he didn't earn an all-around and now he was going to get booed for something he hadn't done yet.
And there was no way Paul could not think about his and Morgan's bet. The one who won the most medals got to top. Maybe they should change it to the most uncontested medals, he thought bitterly.
Paul turned to the man sitting by the wall. "Alexei? A little help here would be nice."
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10 Aug 2004 | 04:17pm
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Title: Ecstasy
Author: lannamichaels
Beta that saved my life: lunasv
Fandom: RPS. Establishment AU.
Pairing: Gerard/Conner (OMC)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I swear to you, this never happened.
Warning: Evil!Gerry
Summery: It's time for Gerry to move on.
A/N: This is an Establishment AU based on a character created for the Establishment game (Gerard Butler) and for said character's backstory (Conner, Jesse). It is not to be associated with that game or any other AUs created from that game by any other participants of it. This stands alone. It bears great resemblance to the Chiaroscuro universe and I admit it and apologize, but it is not, repeat not, a part of it.
They did it together, Conner and Gerry. They would find some sweet innocent, someone who would never ever admit to enjoying what the two of them did, and tie him up in Conner's basement. They couldn't afford real restraints, but a woodshopping friend had found blueprints to an Iron Maiden and they'd done their best. They had that and shackles and the better-than-marijuana joy of watching someone break for them, watching someone cry.
But senior year Conner made the mistake of boasting to Gerry that the man who could take him down hadn't been born. Gerry had taken that as a challenge.
First time Gerry twisted Conner's hands behind his back, Conner protested. He struggled. He thought Gerry was just joking.
His mistake. Gerry never joked.
The breaking had been scientific and completely methodical. Gerry kept notebooks, marking down what worked and didn't. Restraints worked. So did humiliation.
His Pavlov sequence, as he called it, worked best of all.
Conner was fully trained now. He didn't whimper as Gerry put his feet up on his shoulders and stretched out. Conner was submissive, obedient, and never raised his eyes or dared to look at his betters. Rob and Tom were amazed, but neither complained. They wanted to fuck Conner, had since they first discovered sex was fun, but Conner never bottomed for anyone.
That was the first thing Gerry changed.
Conner had bucked and scratched and screamed like any young colt being broken the first time Gerry had fucked him. But Gerry knew it wouldn't last. Eventually Conner would take to the rein and bit docily, knowing any disobedient would be futile and painful.
But Gerry was shocked at how quickly Conner broke.
It didn't take more than three months for Conner to accept his new role. Gerry had pushed him in classes, ordering him to study harder, telling him slaves needed to support their masters. Conner cried the first time Gerry explained, in dark cold cruel detail, what he was: A slave. A pet. Not even human. Conner let somebody else take control of him and no man would ever do that. He was only good enough to serve. A dog.
After several thousand repetitions during B stage of the Pavlov sequence, Conner began to believe it. That was Gerry's greatest triumph.
They had been friends once, but Gerry was never one to let friendship stand in the way of getting what he wanted, and now he wanted Conner. Conner had all but dared him to take control, and take control Gerry did. They had been partners before, but now it was a different sort of partnership, one in which Gerry had firm control and Conner had nothing.
The fact that Conner soon learned to like it, even crave it, did not matter. Conner did not matter. He was, after all, just another slave. Gerry had broken many of them, but they always lost their appeal soon after. What fun was there in a slave who accepted his fate?
Gerry prodded Conner with his foot and the naked man knelt up for orders. His hair had been buzz-cut the night before to get rid any purple dye remaining from the last time Conner had been especially good. The hair was so short it look almost blonde, but it would grow back Conner's usual black soon enough that it didn't matter. There were six piercings in each of Conner's ears and he had a scar across his nipple from a piercing gone wrong. He had other scars -- from Gerry's knives and Gerry's hand and, once, when Gerry had broken his arm.
Gerry was particularly proud of the whip scars on Conner's back.
Then there were the tattoos. Silver handcuffs adorned the back of Conner's neck and he had black x's on the web of each thumb. Each x signified something Conner had done dreadfully wrong and, after Conner had done it for the second time, Gerry had threatened that next time a toe was coming off. Conner had never done it again.
Conner had never done a lot of things again. He was obedient now, docile and perfect. Gerry nodded in approval. The slave looked good. Very heavily marked, but the new owner didn't care. Gerry approved of Jesse. The man had tamed more than a few slaves in his time, but he was obsessed with getting Conner, and so Jesse was the first one Gerry called when he tired of the slave.
There was only one thing Gerry wanted in return for a trained slave. He was tired of being a lawyer, of paperwork, and boring legal work. Gerry wanted something more. Jesse's cousin was a movie agent. And that was the price for taking Conner; Jesse had contacted his cousin and arranged everything.
Now all there was to do was to inform Conner of the trade. Gerry dug his heel into Conner's neck and watched in amusement as Conner's cock grew longer and harder. Conner had never used to like pain and it was only added into the Pavlov sequence as an afterthought. Conner had taken to it just as he had taken to everything else. Gerry smiled wistfully. He might actually miss him. Such responsive slaves were rare. But he had made up his mind. Conner was broken and tamed and so Gerry had no use for him.
Outside, Gerry could hear, a car door closed and keys jingled. This time of night, it could only be Jesse.
"Well, slave," Gerry said, picking up his bottle of Jack Daniels. "It's been a fun ride." Conner made a noise like he was going to look at Gerry and then he flinched and stayed as he was. He knew better than to think that he needed to understand everything Gerry said. Conner was a stupid boy and he knew he was in no position to comprehend everything his master said. Master was so much better than he was that something like that would be impossible. "Your new owner's here," Gerry went on, crossing his ankles behind Conner's head and locking him in, "and he's agreed to take possession immediately."
"Yes, Gerry," Conner said automatically, response drilled into him, but then he did almost a double take. "New master?"
Gerry looked down at him fondly. Yes, he would miss him. But there were better things ahead, and Gerry could always visit. "New master," he confirmed. "I'm tired of you."
It took Conner a good minute to gather enough courage to look up. When he did, Gerry could see the tears running down the slave's face. "Haven't I been a good slave, Gerry?" Conner asked, sounding like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. But Conner knew Gerry better than anyone. He shouldn't be surprised to be cut loose. How odd. Emotion was getting in the way of something Conner knew to be fact. "Haven't I done everything you said?" Conner searched Gerry's face, looking for some indication Gerry was joking. Stupid slave. Gerry never joked. "Don't you want me anymore?"
"I trained you too well," Gerry tsked. "I have no more use for you. I'm frankly surprised I kept you this long."
"But I can be bad!" Conner protested. He tried to pull back and then ducked under Gerry's legs and rolled away. "See! I can be bad!" He stood up and looked around in terror, finally grabbing one of Gerry's sweatshirts and tossing it over his head, forgetting to put his arms through the sleeves. Gerry watched it all from the couch, drinking steadily from the whiskey bottle.
"I can be disobedient," Conner insisted with growing panic. "Please, Gerry, don't give me away. Please, I promise, I'll be as bad as you want. You'll have to punish me over and over again. I'll be horrible! I promise, Gerry, I swear, please don't get rid of me."
Gerry saluted him with his glass. His slave could be so cute at times. "No."
"But-"
"The answer is no," Gerry cut him off. "And that's final. Act out all your want. It will only give your new master a bad impression of your behaviour."
"But..." Conner's tears spilled over, making clear streaks down his angular face. His knees shook like he was going to fall to the floor. Amazing things shock could do to the system, Gerry thought with approval. Amazing. "I'm being bad. Don't you want to punish me?"
"No. You're being bad. But you're still trained." Gerry assessed the slave for a long moment and decided Conner couldn't understand the difference between trained and untrained. The slave might just be as rationally blind as he thought he was. Gerry raised his voice and barked out the harsh command. "Present."
Conner was on his knees before he could think, his head lowered, his hands resting palm-upwards on his splayed thighs. Gerry could tell the exact moment Conner realized just how quickly he'd obeyed. New tears formed and they started coming down harder, but there were no sobs. Conner knew better than to make pathetic noises. Gerry had been right all along, Conner realized in that moment. He really was just a submissive cunt, acting like a dominant to tempt someone to put him down where he really belonged. He was just an uppity slave wearing master's clothing in hope that his best friend would do what Conner didn't have the balls to ask for. Conner was just a stupid little slave, something to be discarded at whim.
Gerry nodded his approval. "Now get the door," he ordered, just a little softer. He liked tears, but he hated when slaves cried for no reason. Gerry would shed no tears when Conner was gone. Crying over emotion was a weakness and Gerry did not allow himself any weaknesses.
Conner had to stand to open the door, but Jesse didn't pay any attention to him when he came in. He had to duck as he entered the room, but Jesse's gaze quickly found Gerry and on Gerry it stayed.
Gerry waved at him from the couch. "Glad you could pick him up. Want a drink?"
"No, I'm set." Jesse looked around, but didn't seem to notice Conner. Slaves were just part of the décor. "Nice place."
"Thanks. The slave decorated."
Only then did Jesse condescend to look at the slave kneeling carefully between the two dominants as if not sure which to go to. "Beautiful skin," Jesse commented. He ran a finger down Conner's shoulder blade, tracing two small scars. "I can see why you marked it up."
"He makes a great canvas," Gerry agreed. "I've all his papers here." Gerry tossed a heavy envelope to Jesse, who caught it easily. "Driver's license, IDs, credit cards, checkbook, miscellany. I can have his clothes sent over or you can take them now. They're not much," Gerry went on. "I don't allow him to be dressed in the house."
Jesse nodded. "Thank you, Gerry." He didn't expect Gerry to introduce him to the slave. In their circles, that simply wasn't done. Jesse smiled and put his hand beneath Conner's chin, forcing his head up. "Hello, little one. I'm Jesse Coltrane. You can call me master."
Conner's tears had mostly dried, but his voice broke as he whispered, "Yes, master." He was still in Gerry's house and so there was still a shred of hope. Maybe this was a test. Maybe Gerry and Jesse would laugh it off and Conner would be allowed to stay. Maybe Gerry was just trying to see how loyal Conner was. And Conner was loyal. He would do anything for Gerry, but that anything did not include leaving him.
"I've wanted you for a very long time." Jesse stroked Conner's bottom lip, tracing the bumps and the bruises. "We're going to have so much fun together." Then he leaned in close as if telling Conner a secret, his hot breath ghosting over Conner's ear. Despite himself, Conner shivered. It was shockingly intimate. "Gerry was a fool to give you up," Jesse whispered, "just for another career."
"I love him," Conner whispered back, ducking his head, trying to draw on all the training Gerry gave him for comfort. "I don't want to leave him. Do you-do you care?" Conner knew Jesse wouldn't. He couldn't remember the man, but he knew the type. He'd been the type. Those kind of masters didn't care if the slaves wanted it or not. They took erections as a sign of enjoyment and thus as a sign that the slave wanted it. Conner knew better. He knew you could enjoy things you hated, and not enjoy things you loved. And there was no way for the master to distinguish between the two.
"No, pet. I don't care. But you'll soon forget him." Jesse's eyes met Gerry's across the room and Gerry winked. "I promise."
Ten minutes later, Jesse and Conner were gone, but Gerry's ears were still ringing from Conner's protests. The slave had been almost calmed when Gerry had stroked him and allowed him to keep the GU sweatshirt. Gerry had no use for it anymore, and Conner seemed stubborn enough not to leave without something of Gerry's.
But behind him Conner had left several boxes, mostly scrapbooks and mementoes. Maybe Gerry would burn them. Maybe he'd put them into storage in case Conner ever freed himself and wanted them back. That seemed a distinct possibility, unless Jesse was better than he looked. Or maybe Gerry would keep them as mementos and souvenirs of a former life, with a former friend.
Gerry had always been the better dominant.
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13 Jul 2004 | 04:16pm
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Double Drabble: Ansorg
In Berlin, Bron couldn't even name the drink Pierce was carrying around. The bartender had passed around vodka martinis with a wink and a smile, but Pierce had been in the mood for something harder. Something rougher. Something James Bond wouldn't quite approve of.
In LA it had been even worse. Pierce had started off the evening in a tuxedo, firmly pressed, immaculately dressed. What had happened afterwards had the studio buying off photographers and telling Pierce to straighten out and fly right or pay for his own cleanup next time. And he did, mostly.
But only Bron was there for the times when Pierce would break a mirror in his hotel suite, or ransack the bed, looking and looking and searching for something that was never there. Only Bron saw the times when Pierce would book a table for two and never leave the house, or go to a premiere, only to start running backwards away from a familiar face.
Years later, Bron would find himself on a shoot with Viggo and they'd talked while Bron put on bruises and black eyes. And, after a while, Viggo told him everything.
They all went a little crazy after Sean left.
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05 Jul 2004 | 04:14pm
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Triple drabble for lunasv who gave me the first word and the two characters.
Triple Drabble: Madness
Psychotic.
It's a wonderful word. It rips through the mouth, first slithering like a rattlesnake, then harsh and rough like a gunshot, and short and abrupt like castration. Marton likes it. It's like a blowjob in the back of an alleyway, with a gun pressed hard against where the spine meets the cranium and the boy on his knees making desperate gulping noises. A boy who doesn't want to die, but is ashamed of his fear. As he should be. Fear is nothing. Fear is inconsequential. Fear can be vanquished and tread upon and thrown out with yesterday's trash. Fear does not matter. It must be removed until there is nothing. Only desire.
This time's the boy on his knees is someone he knows. This time it's Karl tonguing Marton's cock like the barrel of a rusted gun, it's Karl with his hands laced behind his back, fingers white with enforced restraint, it's Karl who's trying so hard to please. Pretty Karl with the buzz cut and the warm wet mouth. Eager Karl with that ass just made for fucking and hands just made for getting Marton off. They fit so perfectly around his cock, too, like Karl had been doing it for longer than the eight years they'd known each other. Like Karl was put on this earth just for him. Only for Marton.
And Karl was so good at this. So eager. So willing. He hadn't even blinked when Marton had pulled the gun, showed him it was loaded. He'd merely smiled and his tongue had done that trick, the one that Marton could never resist.
Marton had taken that as a yes. He tasted the word in his mouth again. Psychotic. He smiled. If this was that, then it was a damn fine time to be alive.
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24 Jun 2004 | 04:13pm
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For helens78 becuase this is probably the closest I'll get to doing her bidding, and for isis_99 for cute and GUH. *iz ded from br0n*
Double Drabble: Shutter
"Can I take your picture?"
"No."
*spank*
"May I take your picture?"
"No."
*spank*
"Well, why not?"
"Because I said so." *spank* "Because I'm tired of closing my eyes and seeing a flash." *spank* "Because you love that camera more than you love me." *spank*
"Oh, I do not. I resent that remark - ouch!" Bron glared up over his shoulder at Pierce. "Don't spank me when I'm trying to talk to you!"
"Why not?" *spank*
"Because it's rude and selfish and you know I can't think with your hand on my ass."
"Your problem." *spank* "Not mine."
"I'll make it your problem," Bron muttered.
Pierce's hand hovered about an inch above Bron's red ass. "What was that? I didn't quite catch that."
"I said," Bron enunciated clearly, "that I'll make it your problem."
"Oh? And how will you do that?"
Bron shivered as a very skilled finger traced designs on his pert posterior. "No sex."
Pierce laughed. "You've tried that before. You have no willpower."
"I do this time."
"And how's that?"
"Because...," Bron's fingers were busy beneath the couch. He pulled out a disposable camera and took a picture blindly over his head. "I'm never unarmed."
"Bron!"
*spank*
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21 Jun 2004 | 04:13pm
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*g* Promised here to decuple-drabble these pics. Here's the first one, of the picture of him waiting to go on for the Paris premiere, looking all angelic. And, hey, I've kvetched enough on here to last you all the rest of the year. :p
Title: Until The End
Author: lannamichaels
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pierce/Sean
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, but if it did, I'd assume it would happen from bottom to top. Only logical.
Warnings: Look, ma, no kink!
Summery: The story of their romance.
A/N: Inspired by this pic. Exactly 1000 words.
With the lights out, it's less dangerous.
Here we are now, entertain us.
-Nirvana
At the last, there are the stagelights. The spotlight shines down bright on the man lighting a single Marlboro Light. It's a hot light, but he doesn't move. Not until his cue. Not until his younger son sticks his head in to tell him it's time.
Then he will walk down the runway that isn't until he reaches center stage that also isn't. The director will feed them their lines and it will be done. They signed the contract days ago. This run through, this dress rehearsal, this only opening night, this is all there is.
There is no more.
--
Before the end, there is a reserved table in the Four Seasons Hotel. There are two men having a polite dinner in business suits and matching ties with ninja throwing stars in navy swirling down into the pointed tip that rests above the belt. There are French cuffs hidden beneath sleeves that shouldn't hide them and polished wingtips, one pair black, one pair brown. There is a faint smell of lipstick from a role not quite ended. There is rib steak and sushi, white salmon and white Russian, cloth napkins, and the jingle of ice.
There is also a ring.
--
Previously there was a date they didn't call a date, then a second. Drinking, fishing, watching the game. There were beds and waking up to familiar green eyes clouded with hangover and suspicions. There were warm blankets and tea in the morning, and he always left before he was thrown out.
Then a third and a fourth and they couldn't call it 'meeting' anymore, couldn't call it 'friendship'. Not 'coincidence' or 'he was just there' or pure chance mixed with a twist of fate. They couldn't call it everything but what it really was.
But they wouldn't call it love.
--
Before this Bron had tried to match him up, told him dwelling wasn't healthy. Told him to choose. He could have either memory or life. Not both.
But he didn't want to choose. He was tired of the game, tired of not waking up to the perfect grumpiness of a man who has never been a morning person, drink the tea of a man who wouldn't know a lemon if it got him free Blades tickets, wouldn't know bleach from stain removed if his favourite sweater depended on it. He wanted the one man who understood.
And Bron finally delivered.
--
Prior to had been the desperation born out of a thousand lonely nights listening to the sound of silence, wanting and yet too stubborn, and he forgot why he was angry, why he had said the things he did, did the things he'd done. He forgot why, in the ugly perfect moment, he had hated with such clear passion and furious precision the one he had loved the most.
He traced the word on his hip on every one of those thousand nights, but he was too busy, he told himself, too busy and to old to say I'm sorry.
--
Because the night it rained on his lover's premiere was the day they fought with black ties and cummerbunds and screamed at each other with unprintable hate, neither one right and neither one wrong.
One cigarette led to the next and each chainsmoked their way through the weekend, not knowing the other mimed them, not caring. One burned pictures, the other cut them, sharp quick marks, straight lines through faces and memories. Programs, ticket stubs, everything that reminded them of the other.
He didn't come over the next day, didn't call to apologize. He decided it was for the best.
--
The week before they fought was dually his birthday and the anniversary of their first shag. They celebrated with Irish whiskey, with English humour, pubhopping and sex. With coffee beans and piercing pricks of teeth on lips, on necks, on hips. Hands in hair, shared bathrobes, towels used as blankets, shared showers and dinner. Blue eyed greeting in the morning and an impromptu pillow fight. A pinch to grow an inch and blowjobs to check if it worked, all weekend, all day, all night.
They might have called it love, but they were too drunk on each other to notice.
--
Earlier there had been visits to sets that lasted months and drinking grinning knowing castmates under the table weekend after weekend, bar after bar. Hangovers that had lasted just until a blonde head lifted itself up from a stained pillowcase and asked if they really got as pissed last night as he didn't remember.
There had been notable abuses of Bron's expertise with the brush to rid their star of hickeys and bites, of teeth marks and chewed lips, of his first tattoo. Matching on their hips, front, right, and very visible in black ink that will never fade.
Yours.
--
Three years earlier was the first premiere they ever attended together. Days before they had sat on cars and given interviews. They had smiled charmingly at the press, complimented each other behind his back, blushed a little too strongly at a comment that came too close. They brought each other champagne glasses and smiled knowingly. He had rested his head on his costar's shoulder during the showing and they had made a detour to the gent's before the first of the many parties.
Bent over a marble sink, breath condensing on a too-clean mirror, flies undone, and everything was perfect.
--
Before the beginning, there was Sean and Pierce. There were shy smiles in script readings and brushing a little too hard against each other during stunts. There was the time Alec punched James in the nuts and they had to reshoot the scene with Pierce limping and cursing Alec and all his damned progeny. There were on-set jokes and the promise of something more.
There was an April birthday celebrated alone together, shooting pool, feeling up cues and looks that were worth a thousand words, and late night talks and a tumble into bed.
And that's how it all began.
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25 May 2004 | 03:52pm
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Feline Fun Ten: Bathing Sean
Previous FF Fics can be found here.
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: Puppy play. Squirmy Sean.
Disclaimer: I assure you this never happened. Don't know them.
Summary: Viggo wants to give Sean a bath.
"Come on, Sean. Bath time."
Sean pouted. Rolled over. Whined.
Viggo wasn't impressed. He'd seen it all last time he'd tried to wrestle Sean into the tub.
"Pet."
Sean did his best innocent-me expression, but wouldn't budge when Viggo tugged on the leash.
"I'll take away your chewtoy."
Sean mewled, but stayed where he was.
"I won't let you claw the furniture."
Sean examined his nails and then showed them to Viggo. He looked bored.
"I won't let you blow me."
Sean yelped and looked cross. He gave Viggo a small growl. Viggo whacked him on the head lightly when the leash handle.
"Bad boy."
Sean nuzzled at Viggo's hand with his cheek. Kissed his fingers and then began to suck.
But Viggo would not be distracted. "Bath, puppy. And then if you're good enough, I'll fuck you." He grabbed Sean by the scruff of his neck and led him to the large tub in the garage. Sean protested all the way but Viggo was being an unfeeling bastard master and wanted to get his pet clean for once.
He maneuvered Sean into kneeling down in the tub and then started up the water. Sean looked petulant and wet by the time Viggo found the soap. He poured liberal amounts onto a soft sponge and, starting with Sean's shoulder, makes long steady strokes backwards down Sean's back. He makes smooth circular motions at the small of Sean's back and was rewarded by a satisfied purr.
"That's a good boy," Viggo muttered, bringing the sponge back up to rub at Sean's shoulders. "Relax, pet. Let me pamper you."
Sean purred some more. He turned his head and lapped at Viggo's wrist as soap suds slide from Sean's arm onto the bottom of the tub.
"See? It's not that bad."
Sean barked.
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23 May 2004 | 03:49pm
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Drabble: Laugh it up
"I want to play horsey," Pierce said in all seriousness. He didn't even grin at Sean's incredulous look.
"You want to what?"
"Play horsey," Pierce repeated. "Climb on you. Ride you until you fall over, exhausted and spent. Not stopping until I'm done."
"And then stable me for the night on some hay?" Sean rolled his eyes and flicked the rubber band from the paper at Pierce, gun style. It hit Pierce on the nose.
Pierce gave him the finger. "And then we'd play doggie and you'd curl under the covers with me."
"Oh. That sounds fair."
"Shall we?"
"Sure."
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21 May 2004 | 04:46pm
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Title: Killing Dance
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Alec/James
Fandom: Goldeneye</b>
Disclaimer: MGM and Ian Fleming. Trust me, or I'll send my pet assassin after you.
Warnings: James and Alec aren't exactly nice guys.
Rating: R
Summary: You stroke the trigger like you do your lover.
Author's Notes: This takes place in my AU Alec/James universe in which James came along when Alec defected. James became Alec's assassin, his threat against all enemies, and his code name was Ares. The term 'killing dance' was stolen from Laurell K Hamilton (she uses it to refer to sex) but I don't think she'll miss it, being busy with the arduer and other plot devices.
More Author's Notes: Yeats poems in order: The Second Coming, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, When You Are Old, King and No King.
The trigger was the kind you stroked. Pull on it too hard and the gun would jam. 'Like you would your lover,' Alec's contact had said, laughed. Alec had only had to look at it to realize how perfect it would be for James.
The bullet would spin as it left the chamber. You could shoot a target five kilometers away in the darkest part of night at the new moon and as long as you had a clean line of site, you'd kill your man. The bullet would take only a breath to find the target, and then it would keep going. The target would need to have a spine of titanium steel to stop the bullet. Usually, the contact said, it would go through one and stop in a building. If you were really unlucky, it could kill three.
James would love it. He was always looking for new sniper equipment.
James, he liked the thrill. He would perch on a rooftop or near the window in a rented flat and, once, in a stalling helicopter, and with a pinch a man would be dead. James liked to watch through the green-tinted scope as the man jerked back, blood coming from his mouth, arms flailing about, dead before he knew it. James would stroke the trigger again and again, not needing the extra shots, but loving the way a bullet would turn a stumbling man around, make him thrash around in new pain. It was every voyeur's dream, James said. Perfect power, perfect vantage point. From the top of a building, a drug cartel in your sights, there's nothing more perfect than that moment. There's no one more powerful than you.
Guns, they're a great offensive weapon, but impossible to use for defense. It doesn't matter Uzi, M-16, Colt-45. You can kill and you can be killed, but a scrap of metal can't stop a bullet.
It's something everyone knows, James liked to say while under Alec, counting thrusts between sermons. Something they know, but don't like to think about. It's never been whoever has the biggest toys wins. It's always been whoever can survive the toys wins.
It's never more clear, James liked to say, than when the crosshairs are being lowered and you're deciding if you can risk a stomach shot. Stomach shots make for much more theatrical deaths.
And sometimes Alec would go up with him, but not often. James never liked an audience. The most complicated kills, he needed to be alone. Said he couldn't think when Alec was around.
Alec, he sent James all over the world to do his killing dance. James never asked who they were. It didn't matter. They were men that James could play with.
One time it was a hundred yards and James lay flat on his stomach between wheatgrass and squinted against the noonday sun. He'd captured the target the day before and had tied him to a tree and given the target a knife. James took out the man's kneecap after the first hand had been freed. He tried for the groin but missed and hit the left thigh when the second hand was freed. As the blood dripped down and the flies gathered, James hit him at the top of his spine.
James never liked clean deaths. Any fool with a tracker, he liked to say, and a bit of aim can do a clean death. James liked them dirty.
James liked the power. And it was always power with him.
Alec fingered the telescopic sights and checked the kickback. He ran an oil rag across the barrel and rubbed the trigger. He loaded again and listened for the click. He gave it a full run through and then took the entire supply. It had been a limited run, the contact had said before the first bullet came on a downward trajectory, and passed through the base of his spine before burrowing in the dirt. Outdoor use only, Alec made a mental note. He didn't want to run the risk of ricochet. The rifle was even more indiscriminate than James.
He'd keep these for a time, he decided. Make a present out of it. And one night when James was lying sweaty on the bed, his arms curved lightly over his head, his legs spread, Alec would draw on him and watch how quickly James would have the knife quivering in the wall an inch away from Alec's left ear. And then he'd show the empty clip, toss the gun to James, and wish him a happy killing dance. He'd give James the name of the target, the possible location, the habits, the statistics, the name of the girlfriend, the model of personal bullet propulsion, and then James would have his fun.
And he'd come back with the blood on his hands, the dark brown dried blood of a three day old kill. It would be in streaks with grass stains and the almost clear dried semen. And Alec would take James' hands in his and kiss them, cover them with his own, and give his favorite assassin a welcome back kiss, harsh and demanding and bloody in ways no dance could ever be. James was Alec's weapon, cold and indiscriminate as he was, and Alec loved every bloodthirsty cell in his body. He loved the way he could get James hard by talking of old jobs, by whispering the stats of his favorite Beretta, by talking to him about caliber and years and manufactures. If there were two words Alec learned to never put together it was Smith and Wesson.
Of course, Alec had his own words. James could whisper to him about revenge, about white wine, any white wine, about rose petals falling into gutter puddles. James would lick Alec's ear and breathe out about Dostoyevsky, about Tolstoy. He'd stroke Alec's cock and mutter Yeats, about twenty centuries of stony sleep. About being poor and having only your dreams. About loving the pilgrim soul in you. About finding such good a thing as what has been lost in the blinding light beyond the grave.
Alec was always so easy to read. To manipulate. If you knew the right triggers, and James did. He would stroke them, squeeze them lightly, slide the pad of his thumb along the sensitive part and then a tiny pinch. And Alec could play him the same way, like any good instrument, like any good weapon. They were two of pair, Alec and James, night and dark, blonde and black. Balance and truth, justice and wisdom.
Pain and death.
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15 May 2004 | 04:41pm
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Title: The Five Ways Methos Died
Author: lannamichaels
Pairing: Kronos/Methos
Rating: R
Archive: Yes.
Fandom: Highlander (Horsemen Episodes)
Warnings: Snuff sex, necro. But since it's only 500 words, not explicit.
Summary: There are five ways for Methos to die.
A/N: First there was mention of a snuff arc. Then there was the remark that you can't have a snuff arc by nature of what snuff is. Then I realized that of course you can, you just need to be playing in the right sandbox. So I dug up my old Methos/Kronos one and got drabbling.
The first way was a knife through the back. Methos knew that Kronos considers the chest more elegant, but it was supposed to be a clean death. There was time for Kronos to be messy later. Well, assuming he didn't take advantage and take Methos' head. That was always a risk involved with staying with Kronos. You never knew when he was going to be in the mood to take your head.
Added a bit of spice to it, Methos has found. And Kronos harbored the same fears about Methos. It made for some excellent sex. Now to try death.
--
The second way was after Kronos had put together the Horsemen. In a tent in the middle of sweltering heat, Kronos took a blood-stained scimitar off the wall and laid it across Methos' neck as he fucked him. At every thrust, the blade nicked deeper and deeper into Methos' neck.
"You won't kill me." Methos said, certain of it. Kronos couldn't afford to lose the one who planned his raids.
"But you will bleed to death." Kronos pushed the scimitar in one last time and then tossed it to the side. He didn't stop thrusting until Methos choked his last.
--
The third had Kronos on his back, a dagger pressed to Methos' stomach. Methos' sweat ran blue with paint, streaking his face and chest. Only his lips remained clean as he fucked himself on Kronos' cock. Silas stood in the doorway, his ax ready to throw. At Kronos' word, Methos would get it in his back and balls at once. Kronos wanted to see which would kill him first.
Methos was of the opinion that he'd die from both of them with equal speed, and he was proved right. Methos stayed dead long enough for his body to turn cold.
--
The fourth was after the band had broken for the second time. Kronos hunted Methos across Europe and Asia, finally finding him on holy ground. Methos' skin was bathed in light from stained glass as Kronos held him firmly against a wall, the hilt of a sword making its dry way into Methos. A bit gag almost kept Methos' screams silent, but it didn't stop the pain. Nothing could. Not even death.
He revived to find Kronos' sword replaced by his cock, but the pain had barely lessened. He died eight more times before Kronos left him to his fate.
--
The final time was after the bomb failed to go off as planned. Kronos emptied a clip into Methos' head, and when the Quickening failed to come, he emptied another into Methos' chest. Caspian held Methos down as Kronos fucked Methos' limp body. When Methos made the life-giving gasp, Kronos brought his gun around and forced it down Methos' throat. He fired again and again, enjoying the body jerking beneath him. His very own marionette, the one time Methos ever did what Kronos wanted him to do. All it took was for him to die.
But never again, Methos swore.
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11 May 2004 | 04:40pm
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helens78 is a wonderful muse. Even when she doesn't realize I'm leeching off her.
Triple Drabble: Not Gay
And here we return to Viggo/Sean. Finally they're beginning not to be scared anymore.
Sean Bean was Not Gay. He was so Not Gay that he'd let Viggo talk him into sleeping with him just to prove he was Not Gay. Now that he was sober, Sean wasn't all too sure about the logic behind that, but he was Not Gay and if Viggo couldn't understand that until he shagged Sean, well, then, so be it. He'd let Viggo shag him and then go back to being Not Gay, thank you very much.
Viggo, it so happened, was Very Very Gay. He was so Very Very Gay that he put Liberace, Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, and not to mention Ian, to shame. Viggo was so Very Very Gay the clouds parted when he walked by and a Hallelujah chorus sang gay pride songs. Viggo was Very Very Gay to beat the band.
Viggo had been conspiring for ages to get Sean into bed. After all, Sean had a very jumpable ass, some very kissable lips, and a tattoo on his arm that was an incredible footie turnon. Not to mention knifeplay, but Viggo, though Very Very Gay and just a tad less Very Kinky, didn't do that on the first date.
So he'd gotten Sean drunk (not all that easy to do) and dared him to prove he was Not Gay by having a night of Very Very Gay delights with Viggo. Viggo hadn't been sure if Sean would still go through with it while sober, but Sean proved to be a man of his word and so on the fifth of October, Sean stripped in Viggo's bedroom and shagged Viggo. And then got shagged by Viggo because you can't evaluate without experiencing both ends of it. So to speak.
And, needless to say, Sean was no longer Not Gay by the morning.
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10 May 2004 | 03:43pm
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Double Drabble: Digital Pierce
Pairing: Pierce/Bron
Circa: Present Day
Angst-Factor: 0
Disclaimer: And Santa Claus is shagging the Easter Bunny.
Summery: The real story behind all the pictures on PB.com
Pierce had put up with Bron's unnatural habit for years. He'd humored Bron every time he took out a camera during their dates and didn't mind when Bron snapped a picture of an unguarded moment. After all, no one was ever going to see it but Bron. Pierce had even gotten Bron a digital camera when they were first being developed so Bron could take as many pictures as he wanted and not have to spend all that time in the darkroom. But this was getting to be too much.
"Will you for God's sake stop pointing that thing at me?!"
"Why?" Bron, damn him, somehow managed to look innocent.
"Because I'm bloody naked, that's why. And I've got bite marks over my chest and bruises on my arms. What on earth could you want with a picture of that?"
Bron grinned and put the camera away. He crossed his wrists behind his back and leaned forward to kiss each and every bruise. "Because you look good." He said, moving from Pierce's shoulder to the top of his chest. "Because you look sexy." Another kiss. "Because you're mine."
"And?"
"Because I'm making a killing on these things on the Internet."
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08 May 2004 | 03:43pm
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Quadruple Drabble: Unforgiven
For England, James?
If there was any way for me to forget him, I would. I close my eyes at night and there he stands before me, dressed all in black and an evil smirk on his schoolboy features. His face was the one thing that never changed over the years. Scars adorned his body - a hazard of the field - but I can never imagine him as he became. Janus was not Alec, but I will forever remember Janus' last words to me.
I can hear his voice even now. Over my own screams, I can hear him laughing at me. I can feel his hands caress me as they beat me. I can feel his cock in my mouth as they poison me. He is around me always.
Hush, James, you don't want them to hear. Close your eyes and think of England.
I've lost track of my time here. It could be years, but I don't think so. Alec was the only one who didn't tire of me after more than months had gone by. He used to say that you never wanted to need anyone unless they also needed you. Because after long enough, want will turn to dust and Alec wasn't the only one who had needed someone who no longer cared for him. But Alec never told me what to do when the man you needed and who needed you in return was no longer there.
Alec didn't tell me a lot of things. And sometimes his voice isn't kind. Sometimes I can remember the times when it didn't seem like he would stop yelling at me. I deserted him - I left him - I never loved him. Not like he loved me. He wanted me to follow him into the life he chose for himself. He wanted me there with him always. It was my own damn fault for not paying attention all those years ago. Alec was never subtle. It was his only major flaw. How blind I must have been not to notice his pain in his caresses, the regret in his voice our last night together. We fit together so well both on and off the field. How betrayed he must have felt when I didn't read his mind then, the way I had so many times before.
Relax for me, James. This won't hurt but a bit.
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02 May 2004 | 03:42pm
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Double Drabble: Lovechild
This is All. zillah975's. Fault. She gave me the double plot bunnies, one without realizing it and the other probably not, and I loves her muchly.
Sean Jr. was given over into the capable hands of the child care staff and Sean Sr. and Pierce made their way down to the beach. Pierce was wearing nothing but a Speedo and Sean couldn't quite manage to keep his hands off him as they appropriated a lounge-chair for themselves. It was big enough for two, but Sean still managed to lay half on Pierce. Pierce stroked Sean's hair as the server approached.
"We'll have a red." Pierce told him. "Not too skinny. No freckles." He and Sean had decided that last night after they'd gotten in. They'd had a blonde last time and a brunette the time before that. Sean wanted something different.
"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?"
Sean lifted his head from Pierce's chest and looked over the selection. There were more than a few boys who fit Pierce's specifications. "No bodybuilders." Sean's never been one for too much muscle. Always said it took away rather than added.
"Yes, sir." The server scurried away and gave a few instructions to the handler. A slave came forward and knelt to Pierce's right.
"Happy birthday, Sean." Pierce pulled Sean up for a long kiss.
"Happy birthday, Pierce."
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23 Apr 2004 | 03:42pm
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Title: Death Rattle
Author: lannamichaels
Fandom: Fight Club
Pairing: Tyler/Angel Face, Tyler/Narrator
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. I really wish they were, though. This isn't a seminar and this isn't a weekend retreat.
Warnings: Heh. No.
Summery: There are certain things Angel needs to tell Tyler.
A/N: For the contrelamontre 45 minute post-script challenge.
Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Do you know what sound it makes? It's not that smooth swish of a basketball thrown by an overpaid rapist, or the crunch of gravel beneath speeding cars. And it isn't the stroke of money crossing a well-greased palm, or the clink of change from a register drone to an undeserving bitch wearing Bambi on her hands.
And it's not the sound I make when you fuck me, that surprised sort of squeak that this is actually happening. I know better. I know the sound of the death rattle, Tyler. I've been hearing it since even before you showed up.
I've been hearing it since grade school when Sister Anne made the sign of the cross and then spat in the dust, took off her habit, and never looked back. I've been hearing it since junior high when the fags in the locker room would get their faces turned into raccoons for the unpardonable crime of being who they are. I heard it in high school in home room when Deni slapped me when I tried to kiss her and suicided the next day.
I've been hearing it for years, Tyler. It's nothing new. You're nothing new. What you do to me isn't new. It's all been done a thousand times before. Hurt, then fuck. Hurt, then fuck. Somewhere along the line it all blended together. It's all about the mindfuck, isn't it, Tyler? It's never sex for itself. You use it to consolidate your power.
Have you ever heard that death rattle, Tyler? Do you know what it sounds like when you're a blink away from suicide? Do you know what it feels like to be the direct cause of death?
Oh, I know you've killed people. Everyone knows how you fucked your boss and then slid a knife through his heart. We all know how you take a boy to the side, a boy that will never be missed, and turn him into a pile of quivering screams so quickly, just with your fists and your feet. No one can deny you're a physical man, Durden.
But you've never been the reason someone lost all hope to live. You've never been that death rattle, you've never been that voice, that little voice, so tinny and cruel, that whispers end it. You've never drove a man so crazy he dove straight six feet under.
But I have, Tyler. It's something I've done that you haven't. I drove my father to drink. Do you know what a thousand drinks after a thousand days does to your body, Tyler? Think of soap. You have your glycerin, your tallow, and your lye. And then you have the person who stirs, who puts them all in, who slowly brings it all to a simmer.
Even a death rattle can't compare to that.
You said you wanted to destroy something beautiful. You said you wanted to see an angel break beneath you. You wanted to clip my wings and make me forget how to fly. You wanted to torture and tease until I yelled out your name, your proper name, the name no one but me knows.
Because I know about you, Tyler. I know about the one thing you don't want anybody to know. Because then they'll hate you, Tyler, more that a thousand stings of a thousand drunken sailors. They'll follow a visionary, but you're no saint.
I've seen your eyes change, Tyler, when you're fucking me and I'm sounding like my very own death rattle, long and keening. They go from murder to confusion, but you still keep fucking me, still stay on top.
You don't think I've noticed the change. But I have. I'm an angel, remember? I know what you are. Parasite. Murderer. You've taken over a host and you're making him do things he doesn't want to do. And maybe he was a willing victim at first, going eagerly to the sound of your death rattle, but his self-destruction turned into you.
But you don't understand, Tyler. I don't care about any of that. I only care about you. Because while the parasite can only have one host, my heart doesn't know that.
And I'm not going to tell about you, Tyler. I'm too entrenched in destruction, too dependant on sounding the keening wail of the mottled throne. I need it too much, Tyler. It's my addiction. I want to rip out the throats of all the department stores and history stores pandering to the masses. I want to destroy revisionist history and political correctness and the new math. I want to take psychoanalysis in my teeth and rip it through all the playgrounds in the world. I want to rain freedom down and let ring the bells of anarchy.
I want to be you, Tyler. I want you with me. I can't do this alone. Humanity cannot be saved by one man alone. You need me. You need me and you just haven't realized it yet.
And I'll be here, if you ever need a death rattle.
-Angel
P.S. Of course it isn't. You think you're the only one who can possess, Tyler? I am Jack's laughing mockery.
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16 Apr 2004 | 03:40pm
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Double Drabble: Power
You had your time, you had the power
You've yet to have your finest hour
-Radio Gaga
He'd lost his destiny in Imladris. Until then, he had been secure in his knowledge of what the future would bring. Should he survive battle, he would succeed his father to the stewardship and rule until the return of the king.
At Imladris, a king was shown to him, and from then on, Boromir was helpless.
Through Caradhras and Moria, he'd watched in silence. In Lorien that silence was broken, but no comfort came. Morning will yet come after this night, Boromir told himself, but months passed and morning did not come.
On the Great River, his resolve cracked. The leader refused to lead and Boromir would follow none that could not decide on their own course. He respected the warrior, but he feared the king. He feared what that non-king would do to his beloved country. He grabbed the man and shook him, wanting the pieces of a lost heritage to be dislodged and then fall into their proper place.
Denial was all he received.
No morning would come, Boromir understood. Darkness The dawnless day would come, and still the line of Isildur would not return. Only one thing could save Gondor now. Only one thing.
Only one thing.
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12 Apr 2004 | 03:40pm
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Occassionally, I do remember to crosspost.
Title: What Comes Between Us
Series: The Road Not Taken
Authors: lunasv and lannamichaels
Pairing: Peter Wingfield/Gerard Butler/Jonny Lee Miller
Disclaimer: We do not know these fine men. This never happened and it probably never will. This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Establishment AU: Gerry went back to Peter. What happens when Jonny Lee shows up at the door.
Notes: In the beginning there were metas about Peter having a harem. Then there was the realization that if Gerry was a bit subbier and was a masochist, it actually could have happened. This is the direct result on that. This story uses the Establishment RPG characters Peter Wingfield, Gerard Butler and Jonny Lee Miller, but is independent of that universe and the actions here in no way affect those. The two universes share a common background in that for a period of time Gerry was Peter's submissive/slave and then left and became involved with Jonny Lee. They diverge in that in this AU, Gerry goes back to Peter, but Jonny Lee follows and soon the dynamic is shifting, putting a naive boy squarely between master and slave.
( So, Gerry, would you care to introduce me to this pathetic creature? )
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03 Apr 2004 | 07:35pm
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Triple Drabble: Time Share
Pairing: Pierce Brosnan/Bron Roylance/Rick Provenzano (An actor, his make up artist, and his hair styler)
Fandom: Theatrical Muse
This is all Helens' fault. Go thank her for it. *g*
Last night Bron held Pierce down while Rick teased at Pierce's cock with his tongue. Three hours before Rick had snapped the cockring on Pierce while Pierce had been occupied with giving Bron a blowjob. Five hours afterwards, when Bron and Rick were exhausted and neither one could swear that Pierce's balls weren't turning blue, one of them reached over and took it off.
This morning Bron holds Pierce down while Rick teases at Pierce's split ends and tries to make his hair as fluffy as before. Thirty minutes before Rick had held Pierce's head still while Bron mixed colors to make the perfect shade for a hickey for Pierce's neck. No matter how much Pierce begged, they wouldn't give him a real one. After all, it had to come off by the fourth scene of the day.
Later that night it's Pierce's turn to be on top and he'll be crueler than ever, remembering how much Rick enjoys it and the way Bron's cock feels when Pierce is on top and riding him. He'll cuff Rick to the bed and tell Bron to beat him while Pierce beats him and every missed stroke will be another hour he's not allowed to come. Because Pierce enjoyed orgasm control as much as the next sadomasochistic switch and the play from the night before had brought him to levels of nirvana he hadn't approached since the week-long orgy he'd been a part of during the Goldeneye shoot, and he'll want to thank his boys/masters for giving him that gift. He'll leave bite marks across Rick's tanned chest, and the sex will go on until morning because it's Friday and they have the weekend off.
And when the shoot ends, they'll go their separate ways, at least until the next movie comes around.
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31 Mar 2004 | 03:31pm
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So you guys remember my badfic and how I was going to continue it but then I watched Bravo Two Zero and couldn't stomach RPS for a while? Well, I'm in a silly and horrible mood and it's ribby's birthday and I figure she might like this, so let's get on with the bad writing. I present...the return of the badfic! *maniacal laughter*
Title: Return of the Badfic
Follows A Badfic By Any Other Name. I assure you, this fic is even worse. *g*
The Dane had driven off into the sun, but managed to somehow not be burnt to a crisp by the awesome hotness of it all. The people watching attributed this to the mad artist's usual proximity to Sean Bean who is, as we all know, the hottest man alive, except for the bloke who lives along the equator, in the Mojave desert, or inside a specialty made oven. Sylvia Plath fans, eat it up.
Viggo Mortensen, second of that name, pulled up into the lot of a cheap motel and got the smallest room. It was so small that it was really just a broom closet next to a very famous hooker's house of, erm, office. This resulted in quite a few cases of mistaken identity, but that's a whole 'nother story and is not suitable for children and other moralistic, upstanding human beings. And since none of you are like that, I suppose I should go on and mention how Viggo got tied to the bed by the mayor of that small town and got the living daylights shagged out of him, or how Viggo woke up to find that he was giving Brad Pitt a blowjob, or that he somehow managed to enlist in the marines while partaking of a large group orgy.
At dawn, Viggo made a break for it which resulted in him tripping the trip wire. The recruiter tsked, bound and gagged Viggo, and slung him over his shoulder to bring him to the base. Poor Viggo. Getting kidnapped by the armed forces to be the slut of hot horny guys with crew cuts.
I should be so lucky.
But this story isn't about Viggo, who ends up spending a good portion of his time afterwards on his back. This story isn't even about the author, as much as she might wish it were so.
No, this story is about Sean Bean. You remember him, he's the hottest man alive. Had a miscarriage last episode and boy is his heart aching. He seems like the kind of guy that could benefit from a large group orgy.
Sadly, that was how he got pregnant in the first place. Never bottom to a sales clerk with stitches about his eye. You might just be subbing to Tyler Durden. And Tyler's a maniac in bed. Comes from all those nights fucking himself.
Anyway, Sean was left destitute (but not really), sobbing on the floor of Orlando's huge ass mansion. Orlando was comforting him, but not in the horizontal fashion. More in a vertical way, but not against the wall. Just, you know, being friends, being there. And if you believe that, I have a nice bridge in New York, barely used. What do you say?
Well, Karl came downstairs to find his Orli-kins with his head between Sean's legs. Sean was moaning quite like the whore Viggo is and Orli was making some very enthusiastic sounds. Then comes Karl with a huge frying pan and a butcher knife.
Someone cue the Psycho theme.
Karl had just discovered that morning that he was pregnant with Harry's child and he hadn't known how to break the news to Orli that Karl and Harry had had a one night stand during Peter's baby shower. Since Harry was the father of Peter's child (well, the other father), it had only been Karl's duty as a fellow Kiwi (but not the fruit or the bird) to shag him.
Honest.
Karl and Harry had woken up to find David and Craig between them. None of the four were quite certain why there was chocolate pudding on the walls, but each assumed one of the others had a kink he wasn't up for sharing with the class. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Karl had discovered he was pregnant quite by accident. He was in the shower, doing what many men and women do in the shower, that is, singing, when the baby poked its head up and asked him if he minded shutting up since dada had lost the key somewhere in the Mojave desert. The baby suggested looking in the oven (but first preheating it to 425 degrees) and then stuck his head back in.
Karl had been so shocked he dropped the soap.
There was no mistaking that it was Harry's child. First of all, the baby looked nothing like Orli. Secondly, it had a New Zealand accent.
It also looked a bit like David, which Karl just assumed was because he'd slept with Sean the night before he shagged Harry, and David and Sean look enough alike to be a specialty of the whorehouse of Gondor.
Not that the author has an incest kink or a Boys Being Blonde Together kink. Not at all. How could you think such a thing? Really, I must protest. And I insist you leave. Yes, now.
Are they gone? Good.
Let's get back to the little kiwi that could.
Karl was approaching the fellating duo like the shark in Jaws except without the fin sticking up. He held the frying pan high over his head and brought it crashing down on Orli's head.
Orli, it should be noted, later showed no evidence that this act had damaged his brain in any way, which caused the rest of them to conclude that Orli never had a brain in the first place.
So an exhibition to Oz was planned. After all, they couldn't let an up and coming movie star go without a brain. After all, just look at where it had gotten all those Bond bimbos?
After all, Sean's a Bond bimbo and he's spending his life blowing strangers because he can't admit that he's in love with his best friend.
And Viggo, a Bond bimbo's bimbo, is on his knees in front of a sergeant with more muscles than the current governor of California, and is getting told he's nothing better than a maggot, drop down and give me twenty.
Blowjobs, that is, not push ups.
And let's not talk about the orgy they have planned for when they get Viggo sprung out of prison for talking back to a superior officer ("When I say jump, you say how high. Jump onto my cock." "How high?") but the plans had to be abandoned when it was discovered that Viggo didn't want to leave "Bubba", a man who looked quite a bit like the drill sergeant, except for a few hundred more pounds of muscle.
Sean put it best. Viggo's a slut.
And Viggo put it best. Takes one to know when.
Then Sean put it better. Why you little ungrateful shit. I lose our baby and this is how you treat me?
Then Viggo got one up on him. It wasn't my baby to begin with, you sluttish whore. Why don't you get a job?
This caused Sean to start crying. What, you don't love me anymore?
And Viggo broke down also, like a bad used car. I do love you, Seanie, but you were an abusive boyfriend and I'm better off without you.
Sean sniffed and wiped his nose on the bars separating the two of them. Is that what your therapist told you?
Viggo nodded and then cried into "Bubba". Like the rest of us, "Bubba" was sick and tired of all the angst, so he shoved the two of them into a broom closet in a cheap motel and told them to kiss and make up.
Then the mayor arrived, but that's a whole 'nother story.
I swear.
Oh, all right. You see, this mayor was a kissing cousin of all the guys in the town hall and together they had decided...no, actually, that is another story. Let's leave Sean and Viggo and the circus troop to their bedroom acrobatics.
Let's talk about Karl and Orli. After the trip to Oz was cancelled, Karl decided to do the next best thing and go home to New Zealand. He packed clothing, his toothbrush, and stuffed Orli into a suitcase as an afterthought. After all, Orli was really all that necessary. He already had a blowup doll. Really, think about it, what more could Orli do for him? The young actor was superfluous in their not very meaningful homosexual relationship. So superfluous in fact that Karl once brought Lawrence Makore home for a shag instead of Orli.
Oh, just face it, they're all whores.
And they're having fun, in their little whore worlds.
But that will soon change.
You see, Peter's just given birth to the Antichrist.
But don't worry. That's only going to be found out in part 57 of 113. We're still on part 2. Got a long way to go. Karl still hasn't given birth yet to the savior of humanity and no one knows that Viggo's a lesbian. And no one knows that Sean secretly has wings.
That secret comes out when Fran strips Sean naked and bends him over a clothesline. You see, Fran's secretly a witch and she's been watching Sean for all this time, waiting to see when his Secret Powers will manifest. Sean's destiny in life is to aid the Antichrist in his destruction of the world.
Sean would rather have a latte.
So it falls to Viggo, newly revealed as a lesbian, to persuade Sean to join the side of evil, and Sean happily serves for a few years. He finally runs back to the side of good when Peter asks him to babysit.
The fate of the world will end up revolving around a three year old child. But what else is new?
And you still haven't found out about the werewolf on the Troy set...
TO BE CONTINUED!1!!!!ONETYONE!!1!!
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19 Mar 2004 | 02:40am
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Drabble: Queer Eye for the Kinky Guy
Kyan Douglas/Jai Rodriguez
Kyan and Jai were sprawled on Jai's sofa, channelsurfing. Kyan had control of the remote, but when he flashed by Bravo, Jai made a dashing hop and grabbed it. Twenty minutes into the show and Jai started pouting.
"You gave him a safeword!"
Kyan blushed a little. "Yeah."
"You never gave me a safeword." The pout deepened.
"You already have one."
"Not the point."
Kyan stole the remote back and put on a random news channel. "Then what's the point?"
"You're a cocksucker?"
"Jai?"
"Yes?"
Kyan leaned in very close and murmured, "If I kiss you, will you shut up?"
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18 Mar 2004 | 02:40am
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Drabble: The Vows
"Names?"
Sean and Viggo gave them.
"Identification?"
Sean and Viggo gave them.
"Fill out these forms and sign them in triplicate."
Viggo accepted them and then sat down to fill them out. A quick fight over the pencil ended up with Sean over Viggo's lap, arse in the air, about to spanked, before they remembered the public thing. After some mild cursing, Viggo pulled Sean up only to have Sean snatch the pencil.
Sean leaned in close and gave Viggo his best come-hither look. He dropped his voice an octave, leaned in close and asked.
"What's your Social Security Number?"
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16 Mar 2004 | 02:39am
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Feline Fun Nine: A Horse Is A Horse, Of Course, Of Course
Previous parts can be found here.
"You always play with him."
As soon as the words were out, Sean winced. He hadn't meant for it to come out so harsh. But, dammit, he was Viggo's pet. Viggo should be spending him with him, not some mongrel horse he picked up through the kindness of his heart. Ever since Viggo had brought TJ home, Sean had watched helplessly as his master got more and more distant. If Sean wanted to cuddle on the couch, no, Viggo had to brush TJ. If Sean wanted to be petted, TJ needed to be brushed. If Sean wanted to be ridden hard and put up wet, he had to get in line behind a fucking horse. It wasn't bloody fair. He was the pet here, not TJ. Wasn't he?
Or did Viggo not want him anymore? Sean could understand that. The novelty had worn off several years ago but Sean had liked the lazy familiarity more than anything that had come before. Damnit all, he liked being predictable. He liked having his Master know everything he was going to do before he himself knew he was going to do it. He liked coming downstairs and knowing down to the exact detail how Viggo took his coffee. He liked being the one Viggo could always count on to be there. And Viggo, in return, had always returned his devotion with love and care. Until recently, that was.
It wasn't fucking fair. And you don't break promises to a pet.
"I play with you, too," was Viggo's response. He gave his pet a scrutinizing look that made Sean squirm. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a pony, Sean."
No, he wasn't jealous. He was so resentful that he could feel it coming out of his eyeballs, but he wasn't jealous. Pets weren't allowed to be jealous. Territorial, yes, but Master did what masters always do, and there's nothing Sean can do to put a stop to it. Sean should at least be happy that master's only straying with one of his animals.
"You just spend so much time with him."
"He's young. He needs attention." Viggo said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"And I don't?"
No, Viggo hadn't been ignoring him lately, but he hadn't been getting the sort of attention he used to receive. Viggo used to focus on Sean. Now he focused on Sean and that mangy little whore in the stables.
"Sean."
"Yes, master?"
"Get over here."
With a heavy sigh, Sean pushed himself from leaning against the threshold. He walked over to the kitchen chair and knelt down in front of it. "Yes, master."
Viggo lifted Sean's chin and his thumb stroked Sean's overly-nibbled lower lip. "You think I've been neglecting you."
"No." Perfect truth. Sean knew Viggo had been neglecting him.
"Pet."
Sean blushed. "Yes, master. I have."
"And what can I do to get you to stop feeling like that?"
"Stop neglecting me?"
Viggo tsked. "If it was that easy, why didn't you just ask? Why'd you demand?"
Sean grinned. That one was easy. "Because I'm a spoiled pet."
"Wrong."
"Master?"
"You're my spoiled pet."
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15 Mar 2004 | 02:38am
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Drabble: The Ceremony
"Viggo?" Sean asked, ten minutes before they were set to go on.
"Mm hmm?"
"I've been thinking."
"That's always a bad thing."
"Yeah." Long pause.
"Viggo?" Sean asked, five minutes before they were set to go on.
"Yeah?"
"I really was thinking."
"Something very new for you, I'm sure."
Sean didn't dignify that with an answer.
"Viggo?" Sean asked, two minutes before they were set to go on.
"What is it, Sean?"
"I don't want to do this."
Viggo looked more than a little relieved. "Neither do I."
Sean smiled. "Want to get out of here?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
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15 Feb 2004 | 02:38am
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Title: Wear Slashscreen
Author: lannamichaels
Fic Type: Filk
Disclaimer: The song was "sung" by Baz Luhrmann. It came from an article by a woman whose name I can't quite recall at present. Sean's arse belongs to Viggo him.
Dedication: To ashinae, who started me dow | | |
