bitch, I will go to bed when I'm good and ready
Title: Stubborn
Part: 1 of 12
Type: Slash
Genre: Jayne-POV slash?
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Pairing: Simon Tam/Jayne Cobb
Prompt: "Aires"
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, slash, Firefly!cursing, slash
Word Count: 460
Summary: Simon's mouth ain't the only thing about him that's pretty.
Disclaimer: Not mine; Joss Whedon's.
A/N: Written for zodiacfic.
Jayne doesn’t like it at first when Zoe tells him that he and the Doctor are setting up for and cleaning up after supper together. He groans, complains, and bitches his gorram heart out, but the warrior woman remains resolute… it’s all “captain’s orders” this, and “Simon’s not so bad, really” that, and “gorram it, Jayne, you’re working with Simon.” Women. At least Wash is the one who has to hit that whenever his flying gets her in the mood. Jayne quietly suspects that he’d kill himself before fucking her.
He also doesn’t like when working with the Doctor proves to not be so bad. Boy mostly keeps to himself, leaving Shepherd to tend the actual food and setting out plates and whatnot. Sticking that pretty mouth of his out in a way that just demands to be stared at same way as a Reaver does. Well not exactly the same, but… pretty damn close. Maybe more like the reality of Reavers than the actual thing. It’s just there, jutting out from the rest of his face, and it’s stark and demanding and, if it takes a punch to make it quit being so pretty, then Jayne’ll deliver. It’ll keep him from looking at it anyway, which’ll keep Zoe from telling him to get to work.
After supper, clean up goes easily, and Jayne is glad to have something to stare at other than that gorram pretty mouth. This doesn’t last long, though. While he’s trying to clean up the last bits of food, he keeps looking over at the Doctor as he works on the rest of the dishes. Is he aware that his pants leave just enough up to Jayne’s imagination to be dangerous? Or that every time he shifts his weight, Jayne has to check to make sure there’s no stray Mals or Kaylees or Rivers around to make things complicated. Especially no Rivers.
Finally, he’s sure no one’s there and he can’t ruttin’ take it no more. The Doctor sets the last plate in the stack, puts the stack away, and surveys the clean kitchen; Jayne turns the boy around with one hand and kisses him full on that gorram pretty mouth. Must be pretty intimidating, being that the only form of protest is a muffled whinin’ sound and two arms that come between them, but the whinin’s tolerable and the arms ain’t much to worry about. Just to show the Doctor who’s boss here, Jayne shoves him into the counter, kissing him with increased ferocity. His head knocks into the cupboard, which makes him grunt, which, in turn, makes Jayne start feeling around past his clothes.
“Gorram it, boy,” he growls. “That mouth o’ yours ain’t the only thing ‘bout you that’s pretty, is it?”
Title: Dog's Eye View
Type: Slash... but genish slash.
Genre: Sadfluff? I don't know...
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Prompt: "Aires"
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, language, etc.
Word Count: 1,317
Summary: An older Adam confronts a demon about some un-demon-like feelings.
Disclaimer: Not mine; Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's.
Though he’s not the most intelligent beast, Dog is far from stupid. He knows how to sit, shake, roll over, and play dead. He knows the names of The Master’s three little friends, though he has, on two separate occasions, confused The Brian with The Wensleydale; as the only female, The Pepper is hard to mistake. It’s taken him some time, but he has learned the most effective ways to catch rabbits and where they like to hide in the garden, and he always knows when Feeding Time will be. He can also tell when Things Are Up.
Whenever the “uncle” known as Crowley comes over, Things are definitely Up, even more so when he is accompanied by the “uncle” known as Fell…or Aziraphale. That one has more than one name, which is terribly confusing and makes Dog’s head hurt. Usually, this is remedied by a quick roll in the mud and a look from the Master that confirms any suspicions of Things Being Up.
The Crowley comes over alone this time, in the same sunglasses as always. The Master’s parents are heading out the door for a Night Out when he does (strange, Dog thinks, that they really don’t know The Crowley, but leave The Master with him; it must be one of The Master’s tricks). Following standard procedure, he makes a pot of the yellow noodles Dog isn’t allowed to eat appear on the stove and leaves The Master to his own Devices while he goes to sleep on the sofa. Such a formula has served the three of them well for the two years since That Day, and The Crowley seems less likely to change it than The Master seems likely to make him.
Because he could; he just doesn’t for reasons that Dog doesn’t think to fathom.
Dog whines and chases his tail as The Master helps himself to the noodles; one of The Master’s Looks makes him stop, though. Obeying a silent command, he sits patiently, looking up at The Master’s odd calm and, occasionally, at the room where The Crowley is sleeping.
“I know, Dog,” The Master sighs. “And it’s ridiculous.”
Dog whines slightly.
“You’re right. It’s even worse that Az hasn’t done something about it…”
Dog whines more. He’s pretty sure that he knows where this is going, and he can’t say that he likes it.
“Precisely!” The Master’s face lights up in a Grin. “Since he won’t, we will!”
Dog leans to the floor and hides his head under his paws. No, he definitely doesn’t like this. Interrupting himself, The Master leaves his yellow noodles behind and motions for Dog to follow. Cursing his own obedience, Dog does so, and they enter the room to find - as expected - The Crowley sleeping on the sofa, still in his sunglasses and shoes. He groans when The Master pokes him in the stomach, but doesn’t react further until his sunglasses are removed. At first, the light seems to bother him, but he adjusts quickly and looks up at The Master with yellow eyes that make even Dog cower.
“’scuse me, …Uncle Crowley?” The Master ventures, cautious but not too much so.
“What d’ya need, kid?” The Crowley sighs.
“To ask you a question, actually.”
“Okay. What?”
“Do you like Uncle Aziraphale?”
The Crowley furrows his brow and narrows the eyes. Dog isn’t quite sure they’re really his yet. He hasn’t seen them before, and they have narrow slits, not like the other humans’ eyes. The Crowley, he reminds himself, isn’t exactly human, but he’s human enough, save those eyes.
“I suppose I must,” he huffs. “Being that he and I are sort of friends… enemy for six-thousand years and whatnot.”
“No, no, no!” The Master explains, “I mean... do you like him like him?”
“…Why?”
“Because you look at him funny like and I want to know.”
“Curiosity-”
“Killed the cat, I know. But… please tell me?”
The Crowley sighs. “…He’s endearing, I guess.”
The Master regards him with disbelief, also narrowing his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Kid, if you’re trying to set something up, there are better ways to go about it.”
“I’m not trying! There’s something there, and I think he deserves to know. You never know, he might like you back!”
“…You’re too young to understand it, kid.”
“I can make him, can’t I?”
“It’s possible. But you shouldn’t. It’s what we professionals would call ‘a gross misuse of your powers.’”
“Okay, but you should still tell him. I mean, if you’re gonna tell me about right and wrong.”
“Didn’t ssssay right and wrong now, did I?”
“No, but you meant it.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What’ssss it to you?”
“…I dunno, but it’s something, since you’re telling me.”
Once again, The Crowley sighs. He’s hissing, which Dog finds to be completely new and interesting. Some vague inkling of hearing that noise before occurs to Dog, but he buries it like a bone when he looks up at the Demon. For some reason, he looks tired and worn down, and, when he rubs the bridge of his nose, he looks almost… broken.
“Look, kid,” he says calmly. “Sometimesss you can’t tell someone the whole truth… essspecially not here.”
“Why not?” The Master asks.
The Crowley coughs, which Dog supposes composes him. “Don’t you know what Aziraphale is?”
“…Gayer than a-”
“No, that’s a joke between him and me. Technically, he can’t be gay unless he really wants to make the effort.”
“Oh, right… sexless. Could I change that if I wanted to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Back to the question: what is Aziraphale?”
“An angel?”
“Principality, technically, but no one gives a damn about the titles anymore. Either way you slice it, we can be friends, him and me, but never anything more. It’s right dangerous our even being friends… one wrong move and either he Falls or I find myself in a world of hurt from your father - no, kid, your real father, the evil one - and neither of these outcomes really appeals to me.”
“But doesn’t lying make you feel bad?”
“If it did, I wouldn’t have Fallen. Besides, it’s not lying as much as it is not telling him for our collective safety.”
The Master pouts and raises an eyebrow. “All due respect, but… yeah right, Uncle Crowley.”
“What do you want me to say? That it’s killing me not to tell him? Because that’s not even an appropriate hyperbole, since dying would just be a temporary inconvenience.”
“I want you to tell the truth…”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“I can make you, can’t I?”
“It’s possible, but… fine, your Antichrist-ness… the truth. The honest to goodness, hand to Him, swear it on the Bentley truth is that I, A.J. Crowley, a demon, feel very undemon-like things about Aziraphale. And some very demon-like things, don’t get me wrong, I’m true to my roots and always will be, but the fact remains that… this, for me, isn’t normal.”
“…But it’s what’s there, right?”
“Yes, regrettably.”
“So why don’t you-”
“This is not a matter I’m going to discuss any further. Now… I’m going to sleep, and you are going to go… play pirates, or seduce Pepper, or… do whatever thirteen-year-old Antichrists do.”
True to his word, The Crowley falls asleep on the sofa to The Master’s visible disappointment. He furrows his brow and pouts, and a few of The Mother’s photograph coasters jingle on the table. But The Master breathes in deeply, pushing his hair back off his face; then he scratches Dog behind the ears. Dog whines somewhat - he can’t help it; The Master’s mind has always affected his somewhat - and gives The Master a sympathetic nuzzle on the leg.
“Come on, boy,” he sighs. “Let’s go find Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale and do something.”
Dog whines.
“Oh, we’ll be back for Uncle Crowley alright. Just let him sleep for now, I reckon.”
Title: Throwing Off the Trail
Type: Gen
Genre: Erm...Peter POV Gen?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Warnings: Minor language, maybe
Word Count: 426
Summary: How Peter avoided suspicion during the First War.
Disclaimer: Not mine; JK Rowling's.
“Oi, Pete. Tell me what’s up.”
Peter whipped around and stared at the incredulous look on Sirius’ face: his gray eyes were narrowed and his brow furrowed. Without losing this newfound control, Peter wrinkled his back and blinked, faking confusion. He couldn’t keep himself tugging at the sleeve of his robes - right arm, keep it secret, keep it safe - but Sirius’ gaze was locked, dog-like and single-minded, on Peter’s.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, Padfoot.”
“Don’t lie to me, mate; you’re pants at it.”
“Really, nothing’s wrong.”
“Your hair’s longer than I remember…” Sirius idly twirled some of Peter’s hair on his finger to illustrate his point.
Peter slapped the hand away. “Haven’t had time to get it cut, ya bleedin’ poof! And I don’t think Moony’d be too happy with you touchin’ it.”
“Leave Moony out of this. Anyway… you haven’t had time? Pete, you live with your mum.”
“So?”
Sirius poked him in the stomach, getting to it through the over-sized clothes, then moved up and lightly smacked his cheek. Peter winced and wrinkled his nose, giving Sirius a perplexed glare.
“You’ve gotten thin, Wormtail.”
“Yeah… so?”
“You’ve never, in as long as I’ve known you, been thin.”
“I started taking care of myself… with the war and all-”
“No, you haven’t.” Sirius poked him beneath his eyes to another wince. “’cos you haven’t slept either.”
“I don’t have someone living with me like Moony or Lily-”
“But your mum-”
“Is old and worried sick that I’m not going to come home someday for throwing my wand in with Dumbledore and them!”
“…I see.”
“What’s it to you anyway?”
“Well, you know,” he sighed sarcastically. “Being James’ best mate and godfather to his and Lily’s son… I think it’s worth a nod when I hear someone’s got it in for them and that there might be a spy-”
“And you think it’s me? S-S-Sirius! I’d never-”
“Didn’t say you did, mate. Just can’t leave any stone unturned… have to keep my eyes open for anything weird.”
Their gaze went unbroken for several long seconds, and, finally, Sirius sighed heatedly and gave an assenting nod. With a dog-like shake of his head, he stood up straight and turned away. As much as he didn’t want to, Peter couldn’t keep himself from speaking.
“If it was me in your place, Pads, I’d look closer than just friends. Wolves come in all colors, y’know.”
“…Eat something, mate,” Sirius huffed. “And cut your hair soon. Long hair’s my style and it doesn’t look good on you.”
Title: More OC dialogue practice
Type: Gen
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Language, thematic elements
Word Count: 985
Summary: An talk between Alex and Nick while Alex is in the hospital.
Disclaimer: Mine. Bwahaha.
“Well, Alex… you’ve really gotten yourself into a situation this time.”
“They’re idiots… putting me in here isn’t going to do anything.”
“Stubborn like your mother-”
“Don’t bring her into this, Uncle Nick…”
“Why not? You’re following in her footsteps… a little slower, I’ll admit. She was on suicide watch by the time she was fifteen.”
“It’s not my fault! Todd and Hillary are just too goddamn nosy!”
“I see how it is… anyone who cares enough to get you out of your blood bath, call an ambulance, and try to stop your wrists from bleeding is nosy.”
“Yeah! If they just wouldn’t have done it-”
“Why did you do that?”
“It’s too hard…”
“You’re sixteen, Alex. When you’re thirty, then you can talk about how hard life is.”
“If it gets harder, I want out!”
“It doesn’t get easier; it’s all about learning to cope.”
“I can’t. If I was meant to survive, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Everyone is meant to survive.”
“Not me, I can’t deal with it.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to?”
“That too, but… you try living in Hell and then tell me you don’t want out, whatever the costs.”
“Okay, I’ll admit: I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t know what you’re thinking, or how you feel, or anything like that. But I can; all you have to do is let me in… I can help.”
“No. No one can help me. And I don’t want them to try. It’s useless.”
“I refuse to believe you can’t be helped.”
“Then you’re more stubborn than me or her… and a bit of an idiot too.”
“You can be helped. You don’t have to feel like this.”
“What else is there to feel like? I’m happy when I’m dying. Why can’t they just let me die? Everyone else can die, why not me?”
“You don’t really want to die.”
“How the hell do you know? You’re not me!”
“Do you really want to do that to the people who love you?”
“Love me? You did not just say that people love me.”
“I did.”
“Please, Uncle Nick. Just because you’re intelligent doesn’t mean I’m a moron.”
“I never said-”
“If they loved me, they’d let me go. Go on. Name one person who really loves me.”
“I do-”
“You’re holding on the worst of them!”
“Your father-”
“He’s a bastard. He loves Todd and mom… only loves me when he can pass me off as normal, like I’m not supposed to be broken, all things considered.”
“Fine… it’s not true, but okay. Your mother.”
“Crazy. And not around enough to count.”
“She still loves you-”
“Next name, Uncle Nick.”
“Todd.”
“Todd would love Saddam Hussein. He’d say something like, ‘Teddy,’ and hug the bastard. Maybe even pet that ugly-ass mustache of his.”
“Also untrue. How about that… Hillary girl?”
“She has a crush on me, I think… Eddie says she does-”
“Who’s Eddie?”
“Not important. Point is… she gets off on trying to ‘save’ people; that’s why she likes me. I’m a ‘hopeless case’ so she wants to prove everyone wrong by turning me around. It’s just like you and this… completely pointless notion that you can fix me. I’m just broken. Why can’t you people let the fuck go?”
“That isn’t true… and we hold on because we love you and we want you to hold on too.”
“But what’s the point?”
“We know what you’d be throwing away… and, I can’t speak for them, but I don’t want you to do that.”
“It’d be so much easier, and better in the long run… just let me not exist anymore…”
“Easier… maybe, but I know it wouldn’t be better.”
“Whatever…”
“You really are your mother’s son, you know.”
“I know. I hear it any time I have to talk to you, or Grandma, or even dad. Can’t I just fucking be Alex and not Hannah’s son already?”
“Fine. I won’t say it again.”
“Can you leave soon? I want to sleep.”
“Also fine. But before I go, there’s… there’s something that’s been bugging me, and I just want to put it to rest.”
“Okay…”
“I’ve got a few questions, and I want you to answer all of them truthfully. Can I count on you for that?”
“Sure…”
“You’re what, six-three?”
“Yeah… something like that.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“…One-fifteen as of the other day, but probably more since I’ve been in here…”
“Alright… now, I’m going to hold you to that promise right now, and then no more questi-”
“Get on with it! I’m tired and you’re tedious!”
“Fine. Alex… are you anorexic?”
“…Congratu-fucking-lations. You’re the first person to guess.”
“You are then?”
“Yes. And you’re the first idiot who’s been awake enough to get it.”
“…Oh my God… I was so hoping that I wouldn’t be right…”
“What the Hell else would it be? Intestinal parasite? Stomach flu? Because dad always tells people that it’s the stomach flu…”
“Oh God…”
“I know what you want to say, but remember - you promised you’d never say it again.”
“I wasn’t going to-”
“The similarities must be blinding! We’ve got the same hair, the same eyes, I take after her build, same depression, same history with things that can kill us… we differ on the specific eating ‘disorder,’ sure, but… anorexia and bulimia are in the same Health class handouts, might as well be cousins… are you ready to give up yet?”
“No. No, I’m not. Maybe I failed your mother enough to have her institutionalized, but… god damn it, Alex, I’m not going to fail you.”
“…I’ve got you incensed enough to say damn. Oh boy.”
“…I’ll be back later, and I’ll bring you something. Hospital food probably hasn’t gotten any better since I did my residency…”
“You realize that I’m not going to eat it, right?”
“…That may be the case, but I have to try, Alex.”
Part: 1 of 12
Type: Slash
Genre: Jayne-POV slash?
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Pairing: Simon Tam/Jayne Cobb
Prompt: "Aires"
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, slash, Firefly!cursing, slash
Word Count: 460
Summary: Simon's mouth ain't the only thing about him that's pretty.
Disclaimer: Not mine; Joss Whedon's.
A/N: Written for zodiacfic.
Jayne doesn’t like it at first when Zoe tells him that he and the Doctor are setting up for and cleaning up after supper together. He groans, complains, and bitches his gorram heart out, but the warrior woman remains resolute… it’s all “captain’s orders” this, and “Simon’s not so bad, really” that, and “gorram it, Jayne, you’re working with Simon.” Women. At least Wash is the one who has to hit that whenever his flying gets her in the mood. Jayne quietly suspects that he’d kill himself before fucking her.
He also doesn’t like when working with the Doctor proves to not be so bad. Boy mostly keeps to himself, leaving Shepherd to tend the actual food and setting out plates and whatnot. Sticking that pretty mouth of his out in a way that just demands to be stared at same way as a Reaver does. Well not exactly the same, but… pretty damn close. Maybe more like the reality of Reavers than the actual thing. It’s just there, jutting out from the rest of his face, and it’s stark and demanding and, if it takes a punch to make it quit being so pretty, then Jayne’ll deliver. It’ll keep him from looking at it anyway, which’ll keep Zoe from telling him to get to work.
After supper, clean up goes easily, and Jayne is glad to have something to stare at other than that gorram pretty mouth. This doesn’t last long, though. While he’s trying to clean up the last bits of food, he keeps looking over at the Doctor as he works on the rest of the dishes. Is he aware that his pants leave just enough up to Jayne’s imagination to be dangerous? Or that every time he shifts his weight, Jayne has to check to make sure there’s no stray Mals or Kaylees or Rivers around to make things complicated. Especially no Rivers.
Finally, he’s sure no one’s there and he can’t ruttin’ take it no more. The Doctor sets the last plate in the stack, puts the stack away, and surveys the clean kitchen; Jayne turns the boy around with one hand and kisses him full on that gorram pretty mouth. Must be pretty intimidating, being that the only form of protest is a muffled whinin’ sound and two arms that come between them, but the whinin’s tolerable and the arms ain’t much to worry about. Just to show the Doctor who’s boss here, Jayne shoves him into the counter, kissing him with increased ferocity. His head knocks into the cupboard, which makes him grunt, which, in turn, makes Jayne start feeling around past his clothes.
“Gorram it, boy,” he growls. “That mouth o’ yours ain’t the only thing ‘bout you that’s pretty, is it?”
Title: Dog's Eye View
Type: Slash... but genish slash.
Genre: Sadfluff? I don't know...
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Prompt: "Aires"
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, language, etc.
Word Count: 1,317
Summary: An older Adam confronts a demon about some un-demon-like feelings.
Disclaimer: Not mine; Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's.
Though he’s not the most intelligent beast, Dog is far from stupid. He knows how to sit, shake, roll over, and play dead. He knows the names of The Master’s three little friends, though he has, on two separate occasions, confused The Brian with The Wensleydale; as the only female, The Pepper is hard to mistake. It’s taken him some time, but he has learned the most effective ways to catch rabbits and where they like to hide in the garden, and he always knows when Feeding Time will be. He can also tell when Things Are Up.
Whenever the “uncle” known as Crowley comes over, Things are definitely Up, even more so when he is accompanied by the “uncle” known as Fell…or Aziraphale. That one has more than one name, which is terribly confusing and makes Dog’s head hurt. Usually, this is remedied by a quick roll in the mud and a look from the Master that confirms any suspicions of Things Being Up.
The Crowley comes over alone this time, in the same sunglasses as always. The Master’s parents are heading out the door for a Night Out when he does (strange, Dog thinks, that they really don’t know The Crowley, but leave The Master with him; it must be one of The Master’s tricks). Following standard procedure, he makes a pot of the yellow noodles Dog isn’t allowed to eat appear on the stove and leaves The Master to his own Devices while he goes to sleep on the sofa. Such a formula has served the three of them well for the two years since That Day, and The Crowley seems less likely to change it than The Master seems likely to make him.
Because he could; he just doesn’t for reasons that Dog doesn’t think to fathom.
Dog whines and chases his tail as The Master helps himself to the noodles; one of The Master’s Looks makes him stop, though. Obeying a silent command, he sits patiently, looking up at The Master’s odd calm and, occasionally, at the room where The Crowley is sleeping.
“I know, Dog,” The Master sighs. “And it’s ridiculous.”
Dog whines slightly.
“You’re right. It’s even worse that Az hasn’t done something about it…”
Dog whines more. He’s pretty sure that he knows where this is going, and he can’t say that he likes it.
“Precisely!” The Master’s face lights up in a Grin. “Since he won’t, we will!”
Dog leans to the floor and hides his head under his paws. No, he definitely doesn’t like this. Interrupting himself, The Master leaves his yellow noodles behind and motions for Dog to follow. Cursing his own obedience, Dog does so, and they enter the room to find - as expected - The Crowley sleeping on the sofa, still in his sunglasses and shoes. He groans when The Master pokes him in the stomach, but doesn’t react further until his sunglasses are removed. At first, the light seems to bother him, but he adjusts quickly and looks up at The Master with yellow eyes that make even Dog cower.
“’scuse me, …Uncle Crowley?” The Master ventures, cautious but not too much so.
“What d’ya need, kid?” The Crowley sighs.
“To ask you a question, actually.”
“Okay. What?”
“Do you like Uncle Aziraphale?”
The Crowley furrows his brow and narrows the eyes. Dog isn’t quite sure they’re really his yet. He hasn’t seen them before, and they have narrow slits, not like the other humans’ eyes. The Crowley, he reminds himself, isn’t exactly human, but he’s human enough, save those eyes.
“I suppose I must,” he huffs. “Being that he and I are sort of friends… enemy for six-thousand years and whatnot.”
“No, no, no!” The Master explains, “I mean... do you like him like him?”
“…Why?”
“Because you look at him funny like and I want to know.”
“Curiosity-”
“Killed the cat, I know. But… please tell me?”
The Crowley sighs. “…He’s endearing, I guess.”
The Master regards him with disbelief, also narrowing his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Kid, if you’re trying to set something up, there are better ways to go about it.”
“I’m not trying! There’s something there, and I think he deserves to know. You never know, he might like you back!”
“…You’re too young to understand it, kid.”
“I can make him, can’t I?”
“It’s possible. But you shouldn’t. It’s what we professionals would call ‘a gross misuse of your powers.’”
“Okay, but you should still tell him. I mean, if you’re gonna tell me about right and wrong.”
“Didn’t ssssay right and wrong now, did I?”
“No, but you meant it.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What’ssss it to you?”
“…I dunno, but it’s something, since you’re telling me.”
Once again, The Crowley sighs. He’s hissing, which Dog finds to be completely new and interesting. Some vague inkling of hearing that noise before occurs to Dog, but he buries it like a bone when he looks up at the Demon. For some reason, he looks tired and worn down, and, when he rubs the bridge of his nose, he looks almost… broken.
“Look, kid,” he says calmly. “Sometimesss you can’t tell someone the whole truth… essspecially not here.”
“Why not?” The Master asks.
The Crowley coughs, which Dog supposes composes him. “Don’t you know what Aziraphale is?”
“…Gayer than a-”
“No, that’s a joke between him and me. Technically, he can’t be gay unless he really wants to make the effort.”
“Oh, right… sexless. Could I change that if I wanted to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Back to the question: what is Aziraphale?”
“An angel?”
“Principality, technically, but no one gives a damn about the titles anymore. Either way you slice it, we can be friends, him and me, but never anything more. It’s right dangerous our even being friends… one wrong move and either he Falls or I find myself in a world of hurt from your father - no, kid, your real father, the evil one - and neither of these outcomes really appeals to me.”
“But doesn’t lying make you feel bad?”
“If it did, I wouldn’t have Fallen. Besides, it’s not lying as much as it is not telling him for our collective safety.”
The Master pouts and raises an eyebrow. “All due respect, but… yeah right, Uncle Crowley.”
“What do you want me to say? That it’s killing me not to tell him? Because that’s not even an appropriate hyperbole, since dying would just be a temporary inconvenience.”
“I want you to tell the truth…”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“I can make you, can’t I?”
“It’s possible, but… fine, your Antichrist-ness… the truth. The honest to goodness, hand to Him, swear it on the Bentley truth is that I, A.J. Crowley, a demon, feel very undemon-like things about Aziraphale. And some very demon-like things, don’t get me wrong, I’m true to my roots and always will be, but the fact remains that… this, for me, isn’t normal.”
“…But it’s what’s there, right?”
“Yes, regrettably.”
“So why don’t you-”
“This is not a matter I’m going to discuss any further. Now… I’m going to sleep, and you are going to go… play pirates, or seduce Pepper, or… do whatever thirteen-year-old Antichrists do.”
True to his word, The Crowley falls asleep on the sofa to The Master’s visible disappointment. He furrows his brow and pouts, and a few of The Mother’s photograph coasters jingle on the table. But The Master breathes in deeply, pushing his hair back off his face; then he scratches Dog behind the ears. Dog whines somewhat - he can’t help it; The Master’s mind has always affected his somewhat - and gives The Master a sympathetic nuzzle on the leg.
“Come on, boy,” he sighs. “Let’s go find Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale and do something.”
Dog whines.
“Oh, we’ll be back for Uncle Crowley alright. Just let him sleep for now, I reckon.”
Title: Throwing Off the Trail
Type: Gen
Genre: Erm...Peter POV Gen?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Warnings: Minor language, maybe
Word Count: 426
Summary: How Peter avoided suspicion during the First War.
Disclaimer: Not mine; JK Rowling's.
“Oi, Pete. Tell me what’s up.”
Peter whipped around and stared at the incredulous look on Sirius’ face: his gray eyes were narrowed and his brow furrowed. Without losing this newfound control, Peter wrinkled his back and blinked, faking confusion. He couldn’t keep himself tugging at the sleeve of his robes - right arm, keep it secret, keep it safe - but Sirius’ gaze was locked, dog-like and single-minded, on Peter’s.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, Padfoot.”
“Don’t lie to me, mate; you’re pants at it.”
“Really, nothing’s wrong.”
“Your hair’s longer than I remember…” Sirius idly twirled some of Peter’s hair on his finger to illustrate his point.
Peter slapped the hand away. “Haven’t had time to get it cut, ya bleedin’ poof! And I don’t think Moony’d be too happy with you touchin’ it.”
“Leave Moony out of this. Anyway… you haven’t had time? Pete, you live with your mum.”
“So?”
Sirius poked him in the stomach, getting to it through the over-sized clothes, then moved up and lightly smacked his cheek. Peter winced and wrinkled his nose, giving Sirius a perplexed glare.
“You’ve gotten thin, Wormtail.”
“Yeah… so?”
“You’ve never, in as long as I’ve known you, been thin.”
“I started taking care of myself… with the war and all-”
“No, you haven’t.” Sirius poked him beneath his eyes to another wince. “’cos you haven’t slept either.”
“I don’t have someone living with me like Moony or Lily-”
“But your mum-”
“Is old and worried sick that I’m not going to come home someday for throwing my wand in with Dumbledore and them!”
“…I see.”
“What’s it to you anyway?”
“Well, you know,” he sighed sarcastically. “Being James’ best mate and godfather to his and Lily’s son… I think it’s worth a nod when I hear someone’s got it in for them and that there might be a spy-”
“And you think it’s me? S-S-Sirius! I’d never-”
“Didn’t say you did, mate. Just can’t leave any stone unturned… have to keep my eyes open for anything weird.”
Their gaze went unbroken for several long seconds, and, finally, Sirius sighed heatedly and gave an assenting nod. With a dog-like shake of his head, he stood up straight and turned away. As much as he didn’t want to, Peter couldn’t keep himself from speaking.
“If it was me in your place, Pads, I’d look closer than just friends. Wolves come in all colors, y’know.”
“…Eat something, mate,” Sirius huffed. “And cut your hair soon. Long hair’s my style and it doesn’t look good on you.”
Title: More OC dialogue practice
Type: Gen
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Language, thematic elements
Word Count: 985
Summary: An talk between Alex and Nick while Alex is in the hospital.
Disclaimer: Mine. Bwahaha.
“Well, Alex… you’ve really gotten yourself into a situation this time.”
“They’re idiots… putting me in here isn’t going to do anything.”
“Stubborn like your mother-”
“Don’t bring her into this, Uncle Nick…”
“Why not? You’re following in her footsteps… a little slower, I’ll admit. She was on suicide watch by the time she was fifteen.”
“It’s not my fault! Todd and Hillary are just too goddamn nosy!”
“I see how it is… anyone who cares enough to get you out of your blood bath, call an ambulance, and try to stop your wrists from bleeding is nosy.”
“Yeah! If they just wouldn’t have done it-”
“Why did you do that?”
“It’s too hard…”
“You’re sixteen, Alex. When you’re thirty, then you can talk about how hard life is.”
“If it gets harder, I want out!”
“It doesn’t get easier; it’s all about learning to cope.”
“I can’t. If I was meant to survive, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Everyone is meant to survive.”
“Not me, I can’t deal with it.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to?”
“That too, but… you try living in Hell and then tell me you don’t want out, whatever the costs.”
“Okay, I’ll admit: I don’t know what you’re going through. I don’t know what you’re thinking, or how you feel, or anything like that. But I can; all you have to do is let me in… I can help.”
“No. No one can help me. And I don’t want them to try. It’s useless.”
“I refuse to believe you can’t be helped.”
“Then you’re more stubborn than me or her… and a bit of an idiot too.”
“You can be helped. You don’t have to feel like this.”
“What else is there to feel like? I’m happy when I’m dying. Why can’t they just let me die? Everyone else can die, why not me?”
“You don’t really want to die.”
“How the hell do you know? You’re not me!”
“Do you really want to do that to the people who love you?”
“Love me? You did not just say that people love me.”
“I did.”
“Please, Uncle Nick. Just because you’re intelligent doesn’t mean I’m a moron.”
“I never said-”
“If they loved me, they’d let me go. Go on. Name one person who really loves me.”
“I do-”
“You’re holding on the worst of them!”
“Your father-”
“He’s a bastard. He loves Todd and mom… only loves me when he can pass me off as normal, like I’m not supposed to be broken, all things considered.”
“Fine… it’s not true, but okay. Your mother.”
“Crazy. And not around enough to count.”
“She still loves you-”
“Next name, Uncle Nick.”
“Todd.”
“Todd would love Saddam Hussein. He’d say something like, ‘Teddy,’ and hug the bastard. Maybe even pet that ugly-ass mustache of his.”
“Also untrue. How about that… Hillary girl?”
“She has a crush on me, I think… Eddie says she does-”
“Who’s Eddie?”
“Not important. Point is… she gets off on trying to ‘save’ people; that’s why she likes me. I’m a ‘hopeless case’ so she wants to prove everyone wrong by turning me around. It’s just like you and this… completely pointless notion that you can fix me. I’m just broken. Why can’t you people let the fuck go?”
“That isn’t true… and we hold on because we love you and we want you to hold on too.”
“But what’s the point?”
“We know what you’d be throwing away… and, I can’t speak for them, but I don’t want you to do that.”
“It’d be so much easier, and better in the long run… just let me not exist anymore…”
“Easier… maybe, but I know it wouldn’t be better.”
“Whatever…”
“You really are your mother’s son, you know.”
“I know. I hear it any time I have to talk to you, or Grandma, or even dad. Can’t I just fucking be Alex and not Hannah’s son already?”
“Fine. I won’t say it again.”
“Can you leave soon? I want to sleep.”
“Also fine. But before I go, there’s… there’s something that’s been bugging me, and I just want to put it to rest.”
“Okay…”
“I’ve got a few questions, and I want you to answer all of them truthfully. Can I count on you for that?”
“Sure…”
“You’re what, six-three?”
“Yeah… something like that.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“…One-fifteen as of the other day, but probably more since I’ve been in here…”
“Alright… now, I’m going to hold you to that promise right now, and then no more questi-”
“Get on with it! I’m tired and you’re tedious!”
“Fine. Alex… are you anorexic?”
“…Congratu-fucking-lations. You’re the first person to guess.”
“You are then?”
“Yes. And you’re the first idiot who’s been awake enough to get it.”
“…Oh my God… I was so hoping that I wouldn’t be right…”
“What the Hell else would it be? Intestinal parasite? Stomach flu? Because dad always tells people that it’s the stomach flu…”
“Oh God…”
“I know what you want to say, but remember - you promised you’d never say it again.”
“I wasn’t going to-”
“The similarities must be blinding! We’ve got the same hair, the same eyes, I take after her build, same depression, same history with things that can kill us… we differ on the specific eating ‘disorder,’ sure, but… anorexia and bulimia are in the same Health class handouts, might as well be cousins… are you ready to give up yet?”
“No. No, I’m not. Maybe I failed your mother enough to have her institutionalized, but… god damn it, Alex, I’m not going to fail you.”
“…I’ve got you incensed enough to say damn. Oh boy.”
“…I’ll be back later, and I’ll bring you something. Hospital food probably hasn’t gotten any better since I did my residency…”
“You realize that I’m not going to eat it, right?”
“…That may be the case, but I have to try, Alex.”