Fics from yesterday, polished up and in one spot
Pitch Black
Riddick doesn't have nightmares, not anymore, not ever. Back when he was young and thrown onto a prisonplanet for the first time, there were things that happened which kept him screaming, during the days and nights. But not now. Rather, his dreams have become an extension of his waking hours, and there is nothing that frightens him while he is awake. Or so he claims. But something, someone, haunts him, forces him from his sleep in a cold sweat, eyes wide and a name growled out between curses. The girl never sleeps close enough to him to hear who Riddick hates, because, she tells the holy man, it could hardly be anything but hate if they make him feel that way, coudn't it? The child is still young, and while she may be wise in some ways, there are many things she has yet to learn. That you can love someone so much that you hate them, hate what they do to you. And you can hate someone so much that you love them.
"Fucking Johns." Riddick growls, then turns over and goes back to sleep.
Sharpe
Sharpe's been playing with his birthday gift from Harper for the past week know. Hold the knife, aim, release, and watch as the blade seems to sink effortlessly into the tree-bark. Stand up and pull it out, then repeat. It beats doing nothing, and Harper is pleased to see that the Captain is greatly improved from that first night. He shudders as he remember the fight when he had insisted that "Yes, he really would have to remove the knife from the Captain's foot, and no, it wouldn't be best for him to leave it be, damnit, and the Captain should only be makin' promises like that unless he was sure he was...up to keepin' them." Even a very sore foot hadn't kept Sharpe from his blankets that night though, and his threats were carried out to the satisfaction of both parties.
PotC
They say that time slows down in moments of disaster. Will would tell 'they' that this is not true. It seems to speed up, and he knew without any question of a doubt that there was no way he was fast enough to knock the Commodore out of the way of the falling bucket of red paint. Nevermind the fact that he didn't understand why there was red paint on the ship in the first place. Or what Norrington was doing on board. Who was he to question, really? Just a newly made pirate, and not even a good one, really.
So, Will stood still and watched as the bucket sped down towards the Commodore's head. He didn't know why he didn't call out, didn't say anything to the man. Perhaps it was because of his ever condescending attitude towards him. Well, it certainly wasn't Will's fault he had been orphaned. Or maybe it was the way that he always kept a close eye on Will's hands whenever he was forced to enter the smithy. This was also not Will's fault. Though he'd worked many years by the forge, his hands remained unscathed by fire and metal, slender and skillful. The hands of a thief were the words in the other man's eyes, and Will's resentment grew.
But perhaps the real reason, the reason he wouldn't admit for several more weeks away from the shore, was standing a few feet away from him, swaggering and gesturing wildly to the Commodore, who stood stock still, bemused at Captain Jack Sparrow.
Yes, Will decided as the bucket landed square over Norrington's head. it was definitely all Jack's fault.
Boondock Saints
They need Il Duce to leave. Preferably twenty minutes ago, but he's gone now, and thankGod for small mercies. Connor shoves Murphy into the closet ahead of him. It'll give them an extra few seconds to recover if Il Duce comes back early. It takes him exactly five minutes to walk to the corner store, buy them cigarettes, and himself his foul cigars, then stroll back, puffing out a black cloud and humming to himself.
There's 45 seconds gone, wasted. Murphy's pants are off, his close behind and why do they have to hurry, why can't it be the way it was with them in their apartment, and a long fuck whenever they wanted?
It's dark and cramped, but Connor doesn't need the light to know what he's doing, to know his Murph. He'd like to be able to see, to enjoy, watch as Murphy comes apart so beautifully, but no. One minute down.
He bites down on Murphy's shoulder as he slicks his hand and slides two fingers into Murphy. Their moans are quickly stifled, and there's more lube added and Connor pushing in, fast, fast, everything's too fucking hurried.
Fuck, fuck, they don't need the full time, they'll come too fast like this, an almost brutal edge to their want. Coming quietly, just in case, cleaning up quickly and wanting more soon after, but unable to have it.
Maybe this is the reason they've turned into chain smokers, the both of them
There's an art to crossdressing that many people don't seem to understand. It's more than putting on the clothes and make-up, there's also the mental discipline and headspace that goes with it. Murphy MacManus, Paul decided had neither of the last two. But, fuck, he makes a pretty woman. Murphy's skin almost glows, it's so pale, and his eyes are... he realises where this train of thought is going and cuts it off quickly before any damage is...alright, before any more damage is done.
Murphy may be dressed like a blonde, but he notices Smecker's interest.
"See anything ya like?" he offers, crossing his legs so that his skirt slips up, showing even more fishnet covered thigh. Connor owes him for tonight, and Murphy is going to make the best of an..uncomfortable situation.
"Don't make offers you can't keep. Besides," Smecker lies. "you're not my type."
Murphy laughs, deliberately misunderstanding him.
"Trust me, it's better I'm the one dressed up. You make a fucken ugly woman." He says.
Paul is about to verbally flay him, but Fuck, he moves fast, Murphy's hand is down his pants, and God, he's good at that.
Later, his mouth is too busy for snarking, and afterwards, Smecker is too euphoric from a damn good orgasm to say anything...for a few minutes.
"So, sugar. What do I owe you?"
Murphy kicks him off the bed. As he leaves the room, he blows a kiss towards the debauched figure on the bed, smirking at the muffled "Fucker!" as the door closes.
"You bastard!" Murphy jumps on Connor, nearly causing him to break the cigarette in his hand.
"Tha fuck?"
"That's the last fucken cig in the house. And the stores aren't open for another five fucken hours!" Murphy leans into Connor, trying to snatch the white roll away from his twin. Connor smacks Murphy's head with his free hand. While Murphy rubbed his sore head and looked petulant, Connor sighed.
"Alright, alright. Calm down. We'll share it."
Flicking his lighter, he lights up, then takes a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs. As Murphy opens his mouth to protest, again, Connor presses his own mouth over it, sealing their lips together as he exhales into the kiss. Murphy's eyes widen as he catches on to what Connor is doing. He inhales the smoke passing from Connor's lung to his own, calming slightly as the drug starts silencing the cravings. They kiss, exchanging breaths until Murphy is forced to take a step back, dizzy.
"Fair enough?" Connor pants, amused.
"Fuuuuck. We should run out of fags more often!" Murphy grabs Connor's hand with the still lit cigarette still held in it. "Let's do that again!"
The fair had come to town, and somehow, over the last year, everything had shrunk, become dingier than the twins had remembered. The ferris wheel didn't go as high or as fast, and the track of race cars was a right disappointment. They had grown over the summer, and even with their legs hanging over the front, they just couldn't fit. With a sigh, Connor and Murphy wander around, aimlessly eating as much sugar and junk that two twelve year old boys can manage.
Later that night, Murphy sits bolt upright in bed as he's woken by a rustling sound.
"What the fuck?" he demands, switching on the light. Connor isn't quick enough to hide away a sky blue whisp under his pillow. "ya had extra and ya didn't give me any?"
He's on his twin in an instant, ignoring the small bit of spun sugar left on the bed to kiss the last hint of sugar from Connor's lips, lick the last smear of blueness into his own mouth.
"It's as grey as January!" Connor announces to the Boston air.
"That's because it is fucken January, ya retard!" Murphy considers smacking Connor's head, but decides it's too predictable. Scooping up a handful of slushy snow, he launches himself at Connor, managing to get most of it down his twin's shirt. A yelp of shock, quick reprisal, and Murphy is in the small snowbank, flailing as the wet gets everywhere.
"Cheater!" Murphy's indignation is as great as that of any four year old wrongfully deprived of his favourite toy. As Connor sighs and leans over to give Murphy a hand up, he finds himself overbalancing from a helping hand from Murphy and ends up just as soaked two inches away from his twin.
For a moment he sits there, cooling rapidly, but Murphy's eyes are wide, and his grin is infectious, so Connor throws back his head and laughs. And in their dingy corner of Boston, the sun comes out.
It's a Friday night, and the theater is packed. Connor and Brigid were lucky to find a seat together, but Murphy is stuck a row behind them, and he is not happy about it. He taps Connor's shoulder throughout the first twenty minutes of the film, wanting the popcorn passed back. Finally, Connor's had enough. Ignoring the dirty looks and shushing of the other patrons, he turns and thrusts the bag of popcorn into Murphy's hands.
"'m on a date, ya dumb fuck. Stop bein' a pain in the arse!"
Murphy waits, bides his time before makes his displeasure known. As the hero and heroine are leaning in onscreen for a kiss, and Connor and Brigid are doing the same, Murphy flicks a piece of popcorn that hits Connor, hard in the head. With a growl, Connor launches himself over the back of the seat and onto Murphy. It takes three ushers to break the fight up, and the movie is rewound and shown from the beginning.
The twins are banned from the theater for six months, and Brigid breaks up with Connor on the sidewalk outside. On the walk home, Connor will shove Murphy into a pond, and Murphy will know that he's forgiven.
Riddick doesn't have nightmares, not anymore, not ever. Back when he was young and thrown onto a prisonplanet for the first time, there were things that happened which kept him screaming, during the days and nights. But not now. Rather, his dreams have become an extension of his waking hours, and there is nothing that frightens him while he is awake. Or so he claims. But something, someone, haunts him, forces him from his sleep in a cold sweat, eyes wide and a name growled out between curses. The girl never sleeps close enough to him to hear who Riddick hates, because, she tells the holy man, it could hardly be anything but hate if they make him feel that way, coudn't it? The child is still young, and while she may be wise in some ways, there are many things she has yet to learn. That you can love someone so much that you hate them, hate what they do to you. And you can hate someone so much that you love them.
"Fucking Johns." Riddick growls, then turns over and goes back to sleep.
Sharpe
Sharpe's been playing with his birthday gift from Harper for the past week know. Hold the knife, aim, release, and watch as the blade seems to sink effortlessly into the tree-bark. Stand up and pull it out, then repeat. It beats doing nothing, and Harper is pleased to see that the Captain is greatly improved from that first night. He shudders as he remember the fight when he had insisted that "Yes, he really would have to remove the knife from the Captain's foot, and no, it wouldn't be best for him to leave it be, damnit, and the Captain should only be makin' promises like that unless he was sure he was...up to keepin' them." Even a very sore foot hadn't kept Sharpe from his blankets that night though, and his threats were carried out to the satisfaction of both parties.
PotC
They say that time slows down in moments of disaster. Will would tell 'they' that this is not true. It seems to speed up, and he knew without any question of a doubt that there was no way he was fast enough to knock the Commodore out of the way of the falling bucket of red paint. Nevermind the fact that he didn't understand why there was red paint on the ship in the first place. Or what Norrington was doing on board. Who was he to question, really? Just a newly made pirate, and not even a good one, really.
So, Will stood still and watched as the bucket sped down towards the Commodore's head. He didn't know why he didn't call out, didn't say anything to the man. Perhaps it was because of his ever condescending attitude towards him. Well, it certainly wasn't Will's fault he had been orphaned. Or maybe it was the way that he always kept a close eye on Will's hands whenever he was forced to enter the smithy. This was also not Will's fault. Though he'd worked many years by the forge, his hands remained unscathed by fire and metal, slender and skillful. The hands of a thief were the words in the other man's eyes, and Will's resentment grew.
But perhaps the real reason, the reason he wouldn't admit for several more weeks away from the shore, was standing a few feet away from him, swaggering and gesturing wildly to the Commodore, who stood stock still, bemused at Captain Jack Sparrow.
Yes, Will decided as the bucket landed square over Norrington's head. it was definitely all Jack's fault.
Boondock Saints
They need Il Duce to leave. Preferably twenty minutes ago, but he's gone now, and thankGod for small mercies. Connor shoves Murphy into the closet ahead of him. It'll give them an extra few seconds to recover if Il Duce comes back early. It takes him exactly five minutes to walk to the corner store, buy them cigarettes, and himself his foul cigars, then stroll back, puffing out a black cloud and humming to himself.
There's 45 seconds gone, wasted. Murphy's pants are off, his close behind and why do they have to hurry, why can't it be the way it was with them in their apartment, and a long fuck whenever they wanted?
It's dark and cramped, but Connor doesn't need the light to know what he's doing, to know his Murph. He'd like to be able to see, to enjoy, watch as Murphy comes apart so beautifully, but no. One minute down.
He bites down on Murphy's shoulder as he slicks his hand and slides two fingers into Murphy. Their moans are quickly stifled, and there's more lube added and Connor pushing in, fast, fast, everything's too fucking hurried.
Fuck, fuck, they don't need the full time, they'll come too fast like this, an almost brutal edge to their want. Coming quietly, just in case, cleaning up quickly and wanting more soon after, but unable to have it.
Maybe this is the reason they've turned into chain smokers, the both of them
There's an art to crossdressing that many people don't seem to understand. It's more than putting on the clothes and make-up, there's also the mental discipline and headspace that goes with it. Murphy MacManus, Paul decided had neither of the last two. But, fuck, he makes a pretty woman. Murphy's skin almost glows, it's so pale, and his eyes are... he realises where this train of thought is going and cuts it off quickly before any damage is...alright, before any more damage is done.
Murphy may be dressed like a blonde, but he notices Smecker's interest.
"See anything ya like?" he offers, crossing his legs so that his skirt slips up, showing even more fishnet covered thigh. Connor owes him for tonight, and Murphy is going to make the best of an..uncomfortable situation.
"Don't make offers you can't keep. Besides," Smecker lies. "you're not my type."
Murphy laughs, deliberately misunderstanding him.
"Trust me, it's better I'm the one dressed up. You make a fucken ugly woman." He says.
Paul is about to verbally flay him, but Fuck, he moves fast, Murphy's hand is down his pants, and God, he's good at that.
Later, his mouth is too busy for snarking, and afterwards, Smecker is too euphoric from a damn good orgasm to say anything...for a few minutes.
"So, sugar. What do I owe you?"
Murphy kicks him off the bed. As he leaves the room, he blows a kiss towards the debauched figure on the bed, smirking at the muffled "Fucker!" as the door closes.
"You bastard!" Murphy jumps on Connor, nearly causing him to break the cigarette in his hand.
"Tha fuck?"
"That's the last fucken cig in the house. And the stores aren't open for another five fucken hours!" Murphy leans into Connor, trying to snatch the white roll away from his twin. Connor smacks Murphy's head with his free hand. While Murphy rubbed his sore head and looked petulant, Connor sighed.
"Alright, alright. Calm down. We'll share it."
Flicking his lighter, he lights up, then takes a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs. As Murphy opens his mouth to protest, again, Connor presses his own mouth over it, sealing their lips together as he exhales into the kiss. Murphy's eyes widen as he catches on to what Connor is doing. He inhales the smoke passing from Connor's lung to his own, calming slightly as the drug starts silencing the cravings. They kiss, exchanging breaths until Murphy is forced to take a step back, dizzy.
"Fair enough?" Connor pants, amused.
"Fuuuuck. We should run out of fags more often!" Murphy grabs Connor's hand with the still lit cigarette still held in it. "Let's do that again!"
The fair had come to town, and somehow, over the last year, everything had shrunk, become dingier than the twins had remembered. The ferris wheel didn't go as high or as fast, and the track of race cars was a right disappointment. They had grown over the summer, and even with their legs hanging over the front, they just couldn't fit. With a sigh, Connor and Murphy wander around, aimlessly eating as much sugar and junk that two twelve year old boys can manage.
Later that night, Murphy sits bolt upright in bed as he's woken by a rustling sound.
"What the fuck?" he demands, switching on the light. Connor isn't quick enough to hide away a sky blue whisp under his pillow. "ya had extra and ya didn't give me any?"
He's on his twin in an instant, ignoring the small bit of spun sugar left on the bed to kiss the last hint of sugar from Connor's lips, lick the last smear of blueness into his own mouth.
"It's as grey as January!" Connor announces to the Boston air.
"That's because it is fucken January, ya retard!" Murphy considers smacking Connor's head, but decides it's too predictable. Scooping up a handful of slushy snow, he launches himself at Connor, managing to get most of it down his twin's shirt. A yelp of shock, quick reprisal, and Murphy is in the small snowbank, flailing as the wet gets everywhere.
"Cheater!" Murphy's indignation is as great as that of any four year old wrongfully deprived of his favourite toy. As Connor sighs and leans over to give Murphy a hand up, he finds himself overbalancing from a helping hand from Murphy and ends up just as soaked two inches away from his twin.
For a moment he sits there, cooling rapidly, but Murphy's eyes are wide, and his grin is infectious, so Connor throws back his head and laughs. And in their dingy corner of Boston, the sun comes out.
It's a Friday night, and the theater is packed. Connor and Brigid were lucky to find a seat together, but Murphy is stuck a row behind them, and he is not happy about it. He taps Connor's shoulder throughout the first twenty minutes of the film, wanting the popcorn passed back. Finally, Connor's had enough. Ignoring the dirty looks and shushing of the other patrons, he turns and thrusts the bag of popcorn into Murphy's hands.
"'m on a date, ya dumb fuck. Stop bein' a pain in the arse!"
Murphy waits, bides his time before makes his displeasure known. As the hero and heroine are leaning in onscreen for a kiss, and Connor and Brigid are doing the same, Murphy flicks a piece of popcorn that hits Connor, hard in the head. With a growl, Connor launches himself over the back of the seat and onto Murphy. It takes three ushers to break the fight up, and the movie is rewound and shown from the beginning.
The twins are banned from the theater for six months, and Brigid breaks up with Connor on the sidewalk outside. On the walk home, Connor will shove Murphy into a pond, and Murphy will know that he's forgiven.