the devil makes us sin / but we like it when we're spinning in his grip
This post is partly a way of making up for not posting much fic lately.
It is also partly because it seems like I have to do that 'post snippets of every unfinished fic you have on your hard drive' meme at least once a year.
But mostly it's because I recently got a new laptop (my old one was falling apart-literally) and had to transfer all my files, and that led to me discovering a whole bunch of things I'd saved and totally forgotten about.
The ratings of these vary, but go up pretty high. And some of the ideas are kinda fucked up but you can figure that out from the pairing and avoid as you see fit-no other warnings necessary, I don't think!
THE KILLS/THE DEAD WEATHER/KATE MOSS/WHAT EVEN IS THIS FANDOM
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - I'm not really sure where this one was going, I think I just like the idea of Kate trying to dress Alison up, it seems totally plausible. XD
Kate flits about, disappearing into her enormous closet for minutes at a time before emerging again with arms full of clothes. She circles Alison like something sizing up its prey, her brow crinkled in thought as she looks her up and down. She holds up outfit after outfit, but everything is too see-through, too pastel-coloured, too skimpy with too much of a gaping neckline. Alison's sure there are hundreds of women who'd kill to be in her place right now, but even with the pick of Kate Moss's entire wardrobe, all she's really interested in is a few pairs of boots and some skinny jeans.
"I've never seen you in a dress," Kate complains, thrusting a pale blue lacy thing at her. "It's always just jeans and all those t-shirts with the holes in them. It's so boring."
"Kate," says Jamie from where he's sprawled on the bed, paging through a book, "I've seen her in a dress only once the entire time we've known each other. I really don't think you're going to have much luck."
Kate looks stunned. "Once? Jesus."
She tosses the blue thing into a pile on the floor and flounces back into her closet, leaving Alison to give Jamie a pleading look.
"Humour her," Jamie whispers, grinning.
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - I don't even know if this was just going to be Alison/Kate, or what. I was just writing random shit on my typewriter and this is something that came out.
It goes without saying that Kate is hardly shy. Decades of modelling have taught her to be perfectly comfortable with things that Alison would find mortifying-she's used to stripping off completely in rooms crowded with strangers, first took her top off for a photoshoot when she was just fifteen. Alison's never liked being naked, never even liked showing off a bit of a skin. It's part of the reason she avoids wearing skirts and dresses, and even shorts or strappy tops. She feels particularly uneasy when it's another woman she's with. For some reason, it's never been too much of an issue with boyfriends, and she knows Jamie so well now that she hardly thinks twice before getting undressed with him in the room.
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - so far this is my favourite scenario for a fic about the three of them. Idk.
She pauses in the hallway. "I'm going to bed," she calls.
No response. She starts to turn away, assuming they've gone to sleep already, but then she hears Kate's voice. "What?
Alison sighs, turns back and heads down the hall, pushes the door of Jamie's bedroom gently open.
"Oh!" Instinctively, she ducks her head, shuts her eyes and even covers them with her palm, feeling her face go hot. "Fuck, sorry."
The image plays in her mind like it's burnt onto the back of her eyelids. Kate's naked back, the curve of her hips, down to her ass where she straddles Jamie, who lies beneath her, legs draped with a sheet, face flushed and sweaty.
"What did you say?" Kate asks, and her voice is very steady, very casual.
Alison peeks out from between two fingers. The image before her is the same, only now Kate's body is half-turned as she looks behind her at Alison, hair very messy and in her eyes. One of Jamie's hands is on one of Kate's hips, thumb curled gently over the bone. Alison can't quite look at his face, and finds herself staring at that hand, instead, the large shape of it on Kate's slender body, the rough texture of his skin against the flawless tan of hers.
"I was just-I just said I was going to bed," Alison says, "I'm sorry, I'll just-" she laughs uncomfortably, and drops her hand from her face, about to leave.
But Kate speaks again. "Oh!" she says. "Sorry." Her voice is a bit of a drawl, now, husky. "C'mere."
Kate leans back, body bending like an acrobat's, movements easy and fluid. Her dirty-blonde hair cascades down her naked back and she taps a space on the bed beside them, her smile sleepy, drunk and satisfied.
Alison steps cautiously into the room. She sighs, rolls her eyes, walks across to the bed and perches on it, all the while trying not to look at them. But she is looking at them, she can't not. Even as her brain is saying stop it, stop it, it's weird and it's wrong, fucking stop it, her eyes are fixed on them, watching the way Kate rocks forward once again like she's riding him. Kate's hand closes over hers and Alison shakes herself, pulls herself onto the bed and sits there awkwardly, her legs tucked beside her. Kate smiles that sleepy smile again, leans across and kisses Alison on the cheek right by her ear.
"'Night," she says, a hoarse murmur.
"'Night," Alison echoes, a hint of nervous laughter in her voice.
But Kate doesn't move. Her lips brush the shell of Alison's ear and her hand tightens just a little.
"Kate," Jamie says, warningly, his voice deep and sharp.
Kate snaps back, runs her hands down his chest. "What? I'm not doing anything," she says, teasing, childish. "Just saying goodnight."
Alison Mosshart/Jack White - possibly /Jamie Hince too but I got wrapped up in writing this part and forgot about him a bit.
Jamie grabs her arm to drag her offstage, but the unexpected motion makes her drop her beer bottle, and she drops down onto the floor to retrieve it before it spills too much. Jamie, clearly low on patience tonight, leaves her, and she's last off stage as a result. When she trots round the corner, she meets Jack head-on as he blocks the narrow passageway, arms crossed, lips pressed together tightly in a hard line.
She grins, putting one hand on her hip and canting her head, curious to see what his next move is. But he doesn't return the smile, his forehead crinkling as he frowns at her. She gives him a tentative little push, a playful swat on his arm. She's still grinning, albeit nervously now, as the hot air seems to crackle with tension. Outside, they can still hear the noise of the crowd and the low buzzing of their equipment, but the hallway feels like a vacuum, the silence between them louder than anything.
"C'mon, let me past," she says in the end, lamely, when he doesn't react to her nudge.
He tilts his head back, almost challengingly, licks his dry lips and swallows. Alison feels a burst of frustrated anger bubble up in her blood. She shrugs, leans back against the wall and takes a long swig of her beer.
She looks at him, raising her eyebrows. "No?" she asks, and when she laughs it comes out harsh and scathing.
She gulps her beer down til it's all gone, Jack watching her all the while. She can feel his eyes on her lips wrapped round the bottleneck. When she's done, she sets the bottle down calmly on the floor beside her. She straightens back up, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate. She takes a tiny little step towards him. It's enough to violate his personal space already, and she honestly expects him to back off, laugh or sneer and head off backstage without another word.
But he doesn't.
He just stands there, broad shoulders set and arms folded tightly.
She moves closer, her eyes bright and wide and innocent, looking right into his. Something inside him is simmering, so close to boiling over, and she can't wait to find out what it is. Soon she's close enough to feel his forearms brushing lightly against her chest, to feel his hair tickle her cheek. She can smell his sweat. She folds her arms and sways her hips forward just enough to nudge them against his. The touch makes him jolt, and her body echoes the unexpected jerk.
"Back off," he says suddenly, voice a low rumble with a rising note of panic just beneath the surface.
He doesn't move though, doesn't show any intention of pushing her away. She's always wondered what would happen if, one day, she just kissed him. If she got sick of all the dancing around each other that they do, and just made something happen. But she's afraid of being pushed away (and, knowing Jack, pushed away hard), can't stand the thought of that rejection. She'd rather go on like this, never knowing for sure whether it's just a game to him or not. At least this way she can pretend.
But sometimes-oh, sometimes he makes it so damn difficult to resist.
She lifts her chin defiantly, her lips on a level with his now, and leans in. Just a little, just enough. Their lips brush lightly, the tiniest fraction of a touch, and that's it-his chin connects with her cheekbone, sudden and sharp as he jabs his head forward at her, and she lets out a yelp, stumbles back against the wall with her hand clamped to her face.
NARNIA RPF
Will/Skandar - I wrote this ages ago, totally out of the blue. I was experimenting with writing a Will/Skandar fic where they're very resistant to their feelings for each other and much more focused on girlfriends and work and stuff, but I never got very far. It's so hard for me to write angst in this fandom idk. This part is set during a Dawn Treader leaving party at Skandar's house.
He's in the middle of filling up his glass when Will comes in, his shoes obnoxiously clicky on the tiled floor. The noise makes him jump and spill champagne all over the worktop.
"Well done," he sneers unfairly.
"Yes, I'm sorry," Will laughs, shaking his head. The sarcasm in his voice is palpable but not cruel. "I forgot that sometimes when I walk, it makes you clumsy."
Skandar sighs and dabs at the spill half-heartedly with a tea towel. He really wishes Will would go away and let him mope in peace.
"I'm assuming you want me to go away and let you mope in peace," Will says.
Skandar hates it when he does that.
"I hate it when you do that," Skandar mutters.
"When I go away?"
Skandar snorts. "No," he says, "and anyway, I'm the one going away, genius."
"Is that why you're moping?" Will presses.
Skandar can't be bothered wondering how Will had time to notice that he was moping, being so busy as he was with having his arm around his girlfriend and curling his hand against his girlfriend's hip and smiling sweetly at his girlfriend in the knowledge of their flawless, beautiful love.
Skandar really, really wants to have a girlfriend again.
"Because it'll be okay, you know. We're going to come visit," says Will.
"That's not why I'm mo-" Skandar starts, but Will cuts him off.
"Yes it is," he says. "It's okay, I understand. With the party and everything. You're not very good at hiding your feelings, you know. It's really obvious." He pauses, and then adds, "It's dripping through your trousers."
"What?" Skandar hisses, and then suddenly becomes aware of a cold, wet sensation around his inner thigh and looks down to see that the champagne spill is dribbling off the edge of the counter and onto his jeans. Fantastic.
"Go change, I'll cover for you," says Will. And then he reaches forward for Skandar's glass and takes a sip. Twat.
Skandar heaves another irritated sigh and steps round, but Will's blocking the doorway. At first Skandar assumes he's doing it to be annoying, because he's doing quite well at that today, but then he realises it's an accident, and they're locked in one of those sidestepping dances that happen when someone's in the way and are always awkward no matter how well you know the other person.
Skandar steps to the left, and Will steps to the left at the exact same moment, and then they both right themselves, and then it all happens again. Skandar sort of sways forward to indicate that he's just going to keep walking anyway, obstacles be damned, but Will does the same thing and then they both jerk rather violently back again. They probably look completely ridiculous, and Skandar doesn't have time for this.
They've been doing a lot of this lately, in fact. Not exactly this-Skandar's fairly sure that'd be torture-but this same sort of swaying back and forth, in various incarnations. There's a new awkwardness in their friendship that seems to have blossomed over about a year, for no apparent reason, and it's more annoying than anything else. Skandar spends more time second-guessing himself and their conversations have become increasingly meaningless and more like polite small talk. Skandar's found himself spending less time teasing Will in a friendly way and more time actually being a bit of a dick to him. Because he's fairly sure it's all Will's fault if they're drifting apart.
It's gotten steadily worse all this time, pretty much ever since they finished promoting Prince Caspian, but it's been especially bad since Skandar's break-up. Will's been treating him like he's really fragile all of a sudden, like he has to choose his words carefully and look after him or something. No one else has been treating Skandar like that. Even his own family know Skandar's being a pain. His Dad isn't afraid to tell him to get over himself, his Mum isn't afraid to tell him to find one of the billions of other fish in the sea to argue with all the time, and his sister certainly isn't afraid to hit him over the head with the TV remote when he changes the channel away from a romantic scene.
But Will is just being weird. He's not offering him advice, like Anna, or junk food and cynical movies about love like Georgie, or awkward manly hugs like Ben. He's just studiously not mentioning it, while at the same time behaving like it's all that's running through his head. Like he's itching to offer comfort, while simultaneously avoiding it like his life depends on it.
Because he's maybe mentally unwell or something. Skandar doesn't care. He just wants to get out of these wet trousers and then go back to moping until the party ends, and Will is very much in the way of that. When a stifled sort of laugh chokes itself from Will's throat, that's when Skandar snaps. He pushes forwards, mainly with his chest, to knock Will aside and storm past him.
Totally forgetting that Will is still holding a glass of champagne.
Or, rather...not anymore. The glass doesn't break, because it's not even made of glass, because his parents don't own enough proper champagne flutes to go around everyone at the party. It's just plastic, lying there with what's actually probably Cava streaming out across the tiles. Skandar might've quite liked it to smash, would've found it more dramatic and possibly more satisfying. In the mood he's in, he'd quite like to go around shattering glassware. But this can be fixed with a few paper towels. Which Will is collecting wordlessly, after Skandar has let him past, the two of them out of sync again as quickly as they built up such a perfect rhythm.
Will gets down on his knees at Skandar's feet, cleaning up the spill like it was his own fault (which all of a sudden, Skandar doesn't think it was) and not saying anything. Skandar is a little shaken, and the silence is the most awkward in the world.
Eventually, Will goes and shoves the wet paper towels in the bin, puts the glass in the dishwasher, and brushes his hands on his trousers. Which are not wet, like Skandar's. But his shirt is, and Skandar knows it's reasonable to feel bad about that and everything, but really? This bad? It seems a little insane. The guilt is coursing through him like he just took a knife to Will's chest, so he does the only thing he thinks he can do.
He offers him a spare t-shirt.
Will/Skandar - this is that absurd Ben-gets-a-part-in-Twilight!AU that I just cannot form into a proper fic. I still feel oddly attached to it. Maybe I should just post snippets from it every now and then.
When Skandar finds a copy of Twilight lying on the bedside table in his and Will's hotel room, he doesn't really think anything of it, assuming it's that copy Anna bought to make fun of and she left it there by mistake. But when he pops into Anna and Georgie's room a couple of minutes later to find Anna still paging her way through the book, he's forced to accept the sad truth.
The fact that when he returns to his room he finds Will lying on his bed reading a hardback copy of New Moon, is also a bit of a tip-off.
"Oh-Skan-I thought you were-" Will stammers, clambering off the bed and holding the book behind his back like he just got caught looking at porn or something.
Then again, porn is something Skandar could deal with. This-he's not so sure.
"Will, please, please tell me that's not a book from the Twilight series," Skandar says, grimacing. "Please."
Will grins sheepishly, holding out the book. "It kind of is," he admits. "But honestly, they're not as bad as Anna says, they're really quite good, if you just give it a try-"
Skandar flops down on his own bed, sighing in despair. "I can't believe you're a closet Twilight fan, Will," he groans. "Oh, my god."
"Just read a bit," Will pleads, suddenly rummaging through his suitcase and producing the first book. "I bet you'll like it. There's this really cool bit with-"
"Never!" says Skandar, backing away from the proffered novel.
"Come on," Will urges, coming closer, "just a chapter-a page, even-"
Skandar backs away further, into the bed. His knees buckle as he falls back onto it and his legs fly up in the air, tripping Will and making him land right on top of Skandar, book still clutched in his hand. He makes a startled noise, and both boys freeze for a moment.
Then-
"I'll actually pay you to read it," Will says, like he isn't inches from Skandar's face and like their bodies aren't pressed against each other. He waves the book. "You'll enjoy it. I know you will."
"I won't," Skandar says, his breathing coming a little too fast, "I won't, and no money in the world could make me read that crap. It's-"
Will gasps, affronted. "It's not crap! It's literary genius!"
Skandar cracks up laughing, unable to stop himself, and Will jabs him in the ribs with a sharp book-corner.
Will/Skandar/Anna - TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT THIS. It was for that timestamp meme, someone requested the morning after Exercise The Lines and this...was as far as I got. *shame*
Will jerks awake at the sound of the shower bursting on down the hall. He rubs his eyes and rolls over, finding Anna gone, and Skandar only inches away from his face. Skandar is sleeping soundly, his lips slightly parted, and the sheets are sort of half-heartedly draped over him but not really covering him at all. Will finds himself just staring for a while, eyes travelling over Skandar's body. He's just gazing at Skandar's long, dark eyelashes, when suddenly Skandar's eyes snap open.
"Not cool, Will," he grumbles, rolling over onto his back.
"Wh-what?" Will stammers.
"Watching me sleep," Skandar mumbles, eyes fluttering closed again.
"No, I was...I was just-"
"Shh," Skandar whispers. "'m sleeping."
Will/Skandar - AGAIN, TOTALLY FORGOT. Timestamp meme. Correspondence, Will's return home. This is complete, so I have no idea why I never posted it. I can't even find the post where I asked for these requests so I don't know who I wrote this for, I'm sorry!!
During Will's visit to set, he and Skandar didn't have many chances to be intimate. They barely had any time alone together, and most of the time when they did, they ended up being walked in on, usually by Ben. So when they had a chance, they seized it, and that's why all sexual contact during that time was very rushed, very intense, very messy, and, more often than not, in rather weird places.
It was fun, at the time, the challenge of it. And they didn't find it too frustrating, because they were just glad to be around each other at all. But to be able to strip down and stretch out in Will's bed, knowing they have all the time in the world? It's so, so much better.
Will has to admit that a part of him just wants to jump Skandar at the door, and fuck him against the wall in the hallway before he's even got his jacket off. But he knows that what he really wants is to savour every second of it all. He wants to enjoy the long, slow kisses, not having to worry about somebody barging in. He wants to let the touches linger, smooth and stroke across warm skin instead of grabbing feverishly at whatever parts he can reach. He wants them to lay down in bed, instead of sprawl across breakfast tables or kitchen counters.
It seems like it's been forever since they've simply been naked together, and it's little things like that that seem new all over again after such a long separation. It doesn't matter that he's practically straight off the plane, exhausted and only half-unpacked. It doesn't matter that the house is a mess, stuff strewn everywhere from when he hurried to have a shower after receiving Skandar's excited phone call saying he'd be round soon. It doesn't matter, because it's still a house, with a bed, and Skandar's here. It's just the two of them, free to do whatever they like and take as much time as they need.
And they do take their time, several hours of it, in fact. It's early morning when they're eventually too tired to continue, and simply lay beside each other instead.
Skandar says, "Fuck, I missed your bed," and does that lazy, half-smirking grin of his that means he's really, really relaxed, and he pulls Will closer, kissing him, open-mouthed and slow.
"I missed you," Will murmurs against Skandar's mouth, and it's kind of redundant, really, it's not something that needs to be said, but he can't help it.
"I'm here now," Skandar whispers back, smiling, and Will hears himself saying "Yeah," as he just stares and stares and stares. All he can process is this warmth and closeness, the soft feeling of Skandar's pale freckled skin, and long limbs wrapped around his body, and the deep brown of Skandar's eyes gazing back at him.
He drifts off to sleep like that, but surprises himself by waking up fairly early later on. He slides out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Skandar, and pulls on some clothes, rummaging around for some money that's not Euros so that he can nip down to the shops and buy them some breakfast. He finds the one last sheet of his notepaper, lying beside his fountain pen under a pair of jeans on his desk.
Smiling to himself, he carefully pens a note and lays the paper on the pillow, kissing Skandar softly on the cheek before he goes.
It's bright and sunny as he walks down the street, pressing his earbuds into his ears and thumbing his mp3 player until Stay Out Of Trouble starts up. He smiles to himself again, thinking of Skandar sleeping peacefully back in his bed, and how this time, it'll only be a little while before he sees him again.
Skandar/Tilda - this is the closest I've ever gotten to writing this pairing that I INEXPLICABLY LOVE. It was based around the idea of Skandar watching all of Tilda's movies and being a creepster, idk. I can't even remember if this was ever going to become mutual, apparently I wrote it in November 2007!
The guilt doesn't disappear. It must be the twentieth time he's wanked off to that sex scene in The Beach, hand down his trousers as he watches her with her legs wrapped round Leonardo Dicaprio's waist, her hands clutching at him, her hair loose and long and flowing down her back as he thrusts into her. There's always a moment where he forgets it's not real, and in that moment it is her, not her character, and Leonardo Dicaprio could be anybody, it doesn't matter. And it doesn't matter that the scene is so brief and not explicit and mostly in silhouette. He just lets himself forget that it's just a movie and it's just acting, and he watches her straddling him, riding him, his face buried between her breasts and he thinks, yes.
Because this is what he wants.
But the guilt doesn't disappear. That's why he hides the DVD underneath his mattress, and flushes any time anyone even mentions Tilda, and why he just can't seem to stop beating himself up over this stupid crush that won't leave him alone.
SKINS, INCLUDING RPF (AND, UM, SKINS RPF/NARNIA/RPF?)
Effy/Emily - lol, Effy teaching Emily how to go down on girls. For a kink meme, I think.
"Guess you just need practice," Effy says then, eyebrow quirked, and Emily, drunk and dazed, is pretty sure Effy spreads her legs a little further. "You get more confident with practice, you know."
And that's when Emily realises why Effy holds that kind of magic over all the guys she so much as looks at, because it's just the look on her face and the easy offering of herself that's got Emily under her spell.
And-well-under her skirt, too.
It makes her feel a bit cheap, really, because fuck knows if Effy's even interested in helping her or if she's just seen a good opportunity to get eaten out. Even so, when Effy gracefully slides down her knickers and tosses them aside, shamelessly self-confident as she hitches up her skirt a little, Emily gets down on her knees between the other girl's legs, dips her head.
She'd think rude, bitchy things about how many guys (and girls?) must have been here before, but then Effy's tilting her hips and Emily breathes and then everything's just hot, slightly sweet-smelling skin and her brain sort of disconnects.
"Show me how you start," Effy says, voice low.
Tony/Effy - I don't want to say too much about this one because it's one I hope to finish sometime. It follows their trip to Italy.
"Where you going, Eff?" Freddie calls after her as she heads off, away, anywhere away from here.
"Home," she calls. She doesn't even look back at him. "To take a bath."
After all, she hasn't had one in weeks. Been wearing the same clothes all this time. But when she does get home, she can't bear staying there long enough even to change. She simply stuffs a satchel with whatever clothes are lying around her room, along with her wallet and passport, and then scribbles down a note which she sticks to the fridge with chewing gum.
Mum, it says, leaving. For good.
She sleeps on the train to Cardiff, lies down across two seats. None of the other passengers dare to wake her; she knows her appearance puts them off. Worn leather jacket, greasy fishtail braids, smudged make-up, torn tights. She's woken by the buzz of her phone just in time. (It alerts her to a text from Freddie, which reads
all cleaned up now? wanna come over? x
but she ignores it and just gets off the train.) She's never visited Tony at uni before, but finds his accomodation easily enough. She slips through the building's front door as a group of students are leaving. They give her the side-eye; she gives them the finger.
Kaya Scodelario/Jack O'Connell/Luke Pasqualino - woooo, totally failed attempt at Skins RPF. Set during that totally threesomely photoshoot they did that one time.
"Go on then, which one?" says Lily, cracking open a Diet Coke and settling back on the sofa, long legs stretched out, her feet resting on the coffee table.
Luke's doing his solo part of the shoot now and Jack's off being interviewed, so Kaya's just waiting to be called back again. "What?" she laughs incredulously.
Lily rolls her eyes and takes a sip of Coke. "Come on, you can say, I won't tell anyone," she goes on. When Kaya doesn't react, she rolls her eyes again. "Please. Anyone can see something's going on."
Kaya stares. "Are you serious?"
Lily nods. "Yeah, just, no one knows what, exactly. Or rather, with whom." She wiggles her eyebrows.
"Nothing's going on," Kaya tells her. "You're delusional."
Lily looks doubtful. "They're besotted."
She shoots a pointed look over Kaya's head, and Kaya turns to see Luke and Jack approaching, armed with pillows.
"Why are you even here?" Kaya asks Lily frustratedly.
Lily snorts. "For the entertainment, of course."
Kaya Scodelario/Georgie Henley - wtf, I don't even know. All I know is that I stopped writing this because I couldn't write Kaya NOT like Effy and it was frustrating.
Kaya meets Georgie at an awards show afterparty a little while after the fourth season of Skins has aired. The younger girl's been eyeing her from across the room for ages, sneaking shifty glances as she sips orange juice from a straw and looks utterly bored by the conversations going on around her. Kaya's nearly five glasses of champagne down before she finally takes pity on the girl and slinks over, sitting down at a table nearby.
It's only seconds, of course, before the girl joins her, hovering anxiously for a moment before sitting down across from Kaya decisively.
"Are you the girl from Skins?" she asks.
Kaya nods. "Yeah," she smiles, "do you like the show?"
The girl blushes slightly, her cheeks flushing a pale pink as she looks down at the table. "Oh, no," she says. "My Mum won't let me watch it. She says it's too grown up for me."
Kaya laughs. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"I was fourteen when I started Skins," Kaya grins. "My character was taking drugs and chugging straight vodka in no time."
The girl laughs, a little nervously, like she's not sure if she should.
"Second episode I was in? They had me passed out, and the guy who played my brother was gonna be forced to fuck me," Kaya goes on. She knows she should probably shut up, but there's something about the girl's reactions to her words that gives her a bit of a thrill. The wide eyes, the mouth slightly open in surprise. She takes a long sip of her champagne. "What does your character do?" she asks, her tone a little more challenging than she intends.
The girl looks down at the table again. "Oh," she says quietly. "Well..."
Suddenly Kaya works it out, and she slams her glass down with a sharp clang on the table. "You're the little one from Narnia, aren't you?" she says. "I knew I recognised you. You're growing up fast, aren't you? I thought you'd still be like, ten or something."
The girl blushes again. "I'm Georgie," she says.
"Kaya," Kaya replies. She finishes off her champagne. "So, what, I guess you just prance about with a lion and stuff?"
She laughs, but Georgie doesn't.
KINGS OF LEON (AND JARED FOLLOWILL/DEMI LOVATO)
Jared Followill/Demi Lovato - TOTALLY FORGOT THIS EXISTED. I don't even remember how it came about, I assume through some conversation with littledivinity. XD
She doesn't usually moan his name during sex but it kinda slips out when he does that, tilts his hips and picks up the pace. It's a hoarse broken whisper and she blushes a little afterwards at the way it sounds, and the way she can tell how much it thrills him. He bites down on his lip and grins up at her, fucking her harder.
"Oh, Demetria," he groans mockingly, taking one hand off her hip to bring the back of it to his forehead like he feels faint.
"Asshole," she says, her voice still a little shaky as she grins and smacks him across the chest playfully. "Don't call me that."
"Why?" he asks, clutching her hips tightly again and lifting her up a little, thrusting into her hard and making it difficult to think. Especially about this, which is...not something she wants to be thinking about right now anyway.
"My Mom calls me that," she manages to get out, figuring it'll make him shut up at least, "when she's mad at me."
Jared just smirks at her. He hitches her up even further and makes her off-balance, so she's leaning down on top of him, hands on the bed on either side of him to steady herself and her hair hanging down and tickling his chest.
"Well," he says, one hand sliding from her hip to her ass, "maybe you've been a bad girl, Demetria."
He brings his hand away and back, slapping her ass just hard enough to make a tiny jolt of pain tingle through her skin. She lets out a little shriek of surprise. "Did you just spank me?"
He strokes her gently like he's smoothing away whatever mark he might've left. "Did you just enjoy it?" he teases.
Nathan/Caleb - I believe this was going to be Nathan/Caleb/Jessie, but I have no idea why or where it came from, which is slightly worrying.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Nathan spits out. "Jess-fuck, Jess-"
Caleb clings to Nate's waist like it's his life raft, desperately willing him not to shake him off. His fingers grip sweatily to Nate's skin and it's all he can focus on, drunkenly staring at the blurring shape of Jessie in the doorway, her horrified face. It doesn't really feel like this is happening, because he never, ever thought it would-he never thought they'd get caught, simply because they never have before. But he doesn't care what she thinks, doesn't care if she's disgusted. He'd be glad if it were that simple, if she could slam the door on them and get the fuck out of there.
But Nathan-oh, Nathan-
"Jess, Jessie, I love you, this isn't, let me, let me explain," Nate's stammering, and he rolls fully over, sits up straight, causing Caleb's fingers to slip from his sides. The tiny loss of touch is instantly painful and dangerous to Caleb and he reaches, grasps at Nathan's back, curls his fingers around a hip. Nathan is too panicked to react.
Jessie seems to echo Caleb's movement, reaching for the doorframe and clinging to it like she needs something to steady herself. But other than that she doesn't move, doesn't speak.
Nate brings his hand up to his face, clamping it over his mouth and then his eyes. "I can't. I can't explain."
Jessie turns, looks away from them because she can see Caleb's fingers grasping Nathan's naked hip, can see the way he lies there in her bed like it's been his all along. Like touching Nathan like this, being naked with Nathan like this, is exactly how things are supposed to be. She's rarely even seen them hug before, and she feels sick, tasting bile at the back of her tongue. She doesn't need them to explain. She doesn't need to know what part of them could possibly have allowed them to let this happen. She just needs to know what's going to happen now.
Nathan/Caleb - another snippet from that stupidly long and messy fic that I just can't seem to turn into something post-able. This part is set before the band has formed, in 2001 according to my heading.
Nathan stands on the old stepladder in the garage, sucks in a mouthful of smoke from the bong. Caleb is slumped at the foot of the ladder on the dirty floor, wearing a pair of Nathan's jeans and nothing else. He cranes his neck up, watches as Nate blows the smoke through the hole in the wall where the vent used to be, delivering it up to Jared where he sits shut in his room. Mom caught him smoking earlier, sent him up there, none the wiser.
Caleb looks down at the case of the CD Jared's given them in return for doing this, turns it over in his hands. It's got a chick with her tits out on the cover, a crucifix on the wall behind her. He stares at the girl, stares up at Nate on the stepladder, grows hard in his jeans.
"You like it?" Nate asks, his voice a little hoarse as he steps down the ladder a bit to hand Caleb the bong.
Caleb listens. It's different, but he likes it. He takes a hit and rests a hand at his crotch, presses a little harder at the seam of his jeans. He feels the hot pressure and breathes out, smoke twisting up and dissipating in the air around him. Nathan's still looking down at him, and Caleb meets his eyes as he pops the button on his jeans-Nate's jeans-and pushes his hand inside.
Nathan swallows, but he just gestures for the bong. The track changes with a shudder of the old boombox and Caleb wraps his hand around his dick, reaches up with his other hand to pass the bong back. It's sticky, awkward, but he twists and rolls his hand, slides his fingers up and down slowly. The music's loud but he can still hear the creak of the stepladder as Nathan climbs back up, getting ready to blow Jared another hit. Ignoring Caleb.
But then Nate's pulling the smoke into his lungs, keeping it there and turning back, breath hitched and chest tight as he watches Caleb bringing himself off, hand working quicker now inside his jeans. It's not the first time Caleb's done this; in fact, it's becoming a habit, some twisted way of tempting Nathan back in, trying to break whatever resolve he's built up and get him to cave again.
They've gone back to barely touching, but it's worse this time, because Nathan's hardly speaking to him either. They've been working with other songwriters ever since meeting Mr. Levitan and it gives Nate an excuse to talk to Caleb less and less. They're civil, so no one seems to have noticed. Except Jared, who seems to be finding his ways to bring them back together whether he understands what he's doing or not. A fifteen year old wanting his fix of pot and older brothers that respect his music taste, probably nothing else.
Caleb bites down hard on his lip, tugs it into his mouth, pulls at himself. It's not like he's not freaked out by what's happened, not like he doesn't care or doesn't feel guilty or didn't still feel sick to his stomach the next day and was fine with looking his older brother in the eye. But it's not that simple, because it's not regret. He wants it to happen again, wants Nate to give in to him like that again, show he needs Caleb just as badly as Caleb needs him.
Caleb tightens his fist, brings it back and forth roughly, shuts his eyes tight because he knows Nate won't watch him if they're looking at each other. He pulls his dick up past the waistband of the jeans as he comes, hard, splattering his stomach and gulping back air that he nearly chokes on.
There's a banging coming from the ceiling-Jared thumping his fist on his bedroom floor impatiently-and Caleb's breathing heavy, eyes still closed, willing and wishing for Nate to come to him, kiss him, throw him down on the floor, anything. Nate's unsteady on his feet as he steps up to the top of the stepladder and brings his lips to the bong.
Woah, check out this mass of tags. Crazy business.
It is also partly because it seems like I have to do that 'post snippets of every unfinished fic you have on your hard drive' meme at least once a year.
But mostly it's because I recently got a new laptop (my old one was falling apart-literally) and had to transfer all my files, and that led to me discovering a whole bunch of things I'd saved and totally forgotten about.
The ratings of these vary, but go up pretty high. And some of the ideas are kinda fucked up but you can figure that out from the pairing and avoid as you see fit-no other warnings necessary, I don't think!
THE KILLS/THE DEAD WEATHER/KATE MOSS/WHAT EVEN IS THIS FANDOM
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - I'm not really sure where this one was going, I think I just like the idea of Kate trying to dress Alison up, it seems totally plausible. XD
Kate flits about, disappearing into her enormous closet for minutes at a time before emerging again with arms full of clothes. She circles Alison like something sizing up its prey, her brow crinkled in thought as she looks her up and down. She holds up outfit after outfit, but everything is too see-through, too pastel-coloured, too skimpy with too much of a gaping neckline. Alison's sure there are hundreds of women who'd kill to be in her place right now, but even with the pick of Kate Moss's entire wardrobe, all she's really interested in is a few pairs of boots and some skinny jeans.
"I've never seen you in a dress," Kate complains, thrusting a pale blue lacy thing at her. "It's always just jeans and all those t-shirts with the holes in them. It's so boring."
"Kate," says Jamie from where he's sprawled on the bed, paging through a book, "I've seen her in a dress only once the entire time we've known each other. I really don't think you're going to have much luck."
Kate looks stunned. "Once? Jesus."
She tosses the blue thing into a pile on the floor and flounces back into her closet, leaving Alison to give Jamie a pleading look.
"Humour her," Jamie whispers, grinning.
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - I don't even know if this was just going to be Alison/Kate, or what. I was just writing random shit on my typewriter and this is something that came out.
It goes without saying that Kate is hardly shy. Decades of modelling have taught her to be perfectly comfortable with things that Alison would find mortifying-she's used to stripping off completely in rooms crowded with strangers, first took her top off for a photoshoot when she was just fifteen. Alison's never liked being naked, never even liked showing off a bit of a skin. It's part of the reason she avoids wearing skirts and dresses, and even shorts or strappy tops. She feels particularly uneasy when it's another woman she's with. For some reason, it's never been too much of an issue with boyfriends, and she knows Jamie so well now that she hardly thinks twice before getting undressed with him in the room.
Jamie Hince/Kate Moss/Alison Mosshart - so far this is my favourite scenario for a fic about the three of them. Idk.
She pauses in the hallway. "I'm going to bed," she calls.
No response. She starts to turn away, assuming they've gone to sleep already, but then she hears Kate's voice. "What?
Alison sighs, turns back and heads down the hall, pushes the door of Jamie's bedroom gently open.
"Oh!" Instinctively, she ducks her head, shuts her eyes and even covers them with her palm, feeling her face go hot. "Fuck, sorry."
The image plays in her mind like it's burnt onto the back of her eyelids. Kate's naked back, the curve of her hips, down to her ass where she straddles Jamie, who lies beneath her, legs draped with a sheet, face flushed and sweaty.
"What did you say?" Kate asks, and her voice is very steady, very casual.
Alison peeks out from between two fingers. The image before her is the same, only now Kate's body is half-turned as she looks behind her at Alison, hair very messy and in her eyes. One of Jamie's hands is on one of Kate's hips, thumb curled gently over the bone. Alison can't quite look at his face, and finds herself staring at that hand, instead, the large shape of it on Kate's slender body, the rough texture of his skin against the flawless tan of hers.
"I was just-I just said I was going to bed," Alison says, "I'm sorry, I'll just-" she laughs uncomfortably, and drops her hand from her face, about to leave.
But Kate speaks again. "Oh!" she says. "Sorry." Her voice is a bit of a drawl, now, husky. "C'mere."
Kate leans back, body bending like an acrobat's, movements easy and fluid. Her dirty-blonde hair cascades down her naked back and she taps a space on the bed beside them, her smile sleepy, drunk and satisfied.
Alison steps cautiously into the room. She sighs, rolls her eyes, walks across to the bed and perches on it, all the while trying not to look at them. But she is looking at them, she can't not. Even as her brain is saying stop it, stop it, it's weird and it's wrong, fucking stop it, her eyes are fixed on them, watching the way Kate rocks forward once again like she's riding him. Kate's hand closes over hers and Alison shakes herself, pulls herself onto the bed and sits there awkwardly, her legs tucked beside her. Kate smiles that sleepy smile again, leans across and kisses Alison on the cheek right by her ear.
"'Night," she says, a hoarse murmur.
"'Night," Alison echoes, a hint of nervous laughter in her voice.
But Kate doesn't move. Her lips brush the shell of Alison's ear and her hand tightens just a little.
"Kate," Jamie says, warningly, his voice deep and sharp.
Kate snaps back, runs her hands down his chest. "What? I'm not doing anything," she says, teasing, childish. "Just saying goodnight."
Alison Mosshart/Jack White - possibly /Jamie Hince too but I got wrapped up in writing this part and forgot about him a bit.
Jamie grabs her arm to drag her offstage, but the unexpected motion makes her drop her beer bottle, and she drops down onto the floor to retrieve it before it spills too much. Jamie, clearly low on patience tonight, leaves her, and she's last off stage as a result. When she trots round the corner, she meets Jack head-on as he blocks the narrow passageway, arms crossed, lips pressed together tightly in a hard line.
She grins, putting one hand on her hip and canting her head, curious to see what his next move is. But he doesn't return the smile, his forehead crinkling as he frowns at her. She gives him a tentative little push, a playful swat on his arm. She's still grinning, albeit nervously now, as the hot air seems to crackle with tension. Outside, they can still hear the noise of the crowd and the low buzzing of their equipment, but the hallway feels like a vacuum, the silence between them louder than anything.
"C'mon, let me past," she says in the end, lamely, when he doesn't react to her nudge.
He tilts his head back, almost challengingly, licks his dry lips and swallows. Alison feels a burst of frustrated anger bubble up in her blood. She shrugs, leans back against the wall and takes a long swig of her beer.
She looks at him, raising her eyebrows. "No?" she asks, and when she laughs it comes out harsh and scathing.
She gulps her beer down til it's all gone, Jack watching her all the while. She can feel his eyes on her lips wrapped round the bottleneck. When she's done, she sets the bottle down calmly on the floor beside her. She straightens back up, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate. She takes a tiny little step towards him. It's enough to violate his personal space already, and she honestly expects him to back off, laugh or sneer and head off backstage without another word.
But he doesn't.
He just stands there, broad shoulders set and arms folded tightly.
She moves closer, her eyes bright and wide and innocent, looking right into his. Something inside him is simmering, so close to boiling over, and she can't wait to find out what it is. Soon she's close enough to feel his forearms brushing lightly against her chest, to feel his hair tickle her cheek. She can smell his sweat. She folds her arms and sways her hips forward just enough to nudge them against his. The touch makes him jolt, and her body echoes the unexpected jerk.
"Back off," he says suddenly, voice a low rumble with a rising note of panic just beneath the surface.
He doesn't move though, doesn't show any intention of pushing her away. She's always wondered what would happen if, one day, she just kissed him. If she got sick of all the dancing around each other that they do, and just made something happen. But she's afraid of being pushed away (and, knowing Jack, pushed away hard), can't stand the thought of that rejection. She'd rather go on like this, never knowing for sure whether it's just a game to him or not. At least this way she can pretend.
But sometimes-oh, sometimes he makes it so damn difficult to resist.
She lifts her chin defiantly, her lips on a level with his now, and leans in. Just a little, just enough. Their lips brush lightly, the tiniest fraction of a touch, and that's it-his chin connects with her cheekbone, sudden and sharp as he jabs his head forward at her, and she lets out a yelp, stumbles back against the wall with her hand clamped to her face.
NARNIA RPF
Will/Skandar - I wrote this ages ago, totally out of the blue. I was experimenting with writing a Will/Skandar fic where they're very resistant to their feelings for each other and much more focused on girlfriends and work and stuff, but I never got very far. It's so hard for me to write angst in this fandom idk. This part is set during a Dawn Treader leaving party at Skandar's house.
He's in the middle of filling up his glass when Will comes in, his shoes obnoxiously clicky on the tiled floor. The noise makes him jump and spill champagne all over the worktop.
"Well done," he sneers unfairly.
"Yes, I'm sorry," Will laughs, shaking his head. The sarcasm in his voice is palpable but not cruel. "I forgot that sometimes when I walk, it makes you clumsy."
Skandar sighs and dabs at the spill half-heartedly with a tea towel. He really wishes Will would go away and let him mope in peace.
"I'm assuming you want me to go away and let you mope in peace," Will says.
Skandar hates it when he does that.
"I hate it when you do that," Skandar mutters.
"When I go away?"
Skandar snorts. "No," he says, "and anyway, I'm the one going away, genius."
"Is that why you're moping?" Will presses.
Skandar can't be bothered wondering how Will had time to notice that he was moping, being so busy as he was with having his arm around his girlfriend and curling his hand against his girlfriend's hip and smiling sweetly at his girlfriend in the knowledge of their flawless, beautiful love.
Skandar really, really wants to have a girlfriend again.
"Because it'll be okay, you know. We're going to come visit," says Will.
"That's not why I'm mo-" Skandar starts, but Will cuts him off.
"Yes it is," he says. "It's okay, I understand. With the party and everything. You're not very good at hiding your feelings, you know. It's really obvious." He pauses, and then adds, "It's dripping through your trousers."
"What?" Skandar hisses, and then suddenly becomes aware of a cold, wet sensation around his inner thigh and looks down to see that the champagne spill is dribbling off the edge of the counter and onto his jeans. Fantastic.
"Go change, I'll cover for you," says Will. And then he reaches forward for Skandar's glass and takes a sip. Twat.
Skandar heaves another irritated sigh and steps round, but Will's blocking the doorway. At first Skandar assumes he's doing it to be annoying, because he's doing quite well at that today, but then he realises it's an accident, and they're locked in one of those sidestepping dances that happen when someone's in the way and are always awkward no matter how well you know the other person.
Skandar steps to the left, and Will steps to the left at the exact same moment, and then they both right themselves, and then it all happens again. Skandar sort of sways forward to indicate that he's just going to keep walking anyway, obstacles be damned, but Will does the same thing and then they both jerk rather violently back again. They probably look completely ridiculous, and Skandar doesn't have time for this.
They've been doing a lot of this lately, in fact. Not exactly this-Skandar's fairly sure that'd be torture-but this same sort of swaying back and forth, in various incarnations. There's a new awkwardness in their friendship that seems to have blossomed over about a year, for no apparent reason, and it's more annoying than anything else. Skandar spends more time second-guessing himself and their conversations have become increasingly meaningless and more like polite small talk. Skandar's found himself spending less time teasing Will in a friendly way and more time actually being a bit of a dick to him. Because he's fairly sure it's all Will's fault if they're drifting apart.
It's gotten steadily worse all this time, pretty much ever since they finished promoting Prince Caspian, but it's been especially bad since Skandar's break-up. Will's been treating him like he's really fragile all of a sudden, like he has to choose his words carefully and look after him or something. No one else has been treating Skandar like that. Even his own family know Skandar's being a pain. His Dad isn't afraid to tell him to get over himself, his Mum isn't afraid to tell him to find one of the billions of other fish in the sea to argue with all the time, and his sister certainly isn't afraid to hit him over the head with the TV remote when he changes the channel away from a romantic scene.
But Will is just being weird. He's not offering him advice, like Anna, or junk food and cynical movies about love like Georgie, or awkward manly hugs like Ben. He's just studiously not mentioning it, while at the same time behaving like it's all that's running through his head. Like he's itching to offer comfort, while simultaneously avoiding it like his life depends on it.
Because he's maybe mentally unwell or something. Skandar doesn't care. He just wants to get out of these wet trousers and then go back to moping until the party ends, and Will is very much in the way of that. When a stifled sort of laugh chokes itself from Will's throat, that's when Skandar snaps. He pushes forwards, mainly with his chest, to knock Will aside and storm past him.
Totally forgetting that Will is still holding a glass of champagne.
Or, rather...not anymore. The glass doesn't break, because it's not even made of glass, because his parents don't own enough proper champagne flutes to go around everyone at the party. It's just plastic, lying there with what's actually probably Cava streaming out across the tiles. Skandar might've quite liked it to smash, would've found it more dramatic and possibly more satisfying. In the mood he's in, he'd quite like to go around shattering glassware. But this can be fixed with a few paper towels. Which Will is collecting wordlessly, after Skandar has let him past, the two of them out of sync again as quickly as they built up such a perfect rhythm.
Will gets down on his knees at Skandar's feet, cleaning up the spill like it was his own fault (which all of a sudden, Skandar doesn't think it was) and not saying anything. Skandar is a little shaken, and the silence is the most awkward in the world.
Eventually, Will goes and shoves the wet paper towels in the bin, puts the glass in the dishwasher, and brushes his hands on his trousers. Which are not wet, like Skandar's. But his shirt is, and Skandar knows it's reasonable to feel bad about that and everything, but really? This bad? It seems a little insane. The guilt is coursing through him like he just took a knife to Will's chest, so he does the only thing he thinks he can do.
He offers him a spare t-shirt.
Will/Skandar - this is that absurd Ben-gets-a-part-in-Twilight!AU that I just cannot form into a proper fic. I still feel oddly attached to it. Maybe I should just post snippets from it every now and then.
When Skandar finds a copy of Twilight lying on the bedside table in his and Will's hotel room, he doesn't really think anything of it, assuming it's that copy Anna bought to make fun of and she left it there by mistake. But when he pops into Anna and Georgie's room a couple of minutes later to find Anna still paging her way through the book, he's forced to accept the sad truth.
The fact that when he returns to his room he finds Will lying on his bed reading a hardback copy of New Moon, is also a bit of a tip-off.
"Oh-Skan-I thought you were-" Will stammers, clambering off the bed and holding the book behind his back like he just got caught looking at porn or something.
Then again, porn is something Skandar could deal with. This-he's not so sure.
"Will, please, please tell me that's not a book from the Twilight series," Skandar says, grimacing. "Please."
Will grins sheepishly, holding out the book. "It kind of is," he admits. "But honestly, they're not as bad as Anna says, they're really quite good, if you just give it a try-"
Skandar flops down on his own bed, sighing in despair. "I can't believe you're a closet Twilight fan, Will," he groans. "Oh, my god."
"Just read a bit," Will pleads, suddenly rummaging through his suitcase and producing the first book. "I bet you'll like it. There's this really cool bit with-"
"Never!" says Skandar, backing away from the proffered novel.
"Come on," Will urges, coming closer, "just a chapter-a page, even-"
Skandar backs away further, into the bed. His knees buckle as he falls back onto it and his legs fly up in the air, tripping Will and making him land right on top of Skandar, book still clutched in his hand. He makes a startled noise, and both boys freeze for a moment.
Then-
"I'll actually pay you to read it," Will says, like he isn't inches from Skandar's face and like their bodies aren't pressed against each other. He waves the book. "You'll enjoy it. I know you will."
"I won't," Skandar says, his breathing coming a little too fast, "I won't, and no money in the world could make me read that crap. It's-"
Will gasps, affronted. "It's not crap! It's literary genius!"
Skandar cracks up laughing, unable to stop himself, and Will jabs him in the ribs with a sharp book-corner.
Will/Skandar/Anna - TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT THIS. It was for that timestamp meme, someone requested the morning after Exercise The Lines and this...was as far as I got. *shame*
Will jerks awake at the sound of the shower bursting on down the hall. He rubs his eyes and rolls over, finding Anna gone, and Skandar only inches away from his face. Skandar is sleeping soundly, his lips slightly parted, and the sheets are sort of half-heartedly draped over him but not really covering him at all. Will finds himself just staring for a while, eyes travelling over Skandar's body. He's just gazing at Skandar's long, dark eyelashes, when suddenly Skandar's eyes snap open.
"Not cool, Will," he grumbles, rolling over onto his back.
"Wh-what?" Will stammers.
"Watching me sleep," Skandar mumbles, eyes fluttering closed again.
"No, I was...I was just-"
"Shh," Skandar whispers. "'m sleeping."
Will/Skandar - AGAIN, TOTALLY FORGOT. Timestamp meme. Correspondence, Will's return home. This is complete, so I have no idea why I never posted it. I can't even find the post where I asked for these requests so I don't know who I wrote this for, I'm sorry!!
During Will's visit to set, he and Skandar didn't have many chances to be intimate. They barely had any time alone together, and most of the time when they did, they ended up being walked in on, usually by Ben. So when they had a chance, they seized it, and that's why all sexual contact during that time was very rushed, very intense, very messy, and, more often than not, in rather weird places.
It was fun, at the time, the challenge of it. And they didn't find it too frustrating, because they were just glad to be around each other at all. But to be able to strip down and stretch out in Will's bed, knowing they have all the time in the world? It's so, so much better.
Will has to admit that a part of him just wants to jump Skandar at the door, and fuck him against the wall in the hallway before he's even got his jacket off. But he knows that what he really wants is to savour every second of it all. He wants to enjoy the long, slow kisses, not having to worry about somebody barging in. He wants to let the touches linger, smooth and stroke across warm skin instead of grabbing feverishly at whatever parts he can reach. He wants them to lay down in bed, instead of sprawl across breakfast tables or kitchen counters.
It seems like it's been forever since they've simply been naked together, and it's little things like that that seem new all over again after such a long separation. It doesn't matter that he's practically straight off the plane, exhausted and only half-unpacked. It doesn't matter that the house is a mess, stuff strewn everywhere from when he hurried to have a shower after receiving Skandar's excited phone call saying he'd be round soon. It doesn't matter, because it's still a house, with a bed, and Skandar's here. It's just the two of them, free to do whatever they like and take as much time as they need.
And they do take their time, several hours of it, in fact. It's early morning when they're eventually too tired to continue, and simply lay beside each other instead.
Skandar says, "Fuck, I missed your bed," and does that lazy, half-smirking grin of his that means he's really, really relaxed, and he pulls Will closer, kissing him, open-mouthed and slow.
"I missed you," Will murmurs against Skandar's mouth, and it's kind of redundant, really, it's not something that needs to be said, but he can't help it.
"I'm here now," Skandar whispers back, smiling, and Will hears himself saying "Yeah," as he just stares and stares and stares. All he can process is this warmth and closeness, the soft feeling of Skandar's pale freckled skin, and long limbs wrapped around his body, and the deep brown of Skandar's eyes gazing back at him.
He drifts off to sleep like that, but surprises himself by waking up fairly early later on. He slides out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Skandar, and pulls on some clothes, rummaging around for some money that's not Euros so that he can nip down to the shops and buy them some breakfast. He finds the one last sheet of his notepaper, lying beside his fountain pen under a pair of jeans on his desk.
Smiling to himself, he carefully pens a note and lays the paper on the pillow, kissing Skandar softly on the cheek before he goes.
It's bright and sunny as he walks down the street, pressing his earbuds into his ears and thumbing his mp3 player until Stay Out Of Trouble starts up. He smiles to himself again, thinking of Skandar sleeping peacefully back in his bed, and how this time, it'll only be a little while before he sees him again.
Skandar/Tilda - this is the closest I've ever gotten to writing this pairing that I INEXPLICABLY LOVE. It was based around the idea of Skandar watching all of Tilda's movies and being a creepster, idk. I can't even remember if this was ever going to become mutual, apparently I wrote it in November 2007!
The guilt doesn't disappear. It must be the twentieth time he's wanked off to that sex scene in The Beach, hand down his trousers as he watches her with her legs wrapped round Leonardo Dicaprio's waist, her hands clutching at him, her hair loose and long and flowing down her back as he thrusts into her. There's always a moment where he forgets it's not real, and in that moment it is her, not her character, and Leonardo Dicaprio could be anybody, it doesn't matter. And it doesn't matter that the scene is so brief and not explicit and mostly in silhouette. He just lets himself forget that it's just a movie and it's just acting, and he watches her straddling him, riding him, his face buried between her breasts and he thinks, yes.
Because this is what he wants.
But the guilt doesn't disappear. That's why he hides the DVD underneath his mattress, and flushes any time anyone even mentions Tilda, and why he just can't seem to stop beating himself up over this stupid crush that won't leave him alone.
SKINS, INCLUDING RPF (AND, UM, SKINS RPF/NARNIA/RPF?)
Effy/Emily - lol, Effy teaching Emily how to go down on girls. For a kink meme, I think.
"Guess you just need practice," Effy says then, eyebrow quirked, and Emily, drunk and dazed, is pretty sure Effy spreads her legs a little further. "You get more confident with practice, you know."
And that's when Emily realises why Effy holds that kind of magic over all the guys she so much as looks at, because it's just the look on her face and the easy offering of herself that's got Emily under her spell.
And-well-under her skirt, too.
It makes her feel a bit cheap, really, because fuck knows if Effy's even interested in helping her or if she's just seen a good opportunity to get eaten out. Even so, when Effy gracefully slides down her knickers and tosses them aside, shamelessly self-confident as she hitches up her skirt a little, Emily gets down on her knees between the other girl's legs, dips her head.
She'd think rude, bitchy things about how many guys (and girls?) must have been here before, but then Effy's tilting her hips and Emily breathes and then everything's just hot, slightly sweet-smelling skin and her brain sort of disconnects.
"Show me how you start," Effy says, voice low.
Tony/Effy - I don't want to say too much about this one because it's one I hope to finish sometime. It follows their trip to Italy.
"Where you going, Eff?" Freddie calls after her as she heads off, away, anywhere away from here.
"Home," she calls. She doesn't even look back at him. "To take a bath."
After all, she hasn't had one in weeks. Been wearing the same clothes all this time. But when she does get home, she can't bear staying there long enough even to change. She simply stuffs a satchel with whatever clothes are lying around her room, along with her wallet and passport, and then scribbles down a note which she sticks to the fridge with chewing gum.
Mum, it says, leaving. For good.
She sleeps on the train to Cardiff, lies down across two seats. None of the other passengers dare to wake her; she knows her appearance puts them off. Worn leather jacket, greasy fishtail braids, smudged make-up, torn tights. She's woken by the buzz of her phone just in time. (It alerts her to a text from Freddie, which reads
all cleaned up now? wanna come over? x
but she ignores it and just gets off the train.) She's never visited Tony at uni before, but finds his accomodation easily enough. She slips through the building's front door as a group of students are leaving. They give her the side-eye; she gives them the finger.
Kaya Scodelario/Jack O'Connell/Luke Pasqualino - woooo, totally failed attempt at Skins RPF. Set during that totally threesomely photoshoot they did that one time.
"Go on then, which one?" says Lily, cracking open a Diet Coke and settling back on the sofa, long legs stretched out, her feet resting on the coffee table.
Luke's doing his solo part of the shoot now and Jack's off being interviewed, so Kaya's just waiting to be called back again. "What?" she laughs incredulously.
Lily rolls her eyes and takes a sip of Coke. "Come on, you can say, I won't tell anyone," she goes on. When Kaya doesn't react, she rolls her eyes again. "Please. Anyone can see something's going on."
Kaya stares. "Are you serious?"
Lily nods. "Yeah, just, no one knows what, exactly. Or rather, with whom." She wiggles her eyebrows.
"Nothing's going on," Kaya tells her. "You're delusional."
Lily looks doubtful. "They're besotted."
She shoots a pointed look over Kaya's head, and Kaya turns to see Luke and Jack approaching, armed with pillows.
"Why are you even here?" Kaya asks Lily frustratedly.
Lily snorts. "For the entertainment, of course."
Kaya Scodelario/Georgie Henley - wtf, I don't even know. All I know is that I stopped writing this because I couldn't write Kaya NOT like Effy and it was frustrating.
Kaya meets Georgie at an awards show afterparty a little while after the fourth season of Skins has aired. The younger girl's been eyeing her from across the room for ages, sneaking shifty glances as she sips orange juice from a straw and looks utterly bored by the conversations going on around her. Kaya's nearly five glasses of champagne down before she finally takes pity on the girl and slinks over, sitting down at a table nearby.
It's only seconds, of course, before the girl joins her, hovering anxiously for a moment before sitting down across from Kaya decisively.
"Are you the girl from Skins?" she asks.
Kaya nods. "Yeah," she smiles, "do you like the show?"
The girl blushes slightly, her cheeks flushing a pale pink as she looks down at the table. "Oh, no," she says. "My Mum won't let me watch it. She says it's too grown up for me."
Kaya laughs. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"I was fourteen when I started Skins," Kaya grins. "My character was taking drugs and chugging straight vodka in no time."
The girl laughs, a little nervously, like she's not sure if she should.
"Second episode I was in? They had me passed out, and the guy who played my brother was gonna be forced to fuck me," Kaya goes on. She knows she should probably shut up, but there's something about the girl's reactions to her words that gives her a bit of a thrill. The wide eyes, the mouth slightly open in surprise. She takes a long sip of her champagne. "What does your character do?" she asks, her tone a little more challenging than she intends.
The girl looks down at the table again. "Oh," she says quietly. "Well..."
Suddenly Kaya works it out, and she slams her glass down with a sharp clang on the table. "You're the little one from Narnia, aren't you?" she says. "I knew I recognised you. You're growing up fast, aren't you? I thought you'd still be like, ten or something."
The girl blushes again. "I'm Georgie," she says.
"Kaya," Kaya replies. She finishes off her champagne. "So, what, I guess you just prance about with a lion and stuff?"
She laughs, but Georgie doesn't.
KINGS OF LEON (AND JARED FOLLOWILL/DEMI LOVATO)
Jared Followill/Demi Lovato - TOTALLY FORGOT THIS EXISTED. I don't even remember how it came about, I assume through some conversation with littledivinity. XD
She doesn't usually moan his name during sex but it kinda slips out when he does that, tilts his hips and picks up the pace. It's a hoarse broken whisper and she blushes a little afterwards at the way it sounds, and the way she can tell how much it thrills him. He bites down on his lip and grins up at her, fucking her harder.
"Oh, Demetria," he groans mockingly, taking one hand off her hip to bring the back of it to his forehead like he feels faint.
"Asshole," she says, her voice still a little shaky as she grins and smacks him across the chest playfully. "Don't call me that."
"Why?" he asks, clutching her hips tightly again and lifting her up a little, thrusting into her hard and making it difficult to think. Especially about this, which is...not something she wants to be thinking about right now anyway.
"My Mom calls me that," she manages to get out, figuring it'll make him shut up at least, "when she's mad at me."
Jared just smirks at her. He hitches her up even further and makes her off-balance, so she's leaning down on top of him, hands on the bed on either side of him to steady herself and her hair hanging down and tickling his chest.
"Well," he says, one hand sliding from her hip to her ass, "maybe you've been a bad girl, Demetria."
He brings his hand away and back, slapping her ass just hard enough to make a tiny jolt of pain tingle through her skin. She lets out a little shriek of surprise. "Did you just spank me?"
He strokes her gently like he's smoothing away whatever mark he might've left. "Did you just enjoy it?" he teases.
Nathan/Caleb - I believe this was going to be Nathan/Caleb/Jessie, but I have no idea why or where it came from, which is slightly worrying.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Nathan spits out. "Jess-fuck, Jess-"
Caleb clings to Nate's waist like it's his life raft, desperately willing him not to shake him off. His fingers grip sweatily to Nate's skin and it's all he can focus on, drunkenly staring at the blurring shape of Jessie in the doorway, her horrified face. It doesn't really feel like this is happening, because he never, ever thought it would-he never thought they'd get caught, simply because they never have before. But he doesn't care what she thinks, doesn't care if she's disgusted. He'd be glad if it were that simple, if she could slam the door on them and get the fuck out of there.
But Nathan-oh, Nathan-
"Jess, Jessie, I love you, this isn't, let me, let me explain," Nate's stammering, and he rolls fully over, sits up straight, causing Caleb's fingers to slip from his sides. The tiny loss of touch is instantly painful and dangerous to Caleb and he reaches, grasps at Nathan's back, curls his fingers around a hip. Nathan is too panicked to react.
Jessie seems to echo Caleb's movement, reaching for the doorframe and clinging to it like she needs something to steady herself. But other than that she doesn't move, doesn't speak.
Nate brings his hand up to his face, clamping it over his mouth and then his eyes. "I can't. I can't explain."
Jessie turns, looks away from them because she can see Caleb's fingers grasping Nathan's naked hip, can see the way he lies there in her bed like it's been his all along. Like touching Nathan like this, being naked with Nathan like this, is exactly how things are supposed to be. She's rarely even seen them hug before, and she feels sick, tasting bile at the back of her tongue. She doesn't need them to explain. She doesn't need to know what part of them could possibly have allowed them to let this happen. She just needs to know what's going to happen now.
Nathan/Caleb - another snippet from that stupidly long and messy fic that I just can't seem to turn into something post-able. This part is set before the band has formed, in 2001 according to my heading.
Nathan stands on the old stepladder in the garage, sucks in a mouthful of smoke from the bong. Caleb is slumped at the foot of the ladder on the dirty floor, wearing a pair of Nathan's jeans and nothing else. He cranes his neck up, watches as Nate blows the smoke through the hole in the wall where the vent used to be, delivering it up to Jared where he sits shut in his room. Mom caught him smoking earlier, sent him up there, none the wiser.
Caleb looks down at the case of the CD Jared's given them in return for doing this, turns it over in his hands. It's got a chick with her tits out on the cover, a crucifix on the wall behind her. He stares at the girl, stares up at Nate on the stepladder, grows hard in his jeans.
"You like it?" Nate asks, his voice a little hoarse as he steps down the ladder a bit to hand Caleb the bong.
Caleb listens. It's different, but he likes it. He takes a hit and rests a hand at his crotch, presses a little harder at the seam of his jeans. He feels the hot pressure and breathes out, smoke twisting up and dissipating in the air around him. Nathan's still looking down at him, and Caleb meets his eyes as he pops the button on his jeans-Nate's jeans-and pushes his hand inside.
Nathan swallows, but he just gestures for the bong. The track changes with a shudder of the old boombox and Caleb wraps his hand around his dick, reaches up with his other hand to pass the bong back. It's sticky, awkward, but he twists and rolls his hand, slides his fingers up and down slowly. The music's loud but he can still hear the creak of the stepladder as Nathan climbs back up, getting ready to blow Jared another hit. Ignoring Caleb.
But then Nate's pulling the smoke into his lungs, keeping it there and turning back, breath hitched and chest tight as he watches Caleb bringing himself off, hand working quicker now inside his jeans. It's not the first time Caleb's done this; in fact, it's becoming a habit, some twisted way of tempting Nathan back in, trying to break whatever resolve he's built up and get him to cave again.
They've gone back to barely touching, but it's worse this time, because Nathan's hardly speaking to him either. They've been working with other songwriters ever since meeting Mr. Levitan and it gives Nate an excuse to talk to Caleb less and less. They're civil, so no one seems to have noticed. Except Jared, who seems to be finding his ways to bring them back together whether he understands what he's doing or not. A fifteen year old wanting his fix of pot and older brothers that respect his music taste, probably nothing else.
Caleb bites down hard on his lip, tugs it into his mouth, pulls at himself. It's not like he's not freaked out by what's happened, not like he doesn't care or doesn't feel guilty or didn't still feel sick to his stomach the next day and was fine with looking his older brother in the eye. But it's not that simple, because it's not regret. He wants it to happen again, wants Nate to give in to him like that again, show he needs Caleb just as badly as Caleb needs him.
Caleb tightens his fist, brings it back and forth roughly, shuts his eyes tight because he knows Nate won't watch him if they're looking at each other. He pulls his dick up past the waistband of the jeans as he comes, hard, splattering his stomach and gulping back air that he nearly chokes on.
There's a banging coming from the ceiling-Jared thumping his fist on his bedroom floor impatiently-and Caleb's breathing heavy, eyes still closed, willing and wishing for Nate to come to him, kiss him, throw him down on the floor, anything. Nate's unsteady on his feet as he steps up to the top of the stepladder and brings his lips to the bong.
Woah, check out this mass of tags. Crazy business.