Fabulous Fanfic Fragments
Roger gathered his coat around himself, turning up the collar against the winter chill. He couldn’t help wondering if this year was genuinely colder than the last, or if his body was just less able to deal with it. That low-grade anxiety couldn’t distract him from what was really on his mind, however. He was watching the passerby carefully, tensing up every time he saw a Japanese face or an unusual animal.
He was rescued from such thoughts by Mark shoving a steaming hot-dog under his nose. It had just been purchased from a suspicious looking street vendor. He took it carefully. “Do we have any idea what’s in this?” He asked.
“No, that’s part of the magic.” Mark responded with a cheeky smile, taking a big bite of his own.
“Hm…” He shrugged, not very hungry, but starting on the meat anyway.
Mark watched him, looking slightly crestfallen. Roger had been distant recently, quiet, worried. He had been spending most of his time on the roof with his guitar and avoiding the rest of his roommates and friends. The others had dismissed it as just a bad humour, that he was having a tough time dealing with his medication, AIDS meds having a whole range of side effects in addition to the disease itself.
Mark knew different however. Roger’s mood had been set off by an entirely kind of event. Last Monday, Mark had returned home from an extended meeting with some clients and flopped down into their worn armchair, automatically hitting the button to check their phone messages. He waited through two from his mother, which had garnered a sympathetic eye roll from Roger, and then there was a breath of silence and just before Mark could skip to the next message, and an unfamiliar voice began to speak. It took a moment for Mark to realize why he couldn’t make sense of it. It sounded like Japanese, and he looked up at Roger, some quip about a wrong number dying on his tongue as he saw Roger’s face.
Mark had never seen his roommate so frightened.
Four days later, and Roger still hadn’t offered any explanation for the call, despite Mark’s questioning. Roger had been across the room in seconds, erasing the message.
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(CSI:NY + Assbabies + Nanny 911)
(This is a takeoff of a longstanding crack rp that involves an incredibly promiscuous Danny, his husband Mac, and all of Danny's cuckoo children. More details on the Taylor Brood can be found here and here.)
I’m Danny Messer, and this is my family.
Not exactly the most riveting of starts. Nanny Jo yawned. She was on her 56th application video that evening, and even the bag of cheetos and serial glasses of red wine weren’t going to hold her up much longer. She had secretaries that weeded out the duds, and who packaged up and delivered to her only the most needy families, who seemed interesting enough to make for good TV. Even so, it was still a long, emotionally draining process to wittle it down to just two or three. Many of the frantic mothers were openly begging for her help as their children screamed in the background, but they wouldn’t get it. Too normal, too few children, looked too much like a family she’d already done…
She was reaching the point in the evening when the sob stories of stressed out families and tearaway children were beginning to blend together, and she could watch a whole 10 minute application video, only to realize afterward that she’d absorbed nothing about it, and have to start over. She watched the video, mentally noting the various children she saw entering and exiting the frame.
This is John, he’s two. Say hello John.
Danny reached down and hauled the baby into his lap, the baby sticking its face right into the lens, making it an unfocused blob. The father pulled the camera away and zoomed out, showing the baby, and the edge of his wheelchair. Well, this was getting slightly interesting. A disabled parent was good for ratings.
And say hello to what our little John was doing.
The camera zoomed out a bit further, and the toddler grinned mischievously. He had opened up a whole shelf’s worth of jars, and spilled their dry contents all over the floor.
Don’t let his angel act fool you, he’s a biter, and doesn’t play well with others.
He focused in on a bite mark on his own arm. The light wasn’t ideal, but Nanny Joe could see it well enough to see it had been a bad bite, with quite a bit of blood shed the day it had happened. Cut to Danny, holding the camera at arm’s length.
Me and my husband Mac are NYPD detectives, and about a year ago I was shot in the line of duty. They say I might never walk again. We have four children, John-
My husband? She’d never featured a gay couple, plus the recent injury, plus them being NYPD detectives? Sold.
Connell, three. He’s deaf. He and John like to gang up.
A smiling boy, signing excitedly. She would have to find an interpreter, it would strain the budget. He was cute, real cute. If her eyes weren’t so used to scanning for trouble, she wouldn’t have noticed that he had tracked mud all the way into the house, and behind him, the baby was covered from head to toe. This must have been cut together over the course of a few days.
Raphael, five. He ends up pulling a lot more than his weight around here, a lot more than he should, but there’s just so much I’m still learning to do from the wheelchair.
A darker boy than either of his parents, clearly not from the same father. Adopted maybe? The tanned-maybe-adopted-kid being made to do the housework? That didn’t look so good. He wasn’t a perfect angel, however. The next scenes were of him throwing an attention-getting tantrum of epic proportions.
And Greg, 16. Mine from a previous marriage. In the last six months, he’s been dragged home by the cops. It was all we could do to keep him from being brought to court.
The 16 year old was covered in piercings, his hair dyed black, which matched his clothes, his eye makeup, and probably his room, but it was impossible to get a real picture of him, because almost as soon as his father arrived in the room, he yelled at him to get out. The slammed door muffled something about personal space, and his father laughing, but Nanny Jo could hear the exhaustion and frustration in the voice.
Where the hell was this kid while the 5 year old was doing all the work?
Mac is a wonderful husband. We used to be the perfect team, consistent with the rules even when we were on opposite shifts. The kids knew how to behave. It worked. Somehow we made it work with four kids, me working nights, Mac working days, but since my accident it’s all gone to hell.
He’d emphasized his story with focusing the camera on their wedding photo on the table, the handsome, smiling men with their oldest boy as the ringbearer. No wheelchair in sight, happier times. Just when the family most needed to come together, it was falling apart.
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He was rescued from such thoughts by Mark shoving a steaming hot-dog under his nose. It had just been purchased from a suspicious looking street vendor. He took it carefully. “Do we have any idea what’s in this?” He asked.
“No, that’s part of the magic.” Mark responded with a cheeky smile, taking a big bite of his own.
“Hm…” He shrugged, not very hungry, but starting on the meat anyway.
Mark watched him, looking slightly crestfallen. Roger had been distant recently, quiet, worried. He had been spending most of his time on the roof with his guitar and avoiding the rest of his roommates and friends. The others had dismissed it as just a bad humour, that he was having a tough time dealing with his medication, AIDS meds having a whole range of side effects in addition to the disease itself.
Mark knew different however. Roger’s mood had been set off by an entirely kind of event. Last Monday, Mark had returned home from an extended meeting with some clients and flopped down into their worn armchair, automatically hitting the button to check their phone messages. He waited through two from his mother, which had garnered a sympathetic eye roll from Roger, and then there was a breath of silence and just before Mark could skip to the next message, and an unfamiliar voice began to speak. It took a moment for Mark to realize why he couldn’t make sense of it. It sounded like Japanese, and he looked up at Roger, some quip about a wrong number dying on his tongue as he saw Roger’s face.
Mark had never seen his roommate so frightened.
Four days later, and Roger still hadn’t offered any explanation for the call, despite Mark’s questioning. Roger had been across the room in seconds, erasing the message.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(CSI:NY + Assbabies + Nanny 911)
(This is a takeoff of a longstanding crack rp that involves an incredibly promiscuous Danny, his husband Mac, and all of Danny's cuckoo children. More details on the Taylor Brood can be found here and here.)
I’m Danny Messer, and this is my family.
Not exactly the most riveting of starts. Nanny Jo yawned. She was on her 56th application video that evening, and even the bag of cheetos and serial glasses of red wine weren’t going to hold her up much longer. She had secretaries that weeded out the duds, and who packaged up and delivered to her only the most needy families, who seemed interesting enough to make for good TV. Even so, it was still a long, emotionally draining process to wittle it down to just two or three. Many of the frantic mothers were openly begging for her help as their children screamed in the background, but they wouldn’t get it. Too normal, too few children, looked too much like a family she’d already done…
She was reaching the point in the evening when the sob stories of stressed out families and tearaway children were beginning to blend together, and she could watch a whole 10 minute application video, only to realize afterward that she’d absorbed nothing about it, and have to start over. She watched the video, mentally noting the various children she saw entering and exiting the frame.
This is John, he’s two. Say hello John.
Danny reached down and hauled the baby into his lap, the baby sticking its face right into the lens, making it an unfocused blob. The father pulled the camera away and zoomed out, showing the baby, and the edge of his wheelchair. Well, this was getting slightly interesting. A disabled parent was good for ratings.
And say hello to what our little John was doing.
The camera zoomed out a bit further, and the toddler grinned mischievously. He had opened up a whole shelf’s worth of jars, and spilled their dry contents all over the floor.
Don’t let his angel act fool you, he’s a biter, and doesn’t play well with others.
He focused in on a bite mark on his own arm. The light wasn’t ideal, but Nanny Joe could see it well enough to see it had been a bad bite, with quite a bit of blood shed the day it had happened. Cut to Danny, holding the camera at arm’s length.
Me and my husband Mac are NYPD detectives, and about a year ago I was shot in the line of duty. They say I might never walk again. We have four children, John-
My husband? She’d never featured a gay couple, plus the recent injury, plus them being NYPD detectives? Sold.
Connell, three. He’s deaf. He and John like to gang up.
A smiling boy, signing excitedly. She would have to find an interpreter, it would strain the budget. He was cute, real cute. If her eyes weren’t so used to scanning for trouble, she wouldn’t have noticed that he had tracked mud all the way into the house, and behind him, the baby was covered from head to toe. This must have been cut together over the course of a few days.
Raphael, five. He ends up pulling a lot more than his weight around here, a lot more than he should, but there’s just so much I’m still learning to do from the wheelchair.
A darker boy than either of his parents, clearly not from the same father. Adopted maybe? The tanned-maybe-adopted-kid being made to do the housework? That didn’t look so good. He wasn’t a perfect angel, however. The next scenes were of him throwing an attention-getting tantrum of epic proportions.
And Greg, 16. Mine from a previous marriage. In the last six months, he’s been dragged home by the cops. It was all we could do to keep him from being brought to court.
The 16 year old was covered in piercings, his hair dyed black, which matched his clothes, his eye makeup, and probably his room, but it was impossible to get a real picture of him, because almost as soon as his father arrived in the room, he yelled at him to get out. The slammed door muffled something about personal space, and his father laughing, but Nanny Jo could hear the exhaustion and frustration in the voice.
Where the hell was this kid while the 5 year old was doing all the work?
Mac is a wonderful husband. We used to be the perfect team, consistent with the rules even when we were on opposite shifts. The kids knew how to behave. It worked. Somehow we made it work with four kids, me working nights, Mac working days, but since my accident it’s all gone to hell.
He’d emphasized his story with focusing the camera on their wedding photo on the table, the handsome, smiling men with their oldest boy as the ringbearer. No wheelchair in sight, happier times. Just when the family most needed to come together, it was falling apart.
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