FIC UPDATE.
So. In the past two weeks, I have:
POSTED Part 6 of my McShep Eighties AU.
WRITTEN Part 7 of above.
OUTLINED Parts 8 and 9 of above.
POSTED Number One With A Bullet, my completed Prison Break pre-prison incest-smut story.
BEGUN WRITING, in response to a comment on the above, a Lincoln sexual-history story,
When Lincoln Burrows was in seventh grade for the third time, his math teacher came up behind him at the chalkboard after school one day, mouthed the back of his neck and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been watching you, Lincoln.”
Lincoln doesn’t remember the man’s name, but he remembers everything else.
The way his left hand clenched on the eraser as the teacher unfastened his pants and touched him in places the nuns always used to say that nobody should be touching him.
The smell of the yellow chalk dust and the press of his cheek against the green slate as he was breached, eyes shut tight so that maybe, just maybe, he could pretend that this wasn’t happening to him.
The sound of the man panting behind him, ragged breaths interspersed with curses and promises, and the thick wetness oozing between Lincoln’s thighs after he was finally finished and withdrew.
He turned Lincoln around afterwards, covered his face with kisses, told Lincoln that he loved him and that he would always take care of him.
And then he said, “We’ll be a family, Lincoln - you and me, and your little brother, too,” and Lincoln doesn’t remember what happened after that except for the blood.
He does remember walking downstairs, very calmly, to the school nurse’s office, because he knew that she always stayed late on Fridays, and asking if he could get a Band-Aid because he thought he had cut himself.
And he remembers how her plump, pretty face stretched wide and ugly with shock for a moment before she controlled it and asked him how he had been hurt, and he had to tell her that he didn’t know, but that he thought maybe the math teacher was cut, too.
Lincoln remembers putting his fingers to his face and smelling chalk dust, and then bending over and throwing up all over her white nurse’s shoes and his own sneakers.
Dr. Hallenbeck, the intermediate school principal and also its guidance counselor, came in and kept asking Lincoln questions that he couldn’t answer. Lincoln had never liked him and didn’t feel any better about him now, especially since his breath smelled like whiskey.
The only reason Lincoln knew that the police were there was because he recognized Officer Layton, who lived down the street from Lincoln and Michael with his parents and brother and sister. But Reid was wearing jeans and a shirt with an alligator on it instead of his uniform, and he didn’t have Blitz the cop dog with him, so Lincoln thought it was okay if he called him by his first name and said so.
The memory is very clear, how Reid hunkered down in front of Lincoln, resting his hands on Lincoln’s knees and completely ignoring the puddle of vomit. “Hey there, Linc,” he said quietly, “you remember my older sister, Starr, right?”
At Lincoln’s nod, he smiled and continued, “She’s brought you some lemonade and she’s going to sit with you for awhile. That cool?”
Lincoln had always liked Starr, who smelled like flowers and never brought her boyfriends over when she babysat, unlike Suzanne or Heidi, so he nodded again.
BEGUN WRITING, GOD HELP ME, I WILL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS NO DOUBT,
It’s Dean Winchester’s considered opinion that the Sirens of Greek mythology *definitely* got a raw deal.
He’s perched on the edge of the motel bed, sharpening knives for Sammy to use against the latest monster they’re up against, some kind of critter that can die only by a blade, not a gun.
The knives are for Sam, because Dean has claws now, razor-sharp, mirrored talons like he’s another fucking Wolverine or something. They lengthen when he’s threatened, although he hasn’t been able to exert fully conscious control over them.
Dean also has the faint tattoo of scales down his spine and around his hips, a shimmer of color like he’s been dusted with makeup, aqua and mauve and gold, each scale outlined with jade, navy, or gray.
He has to cut his hair every morning. At first, he would hack it off every few hours with whatever blade came to hand, but by nightfall it would be down to his waist again, a smooth shining river of gold, curling just a little at the ends.
Sammy braids it for him now before they bed down for each night. It prevents tangles and keeps Dean from losing a little more of his sanity.
His eyes were always green, but now he looks in the mirror and sees the changeable hues of the sea . . . aquamarine, cyan, olivine and emerald.
The wings are a little more difficult to get used to, and Dean really can’t see any purpose for them. Sheer and ridiculously delicate, they fan between his shoulder blades like the trailing, decorative fins of some tropical fish.
They’re the same colors as his scales, only darker and more intense shades.
FINAL SCORE:
WIPS: 3
COMPLETES: 1
*facepalms*
Also, why isn't "manic" an icon mood? Huh? Huh?
POSTED Part 6 of my McShep Eighties AU.
WRITTEN Part 7 of above.
OUTLINED Parts 8 and 9 of above.
POSTED Number One With A Bullet, my completed Prison Break pre-prison incest-smut story.
BEGUN WRITING, in response to a comment on the above, a Lincoln sexual-history story,
When Lincoln Burrows was in seventh grade for the third time, his math teacher came up behind him at the chalkboard after school one day, mouthed the back of his neck and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been watching you, Lincoln.”
Lincoln doesn’t remember the man’s name, but he remembers everything else.
The way his left hand clenched on the eraser as the teacher unfastened his pants and touched him in places the nuns always used to say that nobody should be touching him.
The smell of the yellow chalk dust and the press of his cheek against the green slate as he was breached, eyes shut tight so that maybe, just maybe, he could pretend that this wasn’t happening to him.
The sound of the man panting behind him, ragged breaths interspersed with curses and promises, and the thick wetness oozing between Lincoln’s thighs after he was finally finished and withdrew.
He turned Lincoln around afterwards, covered his face with kisses, told Lincoln that he loved him and that he would always take care of him.
And then he said, “We’ll be a family, Lincoln - you and me, and your little brother, too,” and Lincoln doesn’t remember what happened after that except for the blood.
He does remember walking downstairs, very calmly, to the school nurse’s office, because he knew that she always stayed late on Fridays, and asking if he could get a Band-Aid because he thought he had cut himself.
And he remembers how her plump, pretty face stretched wide and ugly with shock for a moment before she controlled it and asked him how he had been hurt, and he had to tell her that he didn’t know, but that he thought maybe the math teacher was cut, too.
Lincoln remembers putting his fingers to his face and smelling chalk dust, and then bending over and throwing up all over her white nurse’s shoes and his own sneakers.
Dr. Hallenbeck, the intermediate school principal and also its guidance counselor, came in and kept asking Lincoln questions that he couldn’t answer. Lincoln had never liked him and didn’t feel any better about him now, especially since his breath smelled like whiskey.
The only reason Lincoln knew that the police were there was because he recognized Officer Layton, who lived down the street from Lincoln and Michael with his parents and brother and sister. But Reid was wearing jeans and a shirt with an alligator on it instead of his uniform, and he didn’t have Blitz the cop dog with him, so Lincoln thought it was okay if he called him by his first name and said so.
The memory is very clear, how Reid hunkered down in front of Lincoln, resting his hands on Lincoln’s knees and completely ignoring the puddle of vomit. “Hey there, Linc,” he said quietly, “you remember my older sister, Starr, right?”
At Lincoln’s nod, he smiled and continued, “She’s brought you some lemonade and she’s going to sit with you for awhile. That cool?”
Lincoln had always liked Starr, who smelled like flowers and never brought her boyfriends over when she babysat, unlike Suzanne or Heidi, so he nodded again.
BEGUN WRITING, GOD HELP ME, I WILL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS NO DOUBT,
It’s Dean Winchester’s considered opinion that the Sirens of Greek mythology *definitely* got a raw deal.
He’s perched on the edge of the motel bed, sharpening knives for Sammy to use against the latest monster they’re up against, some kind of critter that can die only by a blade, not a gun.
The knives are for Sam, because Dean has claws now, razor-sharp, mirrored talons like he’s another fucking Wolverine or something. They lengthen when he’s threatened, although he hasn’t been able to exert fully conscious control over them.
Dean also has the faint tattoo of scales down his spine and around his hips, a shimmer of color like he’s been dusted with makeup, aqua and mauve and gold, each scale outlined with jade, navy, or gray.
He has to cut his hair every morning. At first, he would hack it off every few hours with whatever blade came to hand, but by nightfall it would be down to his waist again, a smooth shining river of gold, curling just a little at the ends.
Sammy braids it for him now before they bed down for each night. It prevents tangles and keeps Dean from losing a little more of his sanity.
His eyes were always green, but now he looks in the mirror and sees the changeable hues of the sea . . . aquamarine, cyan, olivine and emerald.
The wings are a little more difficult to get used to, and Dean really can’t see any purpose for them. Sheer and ridiculously delicate, they fan between his shoulder blades like the trailing, decorative fins of some tropical fish.
They’re the same colors as his scales, only darker and more intense shades.
FINAL SCORE:
WIPS: 3
COMPLETES: 1
*facepalms*
Also, why isn't "manic" an icon mood? Huh? Huh?