Fic: "Shake it All," 1/1, VMars, Logan/Lamb, slash.
So, apparently when I'm knee-deep in multi-fandom squee with nothing to watch on television, I end up writing about Woegan Echolls. Yeah. I can't explain it, but, lo, here it is.
Title: "Shake it All" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, angst/dark!fic, implied sexual situations, slash, Logan/Lamb.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: What if the Hokey Pokey really *is* what it's all about?
There are still ink stains on the pads of his fingers. Black dye deep in the loops and whorls. "Damn! Ruined my manicure," he'd chirped at Sacks while he was being shoved through to get his headshot taken courtesy of Balboa County's fine Sheriff's department. Sacks hadn't known whether to laugh or not. So, he'd just nervously smoothed down his mustache and asked Logan to turn to the left. And the right. And to do the Hokey Pokey and turn himself around.
He's used to the dance.
They practically have a holding cell christened the Logan Echolls Luxury Drunk Tank. It has two cheap gray blankets instead of one and a bottle of generic blue mouthwash because they know he's probably thrown up at least twice between the patrol car and booking.
He swirls half the bottle around in his mouth, spitting into the metal commode in the corner. He rubs his fingertips against the hem of his t-shirt out of habit, not because it actually cleans them off. Nothing cleans him off anymore.
The lights in the narrow cellblock flicker. He smiles despite the pounding between his ears, despite the sand trapped between the soles of his bare feet and the Chucks they barely let him put on before they wrestled him into the back of the cruiser.
"If you want to see me, Echolls, all you have to do is call. No need to resort to cheap stunts."
"But I *like* public indecency," he sighs, leaning his forehead against the bars. The metal is cool, smells like skin and disinfectant and come. Whoever occupied the digs before him was a busy little boy. "It's just so freeing."
The keys jingle and Lamb barely smiles as he leans forward and tastes the ink on Logan's middle finger. Sucks it warm all the way up to the knuckle. "Bullshit, Echolls," he whispers. "You like it private."
The two blankets obscure the front of the cell passably well. And even if they didn't, the uniforms know better than to come down here. Don't ask, don't tell, don't even picture it because Brokeback fucking Mountain has nothing on their illustriously screwed up boss.
There are still ink stains on the pads of his fingers. Black dye deep in the loops and whorls. And that's all right. Because it's better than blood. Most days.
Lamb's hands dive under his shirt, undo his belt buckle, as they slam against the bunk, thoughtfully devoid of springs. Not so it won't creak but so nobody can emancipate one and turn it into a shiv. Because the Balboa County Sheriff's department gets so much of that…
"You're such a fucking punk…a spoiled, privileged punk…"
The words are hissed between his shoulder blades and repeated in barely-healed bite marks and bruises.
He gasps. He agrees. He always does.
Lamb turns him to the left. And the right.
They do the Hokey Pokey and turn themselves around.
He's used to the dance.
And that's what it's all about.
--end--
March 26, 2006
Title: "Shake it All" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, angst/dark!fic, implied sexual situations, slash, Logan/Lamb.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: What if the Hokey Pokey really *is* what it's all about?
There are still ink stains on the pads of his fingers. Black dye deep in the loops and whorls. "Damn! Ruined my manicure," he'd chirped at Sacks while he was being shoved through to get his headshot taken courtesy of Balboa County's fine Sheriff's department. Sacks hadn't known whether to laugh or not. So, he'd just nervously smoothed down his mustache and asked Logan to turn to the left. And the right. And to do the Hokey Pokey and turn himself around.
He's used to the dance.
They practically have a holding cell christened the Logan Echolls Luxury Drunk Tank. It has two cheap gray blankets instead of one and a bottle of generic blue mouthwash because they know he's probably thrown up at least twice between the patrol car and booking.
He swirls half the bottle around in his mouth, spitting into the metal commode in the corner. He rubs his fingertips against the hem of his t-shirt out of habit, not because it actually cleans them off. Nothing cleans him off anymore.
The lights in the narrow cellblock flicker. He smiles despite the pounding between his ears, despite the sand trapped between the soles of his bare feet and the Chucks they barely let him put on before they wrestled him into the back of the cruiser.
"If you want to see me, Echolls, all you have to do is call. No need to resort to cheap stunts."
"But I *like* public indecency," he sighs, leaning his forehead against the bars. The metal is cool, smells like skin and disinfectant and come. Whoever occupied the digs before him was a busy little boy. "It's just so freeing."
The keys jingle and Lamb barely smiles as he leans forward and tastes the ink on Logan's middle finger. Sucks it warm all the way up to the knuckle. "Bullshit, Echolls," he whispers. "You like it private."
The two blankets obscure the front of the cell passably well. And even if they didn't, the uniforms know better than to come down here. Don't ask, don't tell, don't even picture it because Brokeback fucking Mountain has nothing on their illustriously screwed up boss.
There are still ink stains on the pads of his fingers. Black dye deep in the loops and whorls. And that's all right. Because it's better than blood. Most days.
Lamb's hands dive under his shirt, undo his belt buckle, as they slam against the bunk, thoughtfully devoid of springs. Not so it won't creak but so nobody can emancipate one and turn it into a shiv. Because the Balboa County Sheriff's department gets so much of that…
"You're such a fucking punk…a spoiled, privileged punk…"
The words are hissed between his shoulder blades and repeated in barely-healed bite marks and bruises.
He gasps. He agrees. He always does.
Lamb turns him to the left. And the right.
They do the Hokey Pokey and turn themselves around.
He's used to the dance.
And that's what it's all about.
--end--
March 26, 2006