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18 May 2013 @ 07:28 pm

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09 September 2015 @ 08:17 am
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19 May 2013 @ 10:49 pm
AN: Written for the prompt "the world ended when 99% of the planet’s population just vanished” on LJ’s comment-fic community.

It was a joke, a comment thrown out during the existentially strange aftermath on the night Claire watched her brother—her last remaining relative—die of old age, surrounded by his family; she’d pretended to be a relation of herself in order to say goodbye at his bedside.

Drinking the equivalent of a liquor store had seemed like a really good idea at the time. Even when he’d shown up—as he always seemed to do, just when she was ready to throw it all in and shove a sharp object through the back of her head—and joined her, tried (again, as he always seemed to do) to get her into bed.

“I’ll make,” she’d said, her words slurring and her brain foggy, “you a deal.” And thank God she’d finally found the amount of alcohol that would allow her to get drunk, soften the edges of reality. “When the world ends.”

“When the world ends, Claire?”

“Come find me then.”

At the time, it had seemed laughable, impossible. The world ending? The world was a lot like her. Like him. But end it did. With no rhyme, no reason, no warning. She just woke up one morning, years and years later, to an empty city. She found some people, dotted throughout the country, holed up together, wondering what happened and looking desperately for messages from loved ones, words of comfort from a no-longer-existing government.

Standing on a balcony in an empty hotel overlooking the long, lonely stretch of highway, she contemplated flinging herself, head first, onto one of the pointed, wrought iron rails on the fence below her.

Then he was there.

“Hello, Claire.” His voice was in her ear, just as soft and beguiling as it had been the night she was left alone in the world; his fingers gripped her hip. “Don’t forget your promise.”
24 May 2012 @ 10:42 am
Title: A Taste of Life (1/1)
Characters/Pairing: Peter/Charley
Rating: M
Notes: Just a little, gratuitous scene between the boys sometime post-movie. I just needed to write something in fandom. This was the first thing finished.

Funerals make people want to fuck, he’d once heard.

As Peter shoves him against the bedroom wall, Charley thinks the same must be true for near death experiences. (Or near un-death experiences.) Being so close to death makes you crave a taste of life: a warm body, damp skin, the tang of sweat and come on your tongue.

Peter mouths over Charley’s pulse, sucks at the skin as if he could suck the heartbeat right into his mouth. (And maybe there’s a part of him that wants to.)

“Fuck, Peter.”

“That’s the idea, Charley,” Peter says. “A long…hard…fuck.” Peter curls his tongue around Charley’s ear, blows air along the sensitive skin.

Peter slips a thigh between Charley’s legs and pushes up until the boy’s bare toes are scraping for purchase. Not for the first time, Charley’s bemused at the amount of strength in Peter’s lanky frame, his domineering touch.

Peter gets like this when things go out of his control. The drunken insecurity is swapped for a hard-edged, often foul mouthed, bravado. You can see it with the way he deals with his manager, the orders he snaps at his stage crew when they blow a piece of the show. In the way he likes to fuck Charley when they’ve nearly lost one another.

This time, it was Charley who was nearly turned. Trapped underground, in a windowless room off the basement of what was once a buzzing hotel. Chained to the wall by steel manacles around his wrists as the vampire they’d been stalking knelt between his legs, tore through denim, bit into the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

The pierce of fangs and pull of blood left him reeling. For a moment, he wasn’t certain he’d ever see the sun again and then there was Peter all fire and sober rage, sending a bolt through the vampire’s neck and driving the blessed stake through its heart as it flailed like an injured, bloated tick.

And here Charley is now, watching the sun sinking toward the horizon as Peter licks a wet swathe across his neck and bites down on his shoulder.

The burn of pleasure shoots straight to his crotch and Peter is there to catch it, one hot hand cupping Charley through the fabric of his underwear. Charley’s not sure when his jeans went missing. But with a flick of Peter’s wrist, he watches the underwear receive the same treatment.

Peter’s mouth is like magic, warm and wet and pulling all of Charley’s focus to a single, bright pinpoint of pleasure that goes suddenly nova, turns the blackness behind Charley’s eyelids to white. With a gasp that’s half moan, half choked off scream, he comes into Peter’s mouth.

“Oh, you beautiful boy,” Peter rasps a moment later, leaning his forehead against Charley’s hip, long magician’s fingers stroking the bandaged wound on his thigh. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

27 January 2012 @ 11:01 pm
Previous Fic: Strange Elations

Stand out on the edge of the earth
Dive into the center of fate
Walk right in the sight of a gun
Look into the new future's face

“Edge of the Earth” – 30 Seconds to Mars

The woman's body lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. One of her hands curled loosely around the butt of a revolver. The other grasped at the ragged hole in the middle of her belly.

The sour tang of blood and cigarette smoke combined with the death room odor of urine and feces and flooded across the back of Faith's tongue, stung her eyes. She stumbled away from the body, crashing into a wooden armoire. Sinking to her haunches amid a shower of empty glass bottles, she covered her mouth with her hand and tried to swallow down the burn in her throat.

She shouldn’t be here. What the hell did she think she was doing here?

And then Moriarty’s voice, with its rolling accent, slid sinuously through her head, insidious as a brain tumor. Take care of Silver, get me my caps, and I’ll tell you where your da’s gone. Simple as that. And if you don’t? Well…it’s a mighty big Wasteland to be searchin’ through.

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Previous fic: Keep Calm and Carry On

And there’s a strange elation in your subtle assassination
I thought I saw a glimmer of hope,
I thought I saw a glimmer of hope

~ Lily Holbrook, “Better Left Unsaid”

Strange Elations

Gob was used to ridicule. Cruel names. Crueler stares.

After so many years, you either grew a thicker skin—there was a saying that never failed to amuse him—or you went off the deep end and took as many staring, epithet snarling Smoothskins with you as you could.

He’d like to think he’d “grown a thicker skin” over the last thirty years, able to stand whatever got his thrown his way. And then she walked into Moriarty’s.

Fresh out of the Vault she was. No doubt about it. Even if he hadn’t already seen one vault dweller today, and even if she hadn’t been wearing the jumpsuit, he’d have known it. Beneath the spatter of blood and the fresh wasteland dirt on her cheeks, she was pale and perfect, untouched by the harsh winds and the scorching sun.

Her hands, he saw as she laid them on the bar, were well cared for; fingernails smoothed and buffed, skin soft. And—just for a second, really, less than the space of his heart beat—he wondered what it’d be like to touch her.

When he finally met her eyes, the look she gave him struck something in the back of his throat and his “What do you want?” came out gruffer than he’d expected.

She blinked, opened her mouth and stuttered, “…look—looking for my father. Have you seen him?”

“Think he passed through here…,” he muttered. Of course, her father had definitely passed through; you didn’t randomly get two vaulties in one day.

“Where is he?”

Gob hauled another glass toward him, opened his mouth, closed it, and glared at a smudge on the side that looked an awful lot like Moriarty’s fist coming at him. “Look, kid. I’d like to help. Really. But Mr. Moriarty’s in charge around here. You need to talk to him. He’s in back taking care of some business.” He nodded at the tables in the front of the room. “You can wait.”

Nodding, she slid onto a bar stool. Stared at him.

“What’s the matter,” he said, setting the newly polished glass down, “ain’t you ever seen a Ghoul before?”

Of course she hasn’t, you idiot.

“A ghoul?” she frowned. “Is…that what you are? How did—“

“Radiation. Lots of it. And then time. All the time in the world for things to start falling apart.”

He dropped his rag on the bar, rested his elbows on top of it.

“Oh,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. She was looking closely now. Following the line of exposed muscle down his face and neck, over his arm.

That, he expected.

What he did not expect was for her to reach out and lay one of those fine, soft fingers on his wrist, at the edge of torn, tattered skin and smooth muscle. And he shuddered under her touch.

“Do—does it hurt?”

Ohh. And fuck him. She sounded genuinely concerned.

He swallowed. Opened eyes he didn’t remember closing.

“Just my pride.” Shifting uncomfortably, he moved closer to the bar to keep everything from the waist down out of sight.

Among other things.
04 November 2011 @ 01:21 pm
Collection: The Other Side of the Mirror
Title: "On the Sea"
Characters/Pairing: Alice, Tarrant
Songs: Crazy For You and Ray of Light – Madonna
Notes: Music Meme drabbles. These two came out linked.

Can't you feel the weight of my stare?
You're so close but still a world away

She’s come to know well the early hours of morning. Those dark hours where it seems you are the only person left in the world. On the sea. Hours that make you feel small, as if you’ve drank much too much Pishsalver.

Sleep has had trouble finding her, since her return from Underland nearly a year ago. She blames it on her never-still location, the incessant rocking of the ship that drives her from her bed to sit before the mirror affixed to her cabin wall, staring into it as if it might hold the answer to her sleepless nights.

And perhaps, she thinks, blinking as she watches the image unfold before her, the Hatter’s hands moving deftly over a bolt of blue silk—thimbled fingers carefully marking, measuring, cutting and stitching—it does.


She's got herself a universe gone quickly
For the call of thunder threatens everyone

They are not two evenings from the last port when the storm hits them.

She has never seen a storm such as this. It eclipses the moon, disappears the stars, makes the world go black.

The last thing she hears before the waves cover her head is a thundering crash, the unmistakable pistol-crack of breaking wood and the captain’s voice shouting over the din.

When she surfaces, the sea has swallowed everyone. And she is alone, floating on the back of what was once the captain’s cabin door, the rain beating down on her head, stinging her eyes. But that doesn’t matter, because she can’t see anyway.

All around her is dark. Dark swells. Dark clouds. Not even a flash of lightning to brighten the way.

Her fingers, chilled to the bone, lose their grip on the cabin door and she slips beneath the waves. The dark grows deeper. Her head feels strange, too big and too small all at once.

She opens her eyes; they blur and sting with the brine. But! There is something there. Just in front of her. A smear of a glow, like flame behind oily glass. And it’s coming closer.

She reaches out; her fingers brush smooth glass, find a wooden frame of worked roses and vines. The mirror from her cabin.

What fortune that she should just so happen to find it here in the depths of all things dark and ending. And she hopes it is not merely her mind playing tricks on her when her arm slips through the glass, up to her elbow, and warm fingers tangle around her own, gripping…grasping…tugging.
Series Shaking the Bough (Vignettes from the Capital Wasteland)
Title: "Keep Calm and Carry On"
Characters/Pairing: Lone Wanderer
Rating: PG to R-ish
Notes: The first in a series of vignettes chronicling the adventures of my LW and the goings on in the D.C. area.

Look around you find the ground
Is not so far from where you are
But don´t be too wise
For down below they never grow
They're always tired and charms are hired
From out of their eyes
Never surprise.
– Nick Drake, “Things Behind the Sun”

Keep Calm and Carry On

Faith imagined this was what the end of the world must have been like.

Hot stinging air rolled over her skin and light, brighter than anything she’d ever seen in the Vault, blotted out the world. Even when she closed her eyes at the pain, the white seared through her lids.

Stumbling, she brought one hand up to shade her closed eyes and smeared something thick and wet and warm across her temple. The smell of gun oil mingled with copper and salt, invaded her nose, settled on the back of her tongue and she gagged.

She was burning from the inside out, stomach twisting. Bile scorched her throat and she fell, hard, to her knees and vomited until dry heaves left her shaking and weak.

Sinking back on her heels, she wiped her mouth with her arm. Her skin was still hot but the light was no longer pulsing against her eyes and, slowly, she opened them.

A tear slipped down her face, followed by another. She sniffed, slapped them away. They were the after effects of light blindness. That was all.

They had nothing to do with the sight of this place stretched out before her. This ripped up and jagged landscape where spires of wood and steel rose out of the ground like strange growths; where small dust devils formed up and down a broken road, spinning half heartedly before dissipating.

This place with no sound.

No movement.

No trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow.


She might very well have sat there on her heels, staring out past the remnants of the pre-war world, waiting for something to happen—for the night to fall and bring out whatever creatures hunted in the dark; for the sun to scorch the flesh from her bones and leave nothing but a bleached skeleton—but for one thing.

Since the appearance of Amata’s face over her bed this morning, Faith’s mind had been flashing little snippets from her life. A lot like an old movie reel—her 10th birthday party, playing sick from Mr. Brotch’s class, fighting with Butch—and now, it froze on the broad face of Wally Mack.

Wally Mack who, several weeks ago had pinned her to the wall down near the Reactor Core. Who’d broken the zipper on her vault suit and shoved his hands down her pants and expected her to go along with. Not to scream. Not to fight.

If she had, that would have been it. She’d have been Mrs. Wally Mack just as soon as he’d gotten word out to his daddy and the Overseer.

And, Faith thought, Mrs. Wally Mack wouldn’t have woken up in the early hours of this morning to sirens and shouts and guards trying to kill her because her dad had some kind of fucked up idea to escape the vault.

Mrs. Wally Mack wouldn’t be in this situation.


But, Mrs. Wally Mack would wake up every morning to see that smug, snub nosed visage as he rolled on top of her to do his civic duty.

It had been that thought that had given her the courage to drag her nails down Wally’s face, to thrust out with the flat of her palm—just like Officer Gomez had shown her—when he jerked away from the pain. To drive her foot into his crotch while he cradled his broken nose.

And it’s those thoughts she uses to pull herself to her feet and move towards the sign advertising a “Scenic Overlook.”

The overlook is scenic. Spread before it is a world torn apart. Grizzled. Decayed.

But there’s something about it—from the skeletal structures of what looks like a burnt out town to that hulk of twisted metal rising in the distance—that makes her tingle, from head to toe, as if nuka cola was fizzing in her veins.

That’s a feeling she so rarely got in the Vault that she can identify the first and last time she felt it: when her dad finally let her sew sutures on Stanley (with the man’s permission, of course; he was always such a good sport…).

It’s the feeling of new opportunity.

And even the acidic shuddering of her stomach as she eyed the path she would walk, and the shaking of her hands as she loaded her only other magazine into the 10mm, couldn’t stamp down that feeling. Or prevent the surge of light headed excitement at the realization that she was fully free to seek it.

19 October 2011 @ 06:18 pm
Title/Song: "How Soon Is Now" (TaTu)
Author: ilcuoreardendo
Pairing/Characters: Sylar/Mohinder
Genre: Somewhere in Season 2

You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am a human and i need to be loved
Just like everybody else does

One of the things he loves about Mohinder is the man’s incessant surety.

“Do you honestly think this is going to work?” Mohinder spits from his chair. “That I would actually come to you? Willingly?”

“Willingly, Mohinder?” Sylar smiles and the feel of it stretching across his face is strange, as though he hasn’t done it in quite some time; a by-product of spending so much time under faces that are not his own. “Yes. I do think you’ll come to me willingly.”

He presses his fingertips to the mirror. And there appears the image of Molly, sweet Molly, reading alone in her bedroom and growing smaller, like a camera is moving out frame by frame…to the front of the house, the street, the neighborhood, and then the great mass of the continent that Mohinder had hoped would keep Molly hidden.

“Because the alternative?” Sylar says. “Is so much worse.”
Isa’s not far outside Nipton when the wind changes direction.

Her sunglasses and the scarf she’d bought off a trader back at the Outpost give her some protection from the glass-shard sands striking her skin. But the acrid smell of old rubber burning, the scorch of sulfur, and a rancid musk slip right through the thin cotton and settle on the back of her tongue.

Years ago, she’d traveled with her father on one of his many trips from their shop in McDermitt to New Reno. He usually overnighted in Love Lock to resupply and catch up on the trade-route news, but miles outside the town, they were stopped by an NCR blockade. The people in Love Lock had caught a deadly and highly contagious virus. The order was quarantine. And containment.

As her father ushered her to the detour road that wound up a small plateau, she’d caught sight of a masked soldier carrying a long, wrapped package that he tossed on a fire at the edge of town.

Her father’d gone grey in the face when she asked him about it. But then, as always, he was honest with her.

The thick, sickly-sweet stench of bodies on fire had followed Isa for the rest of the trip.

In 16 years, she still hasn't gotten the memory of burning human flesh out of her nose.

And that's what she smells now; faint and lingering like a bad dream.