Notes: I warn for violence, consent issues, and character death where applicable (you can view or skip warnings, as you choose.) Stories set in and around specific episodes should be understood to contain major spoilers for canon events within those episodes. Stories marked with an * were originally written under my previous pseudonym.
Major Fandoms: Stargate: Atlantis | OZ | Due
Keep Your Friends
Sheppard leaned against the console, expression thoughtful. "You've worked with Ladon Radim some, scientist to scientist. How smart is he?"
Rodney folded his arms across his chest as he considered the question. "Well, he's no me."
"There's only one you, Rodney," Sheppard said with what sounded like a fond laugh, and Rodney found himself fighting a flush all over again.
As he was being led away, Sheppard's eyes met Rodney's for a moment. He looked miserable, like a cat stuffed in a crate for a trip to the vet. Rodney started to open his mouth to say something, but shut it when he realized he was acting out of habit. He'd grown so used to being able to fix any problem Sheppard couldn't shoot his way out of, that his brain was already beginning to rev in preparation, fingers practically twitching for a keyboard.
But he couldn't fix this. So he just watched silently, feeling oddly helpless as the curtain closed.
Sheppard nodded, tipping his head back to take in the vaulted ceiling. “I suddenly feel like I haven’t done the reading.”
“Isn’t that your natural state?” Rodney snorted, circling around to the back of the lectern-like structure in the center of the dais where Lorne had reported finding the control panel.
“In this galaxy?” Sheppard raised an eyebrow. “Pretty much, yeah.”
General warning: OZ is a rough show about life inside a maximum security prison. Stuff happens. People who are triggered by violence, character death, and issues of consent might want to tread carefully here (and elsewhere in the fandom.)
Toby knew he was staring at the money, knew it probably wasn't
a good idea, but he couldn't seem to stop.
Good to Be King
Adebisi blocks the view with his body as O'Reily digs a fresh tit from his pocket. Adebisi watches him go through the ritual, tapping out a line on his closed fist, bending his head, closing his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. Adebisi always lets O'Reily go first. He's so thin, his metabolism so fast, Adebisi can watch the high filtering through his body. Watch his limbs loosening, mouth slackening into a hazy smile. He's pliant when he's high, playful, easy to touch.
As the Lights Go Out
There's a painting of one of the lady saints in St. Ignatius
where Abuela used to take Miguel as a kid. When Mass got boring,
Miguel would sneak out of their pew and wander around the side chapels
off the main sanctuary. He always stopped and looked at this painting
because the lady was pretty and she'd been burned alive or had her
One after-work beer had turned into seven. He hadn’t really intended to drink that much, but it seemed to happen pretty regularly these days. He hadn’t really intended to show up at Sean’s place after midnight, either. But that was the address he wound up slurring out to the cabbie after a long pause when asked, “where to?”
But waking in the sobering glare of Em City's flourescent daylight, with morning wood and unaccustomed aches in muscles he'd forgotten he had, left him feeling strangely vulnerable. And even though it had faded for the most part through a day of just being with Chris--playing chess, and speculating pointlessly on the state of the lockdown, and staring blankly into space--as evening approached and the promise of another encounter grew near, the uncertainty had crept back into his mind.
The Company You Keep
Obviously, the Muslims didn't have all the answers. Judging by Said's ouster, they were just as subject to bickering, jealousy, and politics as everyone else. But Said... Said had been willing to take a chance on him, even at the risk of angering the others. Sure he had his faults, but Said did believe in something. And maybe that was what Beecher wanted more than anything, what he hoped Said could teach him. The ability to believe in something again.
The kiss is unexpected, and you pull back, off-balance. Mondo's
eyes are closed, darting movement like REM-sleep flickering under
his lids. Fantasizing? Maybe he really is trying to pretend he's
with a woman. Which might be interesting, except that it's not.
You don't care about Mondo's pathology, only your own.
And there he waited, as always, with the sleeves of his dark blue prison work shirt rolled up and his forearms looped through the bars in a way that might have looked casual to anyone who wasn't finely tuned in to the tension that radiated from his body. That coiled tightness was always there in Chris now, it never dissipated.
So maybe it turns out that Lady Luck was really just some sweet
tranny bitch that owed him a favor, Jason Cramer thought, listening
to the clank and roll of the gate shutting behind him. Because suddenly
he was standing outside the walls of Oswald State Correctional
That was one of the coolest and most refreshing things about
Dobbins -- he didn't seem to feel the need to bluster through all
the bullshit macho posturing that would have gone on with most of
the guys in this place. It made Augustus feel strangely close to
him, right at the moment.
"I'm sorry." McManus could feel beads of perspiration begin
to prickle at his skin, and he suppressed an urge to wipe his upper
lip. "I am deeply sorry for your loss. You'll please let me know
if there's anything I can do?"
He tries to will the dream to bend the course of history —
fucking Annabella without the door busting open, without
the blue uniforms pouring in, without the... rest. But the two events
are inextricably connected in his mind. Sometimes he thinks it's
just another measure of the conspiracy to deny him even an ounce
The familiar prickle of awareness across his skin under the
weight of that penetrating gaze no longer felt unsettling. Well...
no, actually it still did, but Toby had come to welcome
the sensation -- a good kind of unsettling. He was feeling something
But then Toby flashes on an image of Ronnie, on his knees under
the stairwell, wiping a glistening smear of spit and Toby's come
from his chin with a backhand swipe as he looked up puppyishly,
waiting for counsel and... Yeah, Toby thinks sickly, all
things considered... maybe he was capable of just about
"Chris, cut it out. We're gonna get busted." But
Toby knew his voice lacked conviction. He couldn't seem to help
rocking his hips forward into that maddeningly good pressure, or
from breathing deep the heady scent of a physical workday on Chris's
Almost the moment he stepped past the front door, Toby felt
the oddly disquieting sensation of the universe expanding around
him, stretching off to infinite distances. He walked quickly to
the all night convenience store on the avenue, breathing deeply
with relief once safely inside. He wandered the aisles aimlessly
before finding himself staring into the bank of sliding glass-doored
drink refrigerators, two units of which were entirely devoted to
case upon case of frosty cool oblivion. Imported. Domestic. So easy.
The lack of touch is probably the cruelest punishment in this
place. Cut off from comfort, it seems sometimes like the only reminders
of humanity we get in Oz, the proof, is what pours out in pools
of blood. It makes me glad, in this respect at least, that Chris
has never been bothered much by rules. That he dares -- that he
dares me -- to steal what we want out of the night.
"Control. Discipline. Order. These are the foundations
of..." Vern's lecture voice trailed off as his eye was drawn,
distracted by the sight of Keller lounging back further into his
bunk and digging unselfconsciously at the waistband of his jeans.
He watched, involuntarily rapt, every movement of those strong-fingered
hands -- following their progress as they dipped below denim to
yank free the tucked-in hem of one of those too-small-by-a-size-now
t-shirts. Too small by at least a size, the knee-jerk proper
sector of Vern's brain clucked in correction.
| PG | File size: 7k | Posted: September, 2004
Only The Heart
My first "real" fandom. Also, my first attempts at fanfic writing—and that's all I'm gonna say about that. *g*
Game 1: The Switcheroo*
Benton Fraser is like an anvil dropping out of the sky in one
of those Warner Brothers cartoons. I studied Vecchio's case files
up, down, left and right, and there's still no way I would have
been prepared for him. Welsh, Huey, they tried, but I cannot believe
this guy is for real. The jacket, the hat, the sincerity, the
Game 2: Misdirection*
It's funny how things change. I used to think that first kiss
I laid on Stella when we were thirteen was pretty nervy, but it
seems kind of obvious now, a no-brainer next to this. And maybe
I really have lost my mind. Because even though I know I've only
caught him off guard and he's going to come to his senses any second,
kissing Fraser is… the most romantic fucking thing I've ever
done in my life. And no matter what the consequences, I just can't
feel sorry about that. So I let my weight sink against the arm of
the sofa, lean into the kiss, and the whole world fades into sweetness.
Shell Game 2.75:
Then he smiles and holds up a brown paper bag that smells like
dinner, and now my dick is just about strangling in my jeans. Because
we didn't talk on the phone today, didn't make any plans. But twelve
hours after he left here this morning, Benton Fraser is at my door
with Thai food and a shy smile, and I know I'm getting
laid again tonight.
Shell Game 3: The
The sound of his voice washes over me, and when I close my
eyes I can put pictures to his words. I see the boy from that photo
he got at Christmas, growing up beautiful and strange in those wild,
empty spaces. I can hear the ache creep into his voice when he talks
about his home, his family, and I wish there was more I could do
for him than this. Just then, Fraser turns his head to look at me,
and his eyes are filled with...something, that makes me
shiver and go hot. He smiles a little, softly, sadly, and he takes
my other hand and brings it to his chest. He presses his own hand
against mine, over his heart, like between the two of us maybe the
pressure can stop the bleeding.
Does A Body
Ray takes in the damp curl starting at his partner's temples,
the heated flush painting the sculpted ridge of those perfect cheekbones—and
not for the first time, he considers the tantalizing notion that
Fraser needs that uniform. Needs the starch and grooming,
the scratchy wool and straps as a constant reminder that he has
to act civilized—but if you could ever get beneath the surface...
These moments were happening more and more frequently. Moments
where time seemed to draw briefly still, held like a snapshot Fraser
could study and store carefully away in his memory. What was funny,
or perhaps ironic, was how the events triggering these small, conscious
flares would probably appear to be utterly mundane to most people.
In his life, however, they were rare, few, and jealously treasured.
And then he wished, with a longing that surprised him, that his
experience of happiness would not forever be so fleeting as a shared
joke and a pizza dinner. That it could last. That Ray might never
leave at all.
| R | File Size: 9k | Posted: December, 2007
Michael doesn't usually think of himself as shy, but he hesitates before asking, "Why me?"
Five Ways Omar
Remembers Brandon | NC-17 | File
Size: 9k | Posted: December, 2008
Brandon let out a whoop and scooped up the bag with the cash,
carrying it to Omar with a triumphant smile. He'd been pretty down
on himself after slipping up on the Barksdale job, but now after
two easy Eastside rips where everything went according to plan,
he was starting to get his confidence back.
Us: Four Moments in Time
| PG | File Size: 9k | Posted: December, 2006
"I'm just saying, it's time we started getting a little more Godfather, and a little less Scarface around here," Stringer says, hiding a smile.
"Don't even!" Avon half jumps out of his seat and jabs his finger toward Stringer's chest the same way he has since 1983 when this argument started. "You know Tony Montana was the shit."
"Montana was careless," Stringer corrects, jabbing back. "Michael Corleone? Fucking smart. That's how you do the gangster shit, right there."
Notes: Hard Core Logo is an amazing little Canadian indie film about the disastrous reunion tour of a fictional punk rock band.
New fucking York. The big time, their big shot. Big shot, right
-- Seymour Stein, head of Sire records sitting front and center
with a whole big-shot entourage of flunkies and notetakers and wannabes.
This was it, all right. Billy took a satisfied swig of beer and
peered out into the dimly lit club -- a sea of heads, loud already,
buzzing with anticipation. The first two nights here, their shows
had been nearly perfect; Billy couldn't remember them ever sounding
so tight. And now, for the last show, Seymour Stein, the guy who'd
signed The Ramones, was here to see them.