The wind rustles through the trees, and brings you to me.

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 06:34:34 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Elle's Garden (2/2)
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Elle/Eden
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: femslash, creepyness
Summary: Eden comes to tell Elle something, but doesn't get the chance.
Word Count: 336
Notes: Written for ladywilde80 :)

There's a knock at my door, but I'm too scared to open it. Then it gets louder, and it takes me a minute to realize the tapping's from outside my window. I steel myself and open it quick, but it isn't Candice standing there.

It's a beautiful woman with cropped hair and a kind face, standing in my garden; tapping on my windowpane.

"Elle," she says softly. I perk up my ears to make sure I don't miss anything important, just like Daddy taught me. "Elle, I have some bad news for you. Can I come in?"

I blink and ask her, "If you come in can your news be good instead?"

She laughs, but I can tell she's not being dismissive.

"I don't like bad news," I sigh, blowing bangs out of my eyes as I lean on my elbow on the window's ledge.

"I really think you want to let me in for this," she says, and something about her voice makes me want to do what she says. Is that her power, I wonder? But Daddy never told me about this one.

After a beat I nod and move to the door to let her in.

A little while later we're seated at the rickety chairs of my kitchen table, drinking black tea and eating strawberries from my garden. She doesn't seem to enjoy them too much.

"Did you come from my garden?" I ask intently, but it's a long time before she answers.

"And what garden is that?"

"The one you walked through to get here. You're like Eve from the bible-story, here with a forbidden tale."

The comparison startles her.

"What is your tale, Eve from my garden of Eden?" I smile placatingly, hoping to win her over. She suddenly looks very pained and she reaches out a hand for me.

I grab her wrist and brush my lips against hers, just like Candice did. But this feels nothing like that.

And the weirdest thing is, she doesn't even taste like strawberries.

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 00:02:25 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Elle's Garden (1/2)
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Candice/Elle
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: femslash, creepyness
Summary: a little Elle-perspective drabble I wrote for paynesgrey and for this week's prompt over at femslash100: garden. The sequel/end will be Eden/Elle (for ladywilde80).
Word Count: 289

Flowers; a thousand of them. They weren't there when I went to sleep, were they? A thousand roses, a thousand tulips, a thousand poppies and hydrangeas. I don't know much about flowers so I can't name many more. My favorites are the lilacs though because when I kneel before them and caress their violet petals, they crumple the prettiest. The one thing I need to give them is my one weakness, but they're pretty enough to be worth it, and so I water them once a day for a whole week.

Daddy still isn't back, but I'm not worried. I have my garden, and the flowers love me. Surely they must for the way they lean into my touch.

That's the day she comes. Candice, and my daddy's warned me about her. I don't let her come near me, but with a power like hers it's not really my choice. In a moment she has those delicate hands wrapped around my throat.

But I'm still not worried, you know. With a thought, electricity charges through my body and into hers. She should be dead, but she only smiles, leaning in to kiss me on the lips!

I've never been on a date.

"Did you make me this lovely garden?" I ask when she allows me the room to breathe. The question seems to disgust her even as she's removing my clothes. She uses the roses for our bed, and their thorns dig into me - I see them poke my skin; see the blood wash through the garden and the tulips drink the red fluid greedily.

But I can't feel it. And then Candice is gone. It's a shame too, just when I thought I had a new playmate.

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 21:43:50 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Orange & Skin
Fandom: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: Sarah/Cameron
Rating: PG & R
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: femslash, smut
Summary: Two Sarah/Cameron drabbles. One I wrote back in January for femslash100 and the other one I wrote today for the porn battle over at sinandmisery
Word Count: 238 & 226

Orange

---

"Hey, you," Sarah barks, hands in her pockets as the terminator turns her head mechanically. "Girly."

"Cameron" doesn't say a word because she only listens to John, and he's nowhere to be found. This John is so much weaker than hers, and she still can't believe this woman is his mother. The greatest fighter of all? Hardly.

But John must know what he's talking about. John always knows, unless... unless he's letting emotion cloud this. Why didn't she see that before?

She almost misses the critical moment; that vital movement out of the corner of her eye... and Sarah's arms are around her, tears sharp and bright in those eyes; John's eyes. Orange blood dull in the reflection of her irises, but all Cameron sees is hazel. Endless hazel.

“The best fighter,” she whispers, the urge to wind her arms around Sarah's waist startling even her.

“You're not... programmed for that,” this John's voice young and hesitant to her trained ear. She makes him nervous, and it's only logical she'd be inclined to like his mother. They were much more alike than fifteen-year-old John would ever admit. Ever. And the haze clears as quickly as its come, in a puff of smoke the same color as the stain on her blouse.

Warm, feeling lips touch hers and she has no choice but to respond, to soothe this dying woman who while so strong, is only human.

---

Skin

---

"So your skin is.."

"Merely cosmetic," the Terminator finished with well-practiced efficiency.

Sarah refused to believe it, refused to stop touching Cameron. Against all odds, her romantically-driven brain insisted if she pushed hard enough, Cameron's skin would yield to her touch. Terminators could learn; adapt; evolve. "But you can learn new things," Sarah reasoned, desperate as she pushed at Cameron's bra-strap, licking a line up her neck. "Why can't you learn this?"

"I can mimick feeling," Cameron answered, easily screwing her eyes into passion, gasping synthesized pleasure as her hands tangled in Sarah's hair. Abruptly, she stopped pretending, eyes going blank once more. "Is this not sufficient?"

"It is not. Not to me." Sarah tackled Cameron back onto the bed, surprising the Terminator in one single moment of victory. "I want you to feel me."

She grasped one synthetic breast, thumb flicking the nipple as she plundered Cameron's mouth. How could this robot be so warm; feel so real beneath her?

"Please," she pleaded with the Terminator, knowing Cameron would only pretend. But maybe it was enough for now.

Cameron opened her legs to Sarah, well-trained as she bucked against the woman's fingers inside her. She could feel pressure, but it was vague and far-off, and she had Sarah's lips to focus on after all. She wasn't programmed to handle all these sensations at once.

But she could learn.

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:26:59 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Mr. Gabriel Gray
Fandom: Nip/Tuck & Heroes
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: hintings of slash, dark themes, crossover
Summary: Sylar and Mohinder both want a change.
Word Count: 802
Notes: Written for Winner #1 of the 10 Words in June Challenge over at mylar_fic: nowhack for Quality Time.

Christian folded his hands, leaning towards Gabriel Gray on his elbows, expression perfectly schooled to reflect the utmost confidence.

"Mr. Gray," he asked slowly, plucking the man's file from what was usually designated Sean's side of the desk. "Tell me what it is you don't like about yourself."

"I don't want to be... ordinary anymore."

--

Sean stared at the dark-skinned man none-too-discreetly, intrigue plain on his face, if the characteristic eyebrow-crease were any indication.

"What don't you like about yourself, Dr. Suresh?"

Mohinder gestured toward his face, sighing even as brown eyes deepened with self-concern. "Isn't it obvious?"

--

"Alright," Christian said brightly, getting up to move around the desk with a professionally-pasted-on smile. "What can I do to make you special?"

A beat in which Gabriel said nothing. The hairs on the back of Christian's neck prickled as the silence stretched on.

"Lipo, just behind the thighs? A new nose? Higher cheekbones?" None of these seemed to satisfy Gabriel, wno near-startled Christian by pulling out a photo.

"I want to look like this," Gabriel said evenly, handing the picture over. Christian frowned as he studied the image, leaning back against the desktop and crossing his ankles.

"That's impossible, Mr. Gray."

--

Sean bristled, and then realized what Mohinder meant. The scar, just under his eye. He had missed it for all the staring he had done.

"The scar, you mean?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. At Mohinder's nod, he continued. "It's an easy-enough fix. We can use a graft from just about anywhere and patch it right up."

"This may seem an usual request, Dr. McNamara--"

"Please, call me Sean," he interrupted, a light smile playing over his lips. "And around here.. you'd be surprised what counts as unusual."

"That may be so," Mohinder agreed with a nod, his own smile shining through, "but I would like the entire region of the scar to be lifted. So that nothing of it remains."

--

Lightning quick, Sylar grabbed Dr. Troy by the throat.

"Is your life valuable, Doctor?" he hissed in the man's ear, tightening his grip though allowing him enough oxygen to breathe.

"I like to think so," Christian answered, eyes wide as he realized himself to be completely paralyzed from the neck down. "Liz!"

Usually relishing in the screams of his victims, Sylar winced as his super-hearing picked up the unearthly sound. And here he had thought the doctor to have a talent relating to his field.

"Oh well," he thought aloud, making the first incision.

--

Hearing the scream, Sean wrote it off as Christian's usual temper. Liz could take care of herself.

"That shouldn't be a problem, Dr. Suresh--"

"Mohinder," the scientist said with an amused smirk. Nodding, Sean pulled out a legal pad and his glasses and began jotting down things in his doctor's scrawl of a shorthand.

"You can choose not to answer me if you like, but, if I may ask, why is it important the scar tissue be completely removed?"

"It's a permanent reminder," Mohinder choked out, voice uncharacteristically quiet with emotion. "Even if no one else can see it, I'll feel it, within me." The 'forever' went unspoken.

--

Idly wondering how he was going to manage a banshee wail and supersensitive hearing at once, Sylar shrugged, closing the door behind himself calmly as he made his way to the other end of the hall. A brunette approached at some speed, nearly colliding with his chest.

"Sorry," she said, out-of-breath. "Were you the one in with Dr. Troy?" At his nod, Liz went on. "Do you know what he wanted?"

"It's been taken care of."

--

"Well, hi, Mohinder. What a pleasant surprise," Sylar said with mirth, smug as could be as he flung the door open and swaggered in.

"I'm sorry, sir," Sean said, pulling off his glasses and standing up. "This is a closed meeting."

"I know," Sylar growled with a toothy grin. The door closed and latched behind him of its own accord.

--

Mohinder sat on the floor of the office, covered in Sean's blood; his own bruises, Sylar's words still echoing through his head.

"No one touches what's mine."

A photograph fluttered down within his sight, also caked in blood. Whose, he couldn't be sure, but the picture was of a man he had never seen before. Blonde, broad; adorably nervous, and he was wearing that too-familiar Ramones t-shirt Sylar had worn when pretending to be--

"Zane," Mohinder muttered, picking up the photo with shaking hands as a man-in-uniform barged in, breaking the lock.

"LAPD, Officer Parkman, hands where I can see 'em--"

"Fuck," they both said in tandem, Matt clicking the safety back on and tucking the gun away.

"Who's Zane Taylor?" Matt asked, leading Mohinder away from the crime scenes.

"An old friend," Mohinder answered with a forced smile, shoving the bloody photo into his jeans before he could think about it.

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 02:30:29 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Count the days
Fandom: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Pairing: Harry/Perry
Rating: sadly PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, angst, fluff, wtf random
Summary: Harry has a problem, and he needs a push to fix it.
Word Count: 927
Notes: I was having a really crappy day, and a plot bunny took me for a ride.

Perry didn't like Harry much, if truth be told. He was useful enough when sober, but that wasn't nearly enough of the time to be cost-effective. In fact, nothing about Harry was cost-effective. Perry couldn't keep liquor in the house and after a few months of not being able to hide a Shiraz without it going astray he gave up. Now, Perry didn't easily capitulate. He tried hiding his wine in the closet (too stereotypical), the freezer (it broke the bottles), and even under the couch in a vain last-ditch attempt to keep it from the alcoholic. But when Harry would pass out a near-nightly basis he would inevitably wake up at 3 AM, chug his precious Shiraz, and pass right the fuck back out. So 96 days and 13 hours after Harry moved in, Perry switched to sparkling. Emptied his house of alcoholic anything, including vanilla extract.

No conversations were had, but after about a week (8 days and 2 hours) Harry started bringing his own liquor into the house. Perry began pouring the bottles down the garbage disposal if there was any left after he found Harry unconscious on or near the couch. Harry never said anything about it in the morning, but there was no way he didn't know. After one particularly nasty trip to the bar, Harry tripped in the door with Harmony's aid, and fell over the sofa. Perry wanted to talk to Harmony about it, but by the time he could sprint down the stairs, the sprightly girl was gone. For a dream-girl, she was awfully ellusive.

With a sigh, Perry plunked down in the chair opposite his couch and waited. He knew this game all too well. And all that ran through his head, everytime this happened, was how Harry managed this himself living in New York alone. Like clockwork, Harry's eyes opened, and Perry hoisted him to the bathroom where the man prompty emptied his stomach and then his bladder. Perry winced, like he always did, but helped Harry to brush his teeth and led him up to his room. Before he could fall back asleep, Perry managed to get Harry to keep half a bottle of water down.

And every morning, Perry vowed to enroll Harry in a program. Told himself they would talk, but these night activities never reached the light of day. Sure, the hangovers carried over into every work-day, and Perry would gripe and poke fun, but he couldn't bring himself to make the simple words cross his lips:

"Harry, I think you have a problem." 128 days, 18 hours, and 9 and a half minutes after Harry moved in, Perry managed to say it. Time froze then, refusing to move. Perry noted his pulse rate quickening, 102 beats per minute and counting, as if his heart could make the moment pass.

Then, like a storm, everything happened lightning-quick.

"Fuck you!" Hurt flashed over Harry's face, immediately darkening to anger.

And 128 days, 18 hours, 11 minutes and 13 seconds after Harry moved in, he left. Walked out the door and said Harmony would take him in -- she didn't judge him like certain uptight asshole faggots.

--

Too many days after that (Perry couldn't bring himself to count anymore), Harry hadn't called; hadn't come back for his things even. Carefully checking his pride, Perry dialled Harmony's cell.

"Perry! Gay Perry, how's it goin'?" Drunk and it wasn't even 9. Perry selfishly hoped Harry was with her.

"Do you know where Harry is?" His voice sounded small, even to him.

"What, can't keep your kept boy?" A string of giggles, and Perry was wincing.

"He left here a few days ago, said he was staying with you."

Harmony thought that was hilarious, and Perry hung up before he could become violently ill.

--

What use was a detective if he couldn't find one good-for-nothing alcoholic among all the other hundreds of thousands West Hollywood had to offer?

No use.

There was a knock at his door, and Perry's heart nearly leapt out of his throat as he made his way to the portal on shaking legs. Harry nearly fell on him, and Perry noted with no little surprise that the other man wasn't drunk. Perry felt strong arms envelop him, and he had to notice how skinny Harry was; how cold.

"Let go of me and get warm," Perry barked, practically shoving Harry towards the couch as the door slammed behind them. He started making his morning coffee several hours early, tricking the clock so he didn't have to reset the damn thing. He could swear Mr. Coffee had it out for him... if that weren't a completely retarded notion. Shaking his head to himself, Perry flung open the hall closet and gathered up as many blankets as he could carry, dumping them on Harry's shivering frame.

Harry grabbed Perry's arm -- gloves with the fingers cut off cushioning the solid grip. Perry turned wide eyes on him, but Harry didn't offer any explanation, just looked at him.

"I'm going to get you some coffee, moron." Seeming to think this was reasonable, Harry let Perry go. When Perry returned with the hot beverage, he sat on the couch by Harry's head, pressing the warm mug into gloved fingers. With a small, touched smile, Harry pushed a small circular object into Perry's hand.

It was a 30-day chip, from Alcoholics Anonymous.

And so 158 days and some time after Harry moved in, he moved in again, falling asleep in Perry's lap with the older man stroking his hair.

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 13:52:15 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Have you solved the case?
Fandom: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang/Psych
Pairing: Harry/Perry
Rating: NC-17 to be safe
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, general weirdness, crossover of crack, some angst & death, and y'know, sex.
Summary: Two cases are one case, just like in those fucking Johnny Gossamer novels.
Word Count: 4, 292
Notes: Written for the 30 days of fic challenge at kkissbbang for the prompt "Perry's Hometown." Halfway betaed by psychicfridge ;)

"I got us a case," Harry quips just as Perry's walking in.

"What are you talking about, moron? We already have a case."

"This is way better than some case of mistaken identity rape vs. consensual adultery case."

What? "Harry, we're not on any cases like that. The Hollywood PD wants us to check out who stole the entire set to the new X-Files movie. What the fuck are you talking about?" Harry shrugs, smiling as if Perry might let it go even though they both know there's no chance.

"Case closed - it was me." Perry glares, crossing his arms across his chest as he waits for Harry to tell him what the fuck he's signed them up for. "I got us a murder case. A big one."

Okay, Perry hadn't been expecting that.

"Come on, big guy. Aren't you going to tell me how good I done?" Another glare. "Right. It's in Santa Barbara, they want us there by tomorrow."

Perry all but crumples into his chair, paler than Harry's ever seen him.

"What? What is it? What am I missing?"

"You done good, moron."

--

The brief car trip from Hollywood to Santa Barbara should have been a snap, but as usual Harry had made it insufferable.

"Can I drive to the hotel?"

"Hell no, nine fingers." Harry grumbles a bit, but eventually clambers into the passenger side of the Hyundai Accent.

"This is a very gay car."

"Harry, we're going to play the silent game."

"What are we, in middle school?"

"As long as you stay quiet," Perry snaps, fixing Harry with a heated look, "so does the faggot gun."

Harry doesn't say anything else. Least, not until Perry's blown by the fifth hotel on the stretch.

"You know somethin' I don't know?" Harry raises his eyebrow, and is it just him or is Perry real off lately?

"Yeah, I do." The serious tone shuts Harry up again.

And then Perry's pulling into a driveway, presumably to turn around, but he shuts off the car so that can't be right. The detective heaves a sigh, grabbing his duffel out of the back.

"Come on then." Harry blinks, but grabs his stuff and follows Perry to the door.

"Perry!" An older lady flings open the front door in her nightgown, tears stinging in her eyes. Perry gives it up and steps into her arms. "It's been 30 years."

"29," he says matter-of-factly like the asshole he is, stepping by her and motioning Harry inside. Harry, who's still confused and standing on the doorstep.

"Come on in," the woman says cheerily. "Any friend of Perry's is welcome here."

"Perry, did she just wink at me?" Harry hisses under his breath in Perry's ear as he finally gains the presence of mind to enter the house. Perry just rolls his eyes, pinching Harry's arm. "Ow!"

"Mother, this is Harry, my partner."

It's almost immediately apparent just what kind of partner Mrs. Van Shrike believes Harry to be.

"As in, business partner." And Harry saves the day.

"Mind if we stay here for a little while? I have a case in town and..." His mother shushes him, and he feels about twelve. It's a surprisingly mortifying experience in front of one Harry Lockhart.

"I just wish you were staying longer."

"Mom, I'm sorry," he begins, but is promptly cut off once more.

"Off to bed with you boys," she orders light-heartedly, taking Harry's bag as she leads the way to the guest bedroom. "I only have one bed, hope that won't be a problem." And then she's gone.

"I can take the couch if you want."

And Perry actually finds that kind of funny, given their situation.

--

Perry wakes with Harry's face on his arm, his sleeve near soaked through with drool. Shifting disgustedly in a futile attempt to get away, he realizes that yes, that is in fact Harry's boner pressing insistently against his thigh as the owner of said boner dreams on.

“Harry,” he tries, to no avail. “Harry.” He rolls over and starts shaking him angrily.

“Wha?”

“Harry, you need to wake up.” Perry hopes like Hell the desperation in his voice isn't leaking through enough for Harry to notice.

At long fucking last, Harry comes into fully conscious awareness. He's confused as all Hell, but he's awake and that's what matters.

“Listen, moron, I want you to go take care of that.” He punctuates with a lewd gesture. “And then come back to bed.”

Did he just say that he wants Harry to come back to bed? He tries not to analyze it as said problem does as he's told.

They've slept in the same bed before; it isn't that weird. Harry usually gets hard, but Perry knows better than to take it personally. Life moves on. So why does it bother him so much now? That, he shouldn't need to analyze. That, should be pretty darn obvious. Because he's in his mother's house, in a room he hasn't seen since he was fifteen.

And then Harry's coming back and he's got no more time to think about it, so he just scrunches up on his side of the bed and pretends it's nothing.

--

The second time he wakes it's to Harry's hand on his shoulder as he stands over the bed, fully dressed.

“Alright, sleeping queen, we have to go to the police station now.” Perry nods, managing to get on some clothes before making his way to the kitchen. His mom makes him an English muffin with peanut butter. He hates peanut butter, but he doesn't say anything about it – just takes it with him and gives it to Harry once they're in the car.

“You're not ever going to let me drive this thing, are you?” Harry asks around a mouthful of peanut butter.

“You called it gay. Its feelings are hurt.”

“It's your car, of course it's gay. What is it, closeted?”

“Yes.”

--

When they arrive, the force is in a panic. Their chief is dead and Perry can't believe Harry got them such a high-profile case.

“Who are you?” what looks to be the lead detective demands. He's distressed, but Perry can tell he's an asshole anyway. His partner, the pretty blonde, elbows him.

“Carlton,” she hisses, turning to Perry with a bright smile. “Detective Juliet O'Hara. This is my partner Carlton Lassiter. You've caught us at... a bad time.” The smile melts away.

“Detective Perry Van Shrike,” Perry counters, shaking her hand gingerly. “This is my partner Harry Lockhart. Our condolences.”

Harry nods in silent agreement, shaking her hand as well.

And then the worst thing in the world happens. At least, Perry doesn't think anything worse could have ever happened.

Shawn Spencer strolls in like he owns the place, the ever-present Burton Guster in tow, and it's high school again.

“Spencer,” Lassiter growls, overlapping Perry's exclamation. Harry could laugh they're so similar, but somehow he knows now isn't the time.

“Perry, you came. I saw this in a vision.” The idiot is clutching his forehead – so he's what, a psychic now?

“Is this moron who you talked to?” he asks Harry, voice a little too high.

“I think so,” Harry answers softly, wondering if this is when he dies.

“Welcome back to Santa Barbara,” Shawn says cheerily, smacking Gus' arm.

“I'm not welcoming him back, Shawn. This guy made our lives miserable all through middle school.”

“It's what he does best,” Harry agrees with a lopsided smile.

“What, in all that is fake and psychic, is going on here?”

“Calm down, Lassie. I called in Perry on the Van Shrike case. Dick Van Shrike was his dad.” Shawn seems pleased with himself, as always. Perry can barely contain the urge to hit him; it's just like old times.

“Shawn,” the little blonde one says – Perry's already forgotten her name. “Shawn, Chief Vick is dead.”

“We're putting the Van Shrike case on hold,” Lassiter adds.

“It's been on good 30 years, what's another week?” Perry snarks, grabbing Harry by the arm. “I think we're done here.”

“We could really use your help.” Juliet, that's her name. And of course Harry's shrugging him off because he wants to fuck her... God, this trip is a bigger disaster than he ever could have imagined.

“I was called in to solve the case of my own murdered father, cold for 30 years, and you want me to help you find the police chief's killer? My dad was the police chief here, you know.” Ungrateful bastards.

“Your dad was...” Something slides into place for Harry then, and he suddenly feels like he knows a little bit more about Perry.

“Please, detective?” Damn she is cute. Perry sighs, then nods. Harry's already giving her the eye.

“We'll do it.”

--

Harry isn't used to comforting Perry. And Perry knows that because he isn't used to being comforted. He isn't some chick Harry wants to bang and he does nothing to earn compassion besides. Those four fingers on his shoulder, and he feels like he's being mocked.

“It's not a big deal, idiot.” He knows he isn't very convincing, but he shrugs Harry off anyway. “Don't touch me.”

“Not a big deal, Perry? Your brother's DNA was all over that fucking crime scene. Your dead brother.”

“He's not dead.” It's barely a whisper, but he knows Harry's heard him. Suicidal as ever, the other man sits on the bed next to him, careful not to touch.

“Take me back.” And Perry nods, just like that.

“It was right after my dad's birthday, there was a big get-together at the station. He took me with him, but Richie stayed behind. He was in his 20s and had worked himself around at lest three felonies and back.” Perry takes a breath, head in hands. And there's that hand on his shoulder again. He leaves it where it is this time. “The next night, Dad didn't come home.”

Harry tries to interject, but Perry places his hand over his lips. He knows if he doesn't get this out now he never will.

“Richie came to me, for help. I was fifteen, but I did better than the motherfucking Witness Protection Program. I gave him a new identity and faked his death. And then I left Santa Barbara forever.”

“I think I understand,” Harry murmurs against his palm, and Perry jerks away as if he's been burned.

That's why I don't like it when you steal, Perry thinks loud enough for both of them to hear. And now they're moving closer, and neither one of them is sure who initiated it, but their lips are mere breadths apart and Perry can't breathe. There's a moment where he's sure this is what he wants, but as soon as Harry's lips brush his they're pulling away again. Only this time, Harry pulls him into his arms.

“Hey now, you're alright, cowboy.”

“I would have been if it weren't for you.” Though his words are harsh, his fingers play in the dark hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in months, but it smells divine.

“I know,” Harry whispers, kissing Perry's forehead. “But hey, maybe this happened for a reason.”

And Perry hates it when Harry gets like this, but he lets it go. He hasn't eaten anything all day and if he doesn't get fed soon he's going to keel over. So he makes his mother and Harry spaghetti and meat balls and they stay up all night playing Trivial Pursuit.

--

It's only a matter of time before they run Richie's fingerprints through the system and they come up all over the Van Shrike case.

Shawn slams into a wall, moans about a crime of passion and sadly interacts with Chief Vick herself.

“You're a real asshole, you know that, Spencer?” Perry can't stay quiet anymore. “This woman was your friend - this is just in bad taste.”

“You mean Shawn is wrong?” Perry notices how Harry's gaze doesn't even raise from his shoes when Juliet speaks today.

“This wasn't a crime of passion,” Lassiter agrees. “This was an execution.”

Shawn just blinks, no new scheme up his sleeve.

“Just because Richie killed Perry's dad doesn't mean he killed your chief,” Harry insists, eyes wide. Perry tries to shush him discreetly, but goes for distraction instead.

“Even I have to admit the evidence against him is fierce. Richie and Karen were lovers after all, and this was secret, yeah? None of you knew about him?” Perry already knows the answer as he swallows deeply. He doesn't think Richie did it, but what difference does it make if he serves one life sentence or two? Besides, he hasn't seen his brother in 29 years. Who's he to say he's not a killer?

Detective O'Hara shakes her head, and there it is. His brother's risked everything to kill again. Perry feels betrayed, like he gave the man a new life only to have it thrown back in his face. It's not a good feeling.

“You're under arrest,” Lassiter says softly, slapping the cuffs on Perry. Perry, who doesn't have the presence of mind to look surprised.

“For what?” Harry demands, breath held.

“Aiding and abetting,” Perry answers with a small smile as they lead him away.

--

The last person Perry expects to walk into his interrogation room is Henry Spencer.

“It's been, what? 30 years?”

“29,” Perry agrees, jingling his handcuffs idly.

“Well, this explains why no one's seen you; why your mother keeps to herself.” Perry looks up at Henry, startled. His mother...?

“My mom doesn't know what we did.”

“What did you do, Perry?”

“Do I at least get a lawyer?”

“Do you need one?” Henry counters, breathing hard. They both know Shawn's behind that glass.

“Why are you the one questioning me? Have to show the boy you still got it?”

Henry frowns, but they don't get anything else out of Perry. He doesn't know where his brother is, but no one believes him. No one except Harry.

--

Perry's fallen asleep at the table when Harry walks in. When he wakes up, Harry's hand is on his shoulder and Richie's sitting across from him, looking nervous.

“They said they'd let you go if I brought him in,” Harry says softly, the apology clear in his voice.

Jesus, Harry always fucks up everything.

“Hey, Rich.” His older brother reaches across the table, grabbing his wrist. Perry's expression is weary, but he waits for the inevitable in silence, careful to not meet Harry's eyes.

“You picked a good one, Perry.”

Harry doesn't bother to correct the other man, and Perry is more shaken by that than anything else.

“We're not...”

“It's okay. When I saw you had someone... I had to come in. I just lost her; I lost Karen.” The grip tightens as he forces Perry to look at him, to listen. “I didn't kill her.”

“I believe you,” Perry says, and he means it as his shaking hand drops from his brother's grip.

“I'm going to, uh, leave.” And Harry's gone, leaving the brothers to catch up.

“Are you two really not --”

“We're not together.” Perry nods, and he can tell Richie's surprised.

“Why not?” As far as Richie's concerned, his brother has always been too uptight. “You need to put yourself out there – he cares about you.”

“Shut up,” Perry snaps. He can't hear this anymore. It's not because Harry's straight or a felon or.. really any of it. He just doesn't fucking want to hear it.

“I want you to find out who killed her. I want her to find justice.”

What other choice does Perry have? When they release him, he goes to find Shawn.

--

“I knew you'd come,” the idiot murmurs, the office bathed in darkness.

“Does that glass really say 'Psych'? As in, 'gotcha'?” Perry's lips twitch in the mockery of amusement. Shawn Spencer had always been the biggest idiot he had ever met, and Harry was included in that statistic.

“You need my help.” Perry claps dramatically, rolling his eyes.

“The spirits tell you that?”

“Yes,” Shawn says simply, standing as the light behind him comes on.

“Do you know who killed Chief Karen Vick?” Shawn nods, gesturing towards Perry's chest as he makes his way closer.

“And so do you,” he whispers, placing a careful hand over Perry's heart.

Shawn doesn't sense the blow before Perry's knocked him to the floor. Shawn wipes a stripe of blood from his chin, grinning moronically.

“You know the answer, Perry!”

The door to Psych, fake detective agency, slams, and Perry makes his way home in silence.

Home. It hasn't been home in so long.

--

He knocks on the doorframe, and Harry whirls around, a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth as nine fingers fly over the keys of Perry's laptop. Harry doesn't ask where he's been, doesn't make a big deal over what he's seen today. He just offers a soft smile and turns back around – intent on his work.

“Stop.” It takes a moment, but the fingers freeze and he turns around again, only a corner of toast left.

Perry shuts the door, and they stay that way for a long time. Toast halfway eaten – coat halfway removed.

“I solved the case.” The coat drops at the same moment as the toast, and Harry's up and across the room. It's Perry who wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders this time. Harry stiffens, but then winds his hands around Perry's waist. And when their lips meet, it isn't forced or hesitant.

“I knew you would.” Perry's pushing Harry back towards the bed, and there's fear there, but Harry never pushes away. Perry tangles his hand in that choppy hair as his body settles on Harry's, and they both let out a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding.

“What the fuck, Harry? How did this happen to us?”

“Fag and New Yorker,” Harry says easily, leaning up for another kiss. “This was us from the start.”

Socks and shoes hit the floor first, and Perry laughs as Harry fights with his zipper, reaching a hand across the other man's hip to help. Harry jolts from the sudden touch, but Perry holds him still enough to remove his pants properly. Then those shaky hands are on Perry's chest, unbuttoning his shirt.

“This doesn't make me Gay Harry, right?” Perry smacks him, shaking his head as Harry's tanktop flutters to the floor; Perry's pants come tumbling after.

“Shut up, will you?” Before Harry can answer and ruin everything, Perry's tugging at the edge of the other man's boxers and his fingers slide along the length.

Harry nods, the perfect picture of compliance.

Leaning down, though their eyes never break their connection, Perry wraps his lips around Harry's cock, smiling as the man attempts to buck into his mouth. But Perry knows better, and he's got Harry's hips in a firm grip. Running his tongue along the underside, he loves how easy Harry is to undo and sets about bringing him off any way he can.

“Perry, I'm gonna--” Those hands settle heavily on his shoulders again, digging into flesh.

Instead of pulling back, Perry throws all he has into it, groaning around that impossibly hard column until he tastes the beginnings of cum in his mouth.

“Perry, that was.” Perry shuts him up with a kiss, making sure Harry can taste himself on his tongue. It's sadistic in a way, but he wants him to know exactly what he's doing. And with a man. Then the lube comes out, and Harry really freezes.

“Shh,” Perry comforts, turning Harry over on his stomach.

“I'd rather...” Perry almost feels bad for not letting Harry finish a sentence... though not really.

“It'll be better this way,” he insists, smoothing an ample amount of gel over Harry's backside. “Relax.” He slaps Harry's ass, one finger slipping inside, under the radar. He waits for Harry to react, but he doesn't; doesn't even breathe. So another finger joins the first and his hand begins to move. Harry is so tight and so, so quiet. It's almost eerie.

Perry leans over to capture Harry's lips over his shoulder, forcing his fingers deep inside. Harry lets out a strangled noise against his tongue and he swallows it up greedily, a third finger managing to sneak its way in.

“You need to breathe,” Perry points out, slathering lube on his own cock in hopes that this could actually be good for Harry.

“It's kind of hard with your tongue down my throat,” Harry whines, and Perry laughs into his mouth, shifting his fingers against that spot inside the other man. Harry cries out, letting go in a way Perry's never seen. And they both know its time.

Perry doesn't lay out rose petals, and he doesn't ask if Harry's okay, comfortable, or ready. He just kisses him and pushes slowly in, feeling as if this should have been happening all along.

--

“You never told me how you solved the case.” Harry's voice in his ear is the first thing he hears the next morning. He doesn't like being held, and it's the only thing he can think as Harry's arms tighten across his chest.

“You're gay for me,” Perry says without missing a beat, moving Harry's hand so he can brush silt out of his eyes.

“The other case,” Harry prompts, pinching Perry's side.

“Get dressed,” Perry says instead, standing to follow his own advice. “We have a psychic vision to catch.”

“Can I drive?”

“If by drive you mean, 'can I ride strapped to the roof?' then absolutely.”

--

Harry opens the door for Mrs. Van Shrike and she smiles up at him, accepting his hand in help.

“You ready, Mom?” Perry asks, holding out his elbow to her. She takes it graciously and nods.

As they enter the station, Shawn pauses mid-vision to welcome them in.

“Richie Van Shrike didn't kill the Chief,” the psychic announces, hazel eyes narrowing as they find Lassiter. “But Barrett Van Shrike did.”

Juliet gasps, and even Harry looks surprised.

“The only question left is why.” Barrett opens her mouth to say something, defend herself; anything, but Shawn doesn't let her. “Don't tell me. You did it to... protect your son! You knew Vick was the police chief and it was only a matter of time before Richie's true identity was exposed. And you knew the moment his DNA was in the system.. that was it, he was going away for life.”

Perry nods at his mother as Lassiter comes over to make the arrest.

“You should have told me you knew,” Perry says as she disappears behind the partition. That was it, the last of his family, gone forever. Maybe he'll come to visit now he knows they'll stay put.

--

I'm taking over to wrap this up. Perry refused to narrate and said I did a better job anyway.. I'm so fucking easy. If he compliments me on even the tiniest thing I swear to God he could get me to do anything. Like the other night, he promises me a blowjob, and then we get back to bed and he's all 'You know, Harry. I just love the look of your lips wrapped around my cock' and I buckled. I always buckle, that's just who I am. So anyway, he tells me to wrap this story up and I guess I have to because even though I'm a terrible narrator he's convinced me he can't do any better.

So his mother and his brother got a life-sentence each, but the guy takes it pretty well. Then again he takes everything pretty well. Hey there! Not what I meant. No, he doesn't let me pitch, if that's what you wanted to know. I hear queers are like that – one way or the other. He's a top and it works okay for us. That doesn't mean I'm the woman or anything like that... though okay, yeah, I kind of am.

That was so not the point of this. My point is, this is just like those fucking Johnny Gossamer novels. Perry's life turned out to be just like you'd expect: the mystery, the intrigue, the fucked up home-life from Hell. And if he had never taken me here, had never showed me what he was all about.. Well, we may never have.. and I might not have...

Anyway, there were two cases and they were the same case. Just like before. So I'm glad to keep all my fingers this time because now I kind of need them. To answer the phone! Jesus, I can't say anything right. We, Perry and I, we've been together almost a year now. Before you clap or say it's cute as hell, remember we both have guns. Well.. I borrow his sometimes. And he helped me solve the case of why Harmony and I were never happy. She's the dream girl, she always will be. And I so idealized her that I couldn't be with her.

Perry and I don't hold hands, or kiss in public. He doesn't call me sweetie unless he's busting my balls. We work together the same as we always have, and I'm grateful things haven't changed overmuch. I really am. I don't think the poor guy could handle any more change.

“Harry, will you shut the fuck up and get to bed?”

Fri, 30 May 2008 04:09:01 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Shock and Awe (4/?)
Fandom: Heroes/Doctor Who
Pairing: Plaude, 9th doctor/Peter
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, randomness, 5YG
Summary: Claude comes back, 5 years late. And he's got a secret... Betaed by top_hatted_girl with endless nitpicking by vivider XD
Word Count: 1217

No one was Peter Petrelli, but Rose Tyler came close.

==

"I want you to meet someone."

Peter almost didn't hear him, his voice was so quiet.

"I haven't seen her in a very long time, least not like this."

The Doctor frowned and turned away. Peter shrugged and pretended it didn't matter.

==

A sprightly blonde made her way to the TARDIS - Peter reminded himself to ask Claude again what it stood for - with tears streaming down her face. It was a very pretty face, and Peter thought it was a shame her eyes puffed up that way when she was sad.

Wouldn't allow himself to think of anything else as The Doctor held her, told her it would be alright.

==

"But - how...?" Rose's eyebrows knitted together as her mind shuffled through the year she had spent with The Doctor... and not this doctor.

The Doctor beamed, always eager to explain.

Peter couldn't help but think on all the times Claude had sent him away for asking questions, made threats, threw him off buildings... He clearly had a much different relationship with this Rose person.

"You see, when I change, there is so much energy being released that some gets left over. And it gets swept away to a different time; a different place."

"An alternate universe, you mean?"

The Doctor nodded, Rose always had been a quick study. Daring a glance to Peter, he frowned at how the young man was curled in on himself--invisible to all but one. And Claude certainly wasn't going to give away his location.

Peter slipped off to sleep listening to The Doctor and Rose debate quantum physics and things he would never want to understand. He could only pray that his cloak of invisibility would endure the night.

==

"Doctor..." Rose's eyes went wide as Peter flickered into view.

"No worries," Claude said without looking up, immersed in his "conversation" with the TARDIS. "That's just Pete."

Blinking bleary eyes, Peter looked up into the light, hissing at how bright it was. When he could open his eyes again, there was the girl. Rose. Somehow he had expected her to disappear with his dreams. Scrambling across the floor until he could sit properly, he extended a begrudging hand to the woman.

"Peter Petrelli. I'm an old friend of Cl--The Doctor." The word left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Oh," she said, surprise written clearly on those bright features. As bright as the light overhead, and Peter resented them almost as much. "I'm Rose Tyler."

==

They travelled like that for a while, the three of them. Rose asked questions and The Doctor would fly off into an animated speech about time and space and how he came to be in Peter's universe. An accident of fate, he said.

When Peter asked questions, Claude would just smile, sometimes chuckle, and even more rarely he might give a short response - the joy of keeping a secret twinkling in his eye.

It came down to one thing: Peter was jealous. Jealous of the looks Claude and Rose shared, and even more so of the understanding he couldn't.

Sometimes he could stand it. Rose was nice, really, and she was easy to talk to. Her lightness reminded him of a time before exploding, even a time before abilities and Claude... But in actuality, it wasn't such a nice experience, if Peter were to be honest with himself.

==

"What are we doing, Claude?" Peter hissed, pushing at The Doctor's chest, anger burning in once dead eyes. "Are we just going to wander through space until what? One of us drops dead?"

The Doctor gave him a calculated look that spoke of probably's and maybe's and over the rainbow's....

Peter stopped asking questions after that.

==

They stopped off on a random planet in a random galaxy somewhere far, far away. And this time not even Rose could get answers to her incessant inquiry that seemed to leave her as easily as she exhaled. The questions were probably easier, Peter mused, because Rose wouldn't have to take a breath.

The Doctor smiled in that way Peter used to find eerie but was fast growing used to. Really, he got it. Claude Raines was The Doctor; The Doctor was Claude Raines. Not separate but certainly not one in the same.

"Why are we stopping here?" she asked, but Peter had long learned how to tune her out. Claude seemed to have done the same as he led the way into the dingy motel. A dingy motel somewhere otherworldly, but not so different from Home. That is, if Peter still had one on Earth. He was finding all of this far more amusing than he was sure was completely healthy. Luckily, he couldn't bring himself to laugh anyway.

"Sometimes, Rose, the unextraordinary is far more important in the end." It was matter=of-fact, no-nonsense, but it didn't come close to answering her question. He flashed that little blank card to the reception along with crooked teeth, booking two rooms.

Peter's chest felt tight, but he didn't say a word as they marched up two, three flights of stairs as a silent unit.

"I need to talk to Pete," Claude said gruffly, yanking Peter inside his room as he tossed a bewildered Rose her key.

"Wha--" Large hands came over Peter's lips just like that first time, when Claude had saved him... well, from being saved. The calvary, as it were, had swept into his apartment, and Claude had swept Peter right back out, under their invisible guise. Peter found himself smiling at the memory as Claude's hand slowly lifted and Peter brought his gaze up to steely grey.

They stood there that way for a time, not saying a word, not making a move.

"So was it all a lie?" It came out raspy, and Peter cursed his own weakness, but held out for the answer anyway. "And I want a straight answer to this one." He held his breath, fists clutching at his sides.

"No," The Doctor said immediately, running his hand down the curve of Peter's cheek before dropping it entirely. "No, it wasn't all a lie."

Peter took a deep shuddering breath when he realized he'd been holding it, leaning up to capture rough lips. Claude responded for a moment, eyes sliding closed -- and then he was pushing Peter away. Gently, but it was still a rejection.

"I'm sorry."

They sat and talked for an eternity. The Doctor explained he was an alien -- a Timelord and the last of his kind. How Peter's simple words had inspired him those years ago... five years was but a blink for Claude, after all.

"I can do what you can do."

The company had lured him in with the same pretenses, but they were very, very false. He also explained how Claude's ability was but a mere hiccup of the time flux, and how he hadn't meant to leave Peter, but rather had no choice as he was not fully himself.

Peter nodded solemnly throughout the whole, sordid tale, not saying a word. Not until the very end. He waited a few moments after the words had stopped to ask, "How did you come back then?"

And that, Claude couldn't answer.

Thu, 29 May 2008 01:18:41 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Shock and Awe (3/?)
Fandom: Heroes/Doctor Who
Pairing: Plaude, 9th doctor/Peter
Rating: NC-17 to be safe
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, randomness, 5YG
Summary: Claude comes back, 5 years late. And he's got a secret... Betaed by shadowkittykat_ :)
Word Count: 973

All was forgotten with the whir of the Tardis, but Peter was still out of his skull. Panicking like a little girl.

"What was that back there?" he demanded none-too-kindly as they tipped aimlessly through space.

Claude's face belied not a worry in the world. It angered Peter for whatever petty reason.

"You said you'd take me home - so do it. Take me back."

An unreadable emotion passed over The Doctor's face, but he only nodded, inputting the correct coordinates.

"You think I'd lie to ye? After all these years?"

Peter didn't answer, just turned away.

==

They stepped out of the small police box, though Peter certainly knew better by now. Claude made a grab for his hand, but he pulled away, watching as "The Doctor" locked up the Tardis behind them.

"What does "Tardis" mean anyway?" he asked, only half-expecting an answer as he marched down the street (if one could really call it that anymore) towards the strip-club. Then Peter looked back, a hopeless expression on that split face - still beautiful, The Doctor thought reluctantly. "Is it an acronym?"

The tone in Peter's voice reminded him of sparring on rooftops, another lifetime ago. Claude laughed, deep in his throat, cut short by a smack to the arm. He only laughed harder.

==

"Who the fuck is this, Peter?" Niki snapped, an octave away from screaming. Peter winced.

"A friend," Peter replied softly, and there was that feeling again. The one that made him feel twelve. "Niki, this is Claude Raines."

"Nice to meet ya, Miss," Claude said with a bright smile, shaking her hand once before he dropped it. Mirthfully, he turned to Peter. "You sure picked yerself a live one."

Peter smacked him again to mask his amusement.

"I need to talk to you, Peter." They all turned as one, and there was Hiro Nakamura. Older, jaded. Claude couldn't help thinking it was a shame. Dark eyes flashed on The Doctor, but his expression clearly spoke of something more important than introductions.

Peter and Hiro disappeared for ten, eleven minutes - not that Claude was keeping track. That's why he didn't know that after six, Niki rolled her eyes and retook the stage. It interested The Doctor, on a purely human level of course, that her stage name was Jessica. He wondered idly if she and her alter had integrated, after all. Probably the only way Peter and she could get together...

Twelve minutes and the two time-travellers reappeared. Hiro looked to be in a hurry - he nodded to Claude and was on his way out.

"What's the rush?" The Doctor asked lightly, inclining his head toward Peter.

"I can't go with you." It was just a whisper, and Peter didn't look at him as he said it. Without a thought, Claude took him by the chin and tipped his head up.

"Hey," he said easily, smiling in a way Claude never would have five years ago. "What is it?"

Neither of them noticed Niki watching, nor her expression hardening; her pace quickening as she danced for the crowd.

"Poodle..." His tone was warning, but there was nothing serious behind it. Just concern.

"Look, I can't go with you, alright!" Peter smacked his hand away.

The Doctor wanted nothing more than to kiss him right then.

==

The TARDIS, which was really not the best acronym he could've come up with, if he were to be honest. But The Doctor had learned a long while ago that honesty didn't usually get him very far.

He started when Peter ran through the door, slamming it behind himself and leaning as he caught his breath, chest heaving.

"I was afraid you had left."

The Doctor only grinned knowingly, and they were off again.

==

"Can we fix it?"

"I'm afraid not."

"And why the Hell not?"

"We can only fix what's wrong with the timeline, Peter. Not what we want to change."

==

Despite all Claude's protesting, he knew he'd give in to Peter eventually. After all, it was only a matter of time. Five years in the past and they were flying - Claude in the TARDIS, Peter of his own volition.

"You can only say goodbye, Poodle, nothin' more." He recalled his own words, and almost regretted them as he opened the TARDIS and his arms to Peter.

"Don't cry," he said carefully, wiping the tears away as they soared through days and years, into a week and back again. Months were as minutes and a fortnight lasted leap years. Through time and space and all that laid between as Peter sobbed into The Doctor's arms, young and so vulnerable.

Claude hated tears. And so when Peter leant up to look him in the eye, he did the logical thing and kissed him. They stayed like that for a long time--no time at all, lips frozen together, their arms grappling for purchase on each other's arms; shoulders. And then Peter's shirt was across the floor and gasps of pain and loss turned to pleasure and longing.

"Waited so long for this," Claude mumbled into taut flesh, mouthing the hard stomach as deft fingers worked at Peter's buckle. If he had known this was the way to get the younger man to shut up he might have done it a lot sooner, but probably not.

He wrapped his lips around Peter's cock, laughing around the shaft as Peter squeezed his shoulders, hips thrusting blindly.

"No hurry now, Poodle."

"Stop calling me that."

The Doctor laughed again, and was rewarded with Peter's cum in his mouth.

==

The Doctor had never allowed himself to get involved, he told himself. He knew that wasn't even close to the truth, but none of them were like this. None of them... were Peter Petrelli.

Mon, 26 May 2008 06:22:52 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Shock and Awe (2/?)
Fandom: Heroes/Doctor Who
Pairing: Plaude, 9th doctor/Peter
Rating: PG-13... ish.
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, randomness, 5YG
Summary: Claude comes back, 5 years late. And he's got a secret... Betaed by the rockin' top_hatted_girl with help from Lauren (psychicfridge), of course.
Word Count: 1014

"So what do ya say? Up for an adventure?" Claude's eyebrows raised as he looked to Peter expectantly. He had rarely taken on male companions in the past, K-9 being on the short list of exceptions, but Peter was unlike any other man he had ever met.

And he was a fellow Timelord. He didn't have to be alone anymore.

Claude banished the thoughts as quickly as they'd come - that was just naive.

"An adventure?" Peter asked softly, glancing towards the door and then back into those world-weary eyes.

He had wanted nothing more than for Claude to return. That is, except for his brother coming back to life, but that wasn't about to happen anytime soon.

"An adventure..." He gave it some serious thought, but.. he couldn't just run out on all his responsibilities here. "I have a girlfriend of sorts, and those people need me..."

Claude only smiled, and said, "You won't be missed."

Hurt flashed across Peter's face like that scar of his.

"I mean if we leave now.. we're in the Tardis so I can get you back to this time, this place. No one will ever have to know you left, least not once we're through."

==

And that's how it happened, how Peter and Claude ended up in a flying police box from circa 1962... on their way to Barcelona, the planet and not the city.

The Tardis made its obscene noise, landing flawlessly on the surface of the planet. Claude stretched, smiling at Peter before moving past him to the door.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, running out into that familiar sunshine. "I haven't been here in a thousand, two thousand years easy." Claude sighed, soaking in the rays from the two suns that beat down from the too-blue sky.

Peter eventually followed, holding an arm over his face. His breath caught in his throat. "Does this place have--"

"Yep, perpetual sun." Claude cut him off, grinning. "This is a man-made earth. But not just that."

Claude wagged his finger, leading Peter to the very edge of the planet.

"It's in perpetual construction, so every time I come back it's infinitely more beautiful."

"So when you say you haven't been here in a thousand years..." Peter's eyes widened as easily a million little mechanical creatures descended upon a piece they found unsatisfactory. He found himself wondering if anyone even lived on Barcelona - it seemed a very desolate and lonesome planet. Rather like Claude in many ways. The young man could understand why he loved it so.

"What?" Claude asked, clapping him on the back. "I'm too old for ya now?" He gave a mirthful laugh, sitting abruptly and dragging Peter down with him.

Peter landed heavily on Claude's chest, the air leaving him for a moment. "You're old enough to be my dad; my grand-dad even.. maybe--" He was cut off by the blow to the back of the head, and their lips crashing near-violently. The stained-glass of the nearby cathedral swirled in his vision as the rest of the world faded away.

The Doctor pushed off Peter's coat, running his hand over the man's shirt. Just five short years ago, he had considered him a boy. Peter moaned into his lips, grasping desperately at Claude's shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut just as tight.

Then he was pushing Peter away, catching his breath and leaning his forehead on the other man's shoulder.

"Travel with me," he whispered. "I could show you things you've never dreamed of."

They were both riding the edge of desperation, and Peter's next kiss was all the answer Claude needed.

==

It seemed to Peter as though they were there for days, maybe even weeks. But they didn't need rest, or nourishment. The ultimate paradise.

"So who are you really, Dr. Claude?" Peter grinned defiantly, not even bothering to counter the ensuing smack.

"I'm a Timelord, the last of my kind..." Grey eyes honed in on Peter as the cloudless sky seemed to whirl around them like a Van Gogh painting - only there were four moons that Peter had been informed were nothing more than decoration. "The last of our kind," he corrected. "Or I thought I was."

"Hiro..."

"Is not as special as you are."

==

Just another peaceful day, and Peter almost wished for the incessant chirping of Earth birds, or music playing - something to break this unbreakable silence.

And that's when it happened. The mechanics all froze and the moon came up and the planet became ice-cold. It seemed like a matter of seconds, but Doctor Claude assured him it was several hours in the least.

"Has this ever happened?" Peter asked, startled to see his breath on the air when he finally gathered the lung-power to speak.

Claude barely had time to shake his head before they descended, thousands upon millions of little wind-up soldiers - benefitting no one but a passing stranger with their efforts. And they had turned their focus on them.

"Follow me," he whispered into Peter's ear, and they ran until they once again reached the planet's edge.

It was only a matter of time, and Claude wondered why Peter wasn't scared. But then, after what he had been through, what was a couple million alien robots?

The creatures closed in on them, forcing them back-to-back. It was like a bad thriller movie. Wasn't it always though?

"Ready, poodle?" The Doctor stood his ground, the screwdriver leaping to his hand. Peter nodded, never more grateful for Claude's training.

Before Peter's eyes, his feet turned to axles; his feet, to wheels. Startled, he looked to the sky, which was darkening by the moment, or whatever interval of time this planet preferred.

With a crack of lightning and a whir of the sonic screwdriver, the suns came out once more.

Claude made a face, raised an eyebrow, and just generally made fun until Peter's body regenerated. He glared at The Doctor, not entirely sure what had just transpired.

But all was forgotten with the first whir of the Tardis.

Sun, 25 May 2008 05:32:18 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Shock and Awe (1/?)
Fandom: Heroes/Doctor Who
Pairing: Plaude, 9th doctor/Peter
Rating: PG for now.
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, randomness, 5YG
Summary: Claude comes back, 5 years late. And he's got a secret... Betaed by the rockin' top_hatted_girl with help from Lauren (psychicfridge), of course.
Word Count: 987

Claude slid out of the dark, smirking broadly. Peter didn't even notice him at first, sitting as he was against the wall. Snapping his fingers, fire sprang to his fingertips, and when he snapped them again, the flames were but a memory against his flesh. Just like Meredith Gordon was to the world, he thought with a sigh.

"I see you've learned, poodle."

He started, turning to face Claude. Then he was moving towards the man swiftly, cracking his facade to embrace Claude tightly. Claude shoved him away, but nothing could wipe the grin off his face.

"You're alive!" Claude winced at how Peter looked all of ten years old when he did that, even if he did have that ugly gash marring his face.

"Who did this, huh?" He grasped Peter's cheek none-too-gently, turning his face so he could get a good look at the damage.

Peter flushed, stepping away from his former mentor to lock the door, checking the peep-hole before he returned to face the other man.

"Afraid we'll be interrupted?" that near-forgotten gruff voice asked, stepping into Peter's personal space.

"You know.." he answered, stepping closer as well. "Maybe I am!"

Peter swung though he knew he didn't have a chance in hell of the punch connecting. Claude smirked, dropping the younger man's fist as he backed him into a corner with practiced ease.

"See you still haven't succeeded your master." It was a calculated statement, and one Peter didn't challenge - much to Claude's chagrin. "Where's your fight?" he demanded, shoving at Peter's shoulders.

"Where's your beard?" Peter snapped back, in Claude's face.

The older man let out a deep rumble of laughter, and Peter couldn't help smiling in return.

"Want to hop off a building?"

Peter started - he hadn't flown since - except in very select and necessary circumstance.

"W-what?" he choked out, swallowing as he stared at the floor. Anything to not be persuaded by those penetrating grey eyes.

"Or I could toss you off, for oldtimes' sake," Claude answered without really answering, leading him out the locked door and up to the roof.

"I haven't, um." And it was suddenly five years ago. They weren't standing on the roof of the club where his girlfriend erotic danced, but rather on top of the Deveaux building, training as if the world would end.

Peter had been there and done that, and Claude still made him feel fifteen.

"Yeah," he said instead, masking his fear as a large hand wound its way around his waist. He started at first, but he wasn't going to pretend the contact wasn't welcome. "I missed you, too."

It was Claude's turn to start, and he drew away, nodding to the edge. "Go on, poodle. Jump."

With only a moment's hesitation to peer over the lip, Peter nodded tersely, swallowing his reservations as he leapt gracefully off the edge of the strip club. Claude waited for the ensuing crash. When it didn't come, he stepped closer and looked out. When he didn't see anything, he frowned, scratching where his beard used to be.

Peter reappeared, taking Claude's hand as he shot into the air, wrapping his legs around the man so he wouldn't drop.

"I haven't flown since..."

"Nathan's death," Claude finished, his arms closing around Peter's waist, though he'd deny it was for anything other than staying in the air.

"How-how did you..?"

"Could we have this conversation on level ground?" Claude asked bemusedly, getting a little queasy.

==

"The... what?"

"I'm the Doctor." His smile was bland, but he wanted to share this with Peter. Peter was a timelord like himself, like the Japanese kid.

"Doctor Raines?" Peter asked with a devilish smirk. He got a smack to the back of the head for that.

"Let me just.. show you, okay?"

They walked down the desolate street, nearly hand-in-hand, when Peter saw the only color he had seen in five long years.

A blue police box.

"What is--" Peter began to ask, but Claude merely shook his head, unlocking the Tardis and gesturing Peter inside.

"Where would you like to go?" The Doctor asked softly, trying to inject his normal enthusiasm into this speech. He wished he could have done this five years ago. "We can go anywhere in time, anywhere in the universe... we could go to Mars if you like!"

Peter could only look around, stricken by the surreal qualities of this moment. He swallowed, moving behind Claude to see what in the hell this machine was.

"So this is, like... a time machine? We could go back and.." Claude held up his hand, resting it on Peter's arm briefly.

"You can travel in time yourself. If you had thought that that was a good idea.. you would have already done so."

Peter glanced to Claude's arm grasping his, and then up into that haggard face - not so haggard anymore. He was dressed nicely, and his coat only had one tear in it. His hair was trimmed neatly and there was no trace of the beard... He grabbed the man's chin, forcing those grey eyes on him. Claude looked about to pry himself away, but he had waited five years for this.

Peter's lips came over Claude's and time seem suspended, which made entirely too much sense in this vehicle of space and time.

"I'm not who you think--"

Peter shook his head, getting a better hold by gripping the back of the Doctor's neck and smashing their lips together violently. This time the other man succumbed, gripping Peter's shoulders until they bruised.

"We could go to Barcelona, lovely little place. I mean the planet, not the city.. I never got a chance to take her..."

Claude didn't like thinking about Rose. Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the present, smiling easily into Peter's broken face.

"So what do ya say? Up for an adventure?"

Fri, 16 May 2008 03:36:38 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Something permanent, something dark.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: Rish
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: slash, mind-fuckery, randomness
Summary: I wrote Mylar for once in EVER! :D
Word Count: 1238

Mohinder always wonders why President Petrelli calls him in late at night. He never really seems to need much other than a signature or a quick speech-edit. Neither of which are really Mohinder's jobs, but he's not there to ask questions.

He's there to serve a purpose.

Sometimes he wishes he had known the Nathan Petrelli before the presidency - Mohinder imagines a much different man. A family man who's humble and strong. He knows it's more idealistic bullshit, but Mohinder also knows that Nathan's family used to be much more involved.

The Petrelli brothers used to be inseparable.

Mohinder wishes, and wonders, but he never voices any of these things; would never let the President know he doesn't support him 100%. Nathan scares him sometimes, that penetrating stare and the way those heavy hands take him by the shoulder.. there's something darker, too, lurking just beneath the surface of those masked politician's eyes. Waiting to swallow him up.

And while he tells himself he won't let it happen.. he knows all President Petrelli has to say is 'jump.'

That's also why on this one, unextraordinary night, the Doctor can't be shocked when those hands grip his shoulders just a little too tightly - when President Petrelli's grin has a little more of an edge than Mohinder thinks it ought to. He finds himself with his back at the wall, and his heart is pumping loudly, but he knows it isn't fear.

He'll deny it to his grave, but he kisses Nathan first.

--

A week later and Heidi's breathing down Mohinder's neck. Every move he makes, every word he says to her husband. It's getting to be too much, and she's going to find out any day now – if she doesn't already know.

Mohinder knows she probably does.

That night when Nathan is pressed tightly against him, against the wall again, Mohinder has to speak up. He opens his mouth to tell the president that it's too much, that he can't do this anymore, but Nathan's lips are quicker as they descend upon him and break him down to his basest measure. Bucking against those thick fingers, his hands curling in Nathan's hair, he lets out a happy little sigh.

He's not long for this world anyway – what's the harm?

It's late and Nathan's eyes are dancing with mischief. Mohinder demands of him, playfully, “What is it, Mr. President?” but his bones are humming with what's about to come. He's been waiting for this for probably his whole life. At least ever since he began to understand what it was his father did.

Nathan asks if he'd like to go flying, and Mohinder's never been strong enough to deny the man.

--

Nathan says something one day that sets off all of Mohinder's alarms. He speaks of being special, describes to Mohinder of how amazing flying is. It's a high the man will never understand himself, he'll admit. But there's something so calculating in that stare... And it's so stupid to be thinking these things so long afterwards, but he remembers “Zane” speaking with the same resonance. Detailing how alone he had felt, how Mohinder had made him feel special, understood.

That had been when Mohinder had figured it out.

Sylar had done it before, why not now? Thinking back, it all fell so neatly on the timeline, and if Mohinder analyzed it he'd remember himself avoiding the subject more than once. Sylar had survived more than direct blows in the past – who knows how he'd exploded and made it back... But he had. And now he's President of the United States.. and Mohinder is sure that after a few more bodies, Sylar will own the world. That's when Mohinder has the most disturbing thought of all:

Does it matter who's running this country?

Or who had been fucking him, for that matter. Just then Nathan - Sylar - steps through that door, and he can't help it as the shiver wracks his frame. And when the man sits at his little rickety table, he knows he had been turning a blind eye. That Sylar had executed the exact same plan for the second time; only this time it had worked. He had tried to seduce him as Zane, and sometimes Nathan was so sweet it threw him right back into that motel room.

He had kissed Sylar first that night, too.

--

When Mohinder screams Nathan's name, all he thinks is Sylar. When Nathan's hand is wrapped around his cock, he thinks of Zane's doe-eyes and his couch at home. Sometimes they do meet in Mohinder's apartment, but it always weirds him out when they fuck there. He has permanent bruises on his hips now, and in a dark sort of way he cherishes them.

They remind him of who he's really sleeping with.

It should bother him that he's enabling a super-villain to rule the country he had left his home for. The land of dreams and opportunities. But Mohinder didn't have those anymore, and he'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who did, these days.

And Sylar is a permanent part of him, dark but in the most familiar way.

--

Sylar fucks Mohinder against the cherry-glaze of his desk for what he's sure must be the millionth time. He presses reassuring kisses to each dark vertebrae, none too merciful with the rest of the Indian's body. He knows he's gotten sloppy with how obvious he is sometimes. He knows both of his facades crumble and fall at the least opportune of times, and always with Mohinder.

But despite all this, and despite everything he's been through with the scientist, the last thing he expects is precisely what happens. Mohinder's always surprising him, and as much as it should anger him, he knows he likes it, too.

Sylar thrusts in for the last time, gasping against dark flesh as he reaches his climax. It always feels so perfect with Mohinder, but he'll never admit he's never had anyone else. Just like he won't fuck anyone else in case they might be better. He's afraid of the change that might bring about if that's the case.

Even more afraid he might decide to keep fucking Mohinder anyway.

And while they slump against one another, and Sylar quickly pulls their clothes back into place, he almost misses the tiny inkling of his name on Mohinder's breath. Sylar's chest feels tight as he whirls Mohinder around to face him, curls shifting as he does so. He fists that now-omnipresent beard, sneer coming through despite himself.

“What did you say?” he bites out, barely concealed panic bubbling through the layers of paint and laquer he's coated himself with.

Mohinder only smiles then, as if he weren't acquiring new bruises by each passing second.

“Nothing, Mr. President.”

Even the dust seems to settle as Sylar calms himself and pushes Mohinder away, straightening his jacket when the other man is a sufficient distance from himself.

And nothing needs to be said beyond that before Mohinder is gone, leaving Sylar to compose himself before he'll return the next night. Because the scientist has decided that no matter who they are, it isn't as if he can change it. If he denies the President, Sylar will kill him.

Or more likely, keep him anyway, because what they have is for always.

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 23:16:50 GMT

Author: Ca sesemperamabo and Lauren psychicfridge
Title: Falling up and Spiraling down (3/?)
Fandom: Little Miss Sunshine
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne,
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: incest, slash, underage
Summary: The long-awaited continuation.
Word Count: 2629

Heart pounding in his ears, he's running, for the only safehaven he's ever had. The only person who ever...

As he pounds on Frank's door he realizes how late it is, but he can't turn and go home. He just can't.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," he murmurs to his uncle's shoes, breathing hard and a little more than wet from the evening storm.

Frank had been asleep, but at the knock he wakes up, albeit tired and confused, with a dash of the usual middle-of-the-night panic. "Hey, Dwayne. It's- it's late. What's wrong, something wrong?" He rubs his eyes, adrenaline fueling him.

"No," he gasps out, a lie, as he moves past his uncle through the door. "Not with the family; everyone else is... fine."

Taking a deep breath, he sits down, face in between his hands. How can he explain this? Why he's so distraught? It isn't as if he's been... raped. Fuck.

"It's over," he whispers, not sure what he means at first--as if he's already forgotten about Andrew. "Between Andrew and I. The guy I told you about."

And you're torn up about what? A break-up? Give me a break.

Frank exhales sharply. It's probably more than just break-up blues. Logically, he knows that; Dwayne isn't the kind of kid who would come running to him over something like that, at an hour like this. But... fuck. It's almost two in the morning. He just wants to go back to bed, and forget about all this. Everything. Dwayne's relationship problems, that night the month before, how seeing his nephew standing outside his room in the middle of the night makes him feel... Everything.

Instead, he sighs and says, "Need to talk?" He holds the door open behind him.

Dwayne just nods stupidly, a sad smile taking over his countenance. He could kid himself all he wanted, but sooner or later he was going to have to face his own feelings. Frank's. Maybe that time is now.

"Okay, I feel like such a girl saying this, but..." Sighing, with doe-eyes fixated his uncle he continues, "He took advantage of me."

And he had--of Dwayne's uncertainty, of his inability to say no, of... of this.

Frank's hands tighten, involuntarily. "What's his name?"

It's the caveman response, the kneejerk murderous sensation that every parent feels at some point. Illogical and irrational, but capable of motivating a sane person to homicide in a heartbeat.

That Frank is feeling this for someone he very nearly slept with should disturb him, but he chooses to ignore that for the moment.

Choking out a laugh, Dwayne wipes the moisture from his face.

"Thanks, Uncle Frank," he says hoarsely, interrupted by a second bark of laughter. "You always know just what to say."

Frank huffs out a laugh. I wasn't kidding.

He reluctantly calms himself down, because that's not the way to handle something like this. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again.

"Do you- do you want to talk about what happened?" he says softly.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he snarks, attempting a second bought of laughter, but Frank's expression stops him dead.

What is he supposed to say? 'I can't date because I've fallen for you.' That's stupid, and what's more, it should repulse him. He shouldn't feel this way.

"I feel used," he says finally. "And like.. like I used him." Dwayne looks away quickly, a lump in his throat. He hadn't meant to say that at all.

"Did you-" Did you sleep with him. No, that's a bad question. Frank doesn't want to know. "Did he- make you do things?" It's a charged question, and he knows it, but he can't think of any other way to ask.

Dwayne frowns, looks away, looks back over. 'No' is on the tip of his tongue... but it's not entirely true, is it?

"Kinda," he manages, sheepish. "I mean, it's not.. it's not like he raped me."

Wince. Oh, nice job.

"He didn't hurt me." Taking a deep breath, he tries to explain. "He didn't do anything wrong, I just.. should have said something."

But something told him, 'I'm not gay' wouldn't have gone over so well.

Frank nods, his head spinning. This is so fucked up.

He doesn't want to ask. He knows it's a bad idea, and that no matter how Dwayne answers, Frank won't like it, but...

"What did you mean, 'you used him'?"

"I meant.."

Dwayne's face is rapidly changing color, and he just--he needs. He needs Frank. Shaking his head, he makes his way across the room to his uncle and winds his arms around Frank's middle.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admits, mouth going dry as he pulls them closer. "About us."

It's a hiss in his uncle's ear, and he knows it's all over.

Frank shudders as he feels Dwayne's breath rush over his neck. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is-

His hands reach up and pull Dwayne's face down to his. Their lips crash together, hard, and any illusions about his own strength of will flood from him.

He lets one hand run down his nephew's body, scraping his fingers over the hard stomach hidden there.

Dwayne lets out a strangled cry of pleasure, returning the kiss with a fervor he's never felt, a want only met by his want to fly. A thousand butterflies are flapping their way around his insides, and for that moment.. he believes he can, too.

"Please," he practically cries out, one hand making the steady climb to Frank's chest, resting over his uncle's heart. "Let me stay."

Frank nods, eyes half-closed, thoughts of right and wrong blissfully far away, waiting for the morning. "Yeah," he whispers, then draws Dwayne close again.

This time, when their lips meet, it's gentle, and slow. His hand works its way under Dwayne's faded shirt, searching for contact. He can feel his nephew's body jerk against his at the first touch of skin on skin. He splays his hand against the muscle there, gasping into Dwayne's mouth.

Dwayne works his hands into the collar of Frank's shirt so that when he falls against the bed, his uncle follows. When they land, they're side-by-side, and Dwayne thinks he'd never want it any other way.

This time he succeeds in unbuttoning Frank's shirt, pulling it down and over the man's shoulder. He looks good, toned without an overdone physique. His uncle's beauty isn't traditional, but Dwayne thinks they could be a match...

If he weren't fifteen, and if Frank's blood didn't course through his veins. Fuck.

But he doesn't care; this is the road they've both decided on and hell if he's turning back. Closing his eyes and allowing the sensation to wash over and past him, he's back in the moment, working off Frank's slacks now with mostly-steady hands.

Frank lifts his hips as his pants slide down and away. He groans and drags Dwayne's shirt over his head, rolling to kiss his nephew's neck. This time he doesn't care if he leaves bruises, he just needs to taste Dwayne's skin.

Dwayne makes a sound that's halfway between a plea and a gasp as their bare chests touch, and it's nothing like Andrew--nothing forced about it.

"Show me," he whispers, and it sounds desperate even to his ears. He needs this... before either of them comes to their senses.

"Yeah, I can-" Frank mutters mindlessly, his hands fumbling over Dwayne's belt buckle, bordering on frantic. "Here, just-" and those hips rise enough to drag the clothes away, enough for him to wrap his hand around the hardness he finds there.

Dwayne's breath comes in labored pants now, his fingers grasping tenuously at his uncle's back. As much as he wants to move against Frank's ministrations, he tries to remain still, afraid it could break the spell. His uncle knows best; he'll show Dwayne the way.

When Frank feels his nephew's fingers digging into him, he lets himself go. He has been been tense, trying to keep himself controlled, as he always does, every day of his life, but when he feels Dwayne shake beneath him, he can't help it. His lips mash into his nephew's, and his hand starts moving, roughly, between their bodies.

Dwayne lets out little wet noises into Frank's lips, breaking the kiss every so often to breathe. He just clings and rocks slowly against his uncle's fist, disbelief etched into his face. There's not a way he can surmise, especially as... indisposed as he is, that this carnal act; this.. terrible thing could feel this good. The most fucked up part of all? It even feels right.

At the look on Dwayne's face, Frank bites his way down the pale chest before him and pushes his nephew's thighs apart, tongue curling over each nipple and then sliding down, past the dark hair and over his length, before taking it into his mouth.

Dwayne's hips surge upwards and he's engulfed in hot, delicious heat. With a tremor and a scream he's coming, clinging to Frank for dear life, his stomach muscles clenching and relaxing.

Biting his lip, he throws his arms around his uncle's neck, nuzzling his way into Frank's shoulder. He can't remember ever feeling this warm in all his 15 years.

Frank pulls himself back up to eye level with Dwayne, flopping to the side and winding his arms around his nephew. He smiles a little. He remembers (vaguely) being that responsive, because...

Because oh God he's lying with his fifteen-year-old nephew in his arms. Oh God. Oh God. His arousal floods from him and his stomach drops.

His sister's son...

Frank had thought he'd hit rock bottom before, but he'd been wrong. This is it. This is it. He pushes himself away, frantically, backwards across the bed. "Oh, God."

Dwayne falls to the pillows, feeling slightly deserted though the warmth hadn't left his bones just yet. With a sad smile and a flop for the sake of pointless modesty, he meets his uncle's eyes with slow precision.

"What happens now?" he mouths, but he's not sure there's enough volume behind it for Frank to understand. He should be freaking out; he should... he is, he supposes, in his own weird way. But this should be more profound, as it clearly is for Frank.

And he knows he should leave, but he can't move from this place, and he's scared. Terrified of being pushed away; being pulled closer. Now he shakes, that terror fresh in his eyes and he needs someone to tell him what to do because he's fifteen and this makes no fucking sense.

"Christ, nothing! Nothing happens now. It already happened-" Frank's voice is muffled from the hand over his face, head resting back against the wall above the bed, but the anger is still clear. He sighs and tries to make himself sound less crazed. "Nothing happens now. I'm going to get my clothes back on and I suggest you do the same." Now he sounds quiet and broken. Yeah, that's about right. "Then, I'm going to shower, and I don't think it'd be right for either of us if you're still here when I get out."

He winces. He sounds like one of his frat-boy students, angry at his one-night stand for asking questions.

Dwayne's not even old enough for a frat yet... Fuck.

"I'm sorry, but this is... this is bad. My therapist tells me I need to set- set better boundaries, and I don't think this goes along with that."

He knows it's a bad excuse, but he doesn't care. Anything so that he can get under that hot spray, and stop feeling those hands on his body urging him on, that mouth...

Anything to make it stop before he goes from guilt-ridden to worthless to suicidal again.

Cogs click audibly and it's all he can do to contain the scream. Dwayne is frustrated by Frank's outburst, and confused. But he can understand...

Lies. He doesn't understand a goddamn thing. Pulling on his jeans in a huff, he makes his way across the tiny room to his uncle.

"Don't make this out to be my fault," he barks, jabbing a finger into Frank's chest. "None of this would've happened..."

Is that really fair? To blame his suicidal uncle? A man he respected and adored. To just...

Angry tears are burning his face now and there are sparks in his eyes.

Frank grabs Dwayne's hand, pushing it away from his chest. "I know! I'm not trying to make it your fault! I know it's not! It's... I know it's not your fault." His voice softens, and he looks down at the hand he's holding, and he sighs. "It's- it's mine. And please-" he adds when he sees Dwayne open his mouth. "Don't argue. I'm an adult, and you're a kid. You're just a kid, it's not your fault..." His voice fades out to a whisper. He closes his eyes and sighs, clutching the hand in his tightly.

Why do I do these things?

Dwayne frowns, unconsciously twining his hand with Frank's.

"Hey," he attempts, voice soft. "We can both take responsibility." But Dwayne knows they won't; can't even wrap their heads around this.

Frank feels himself start to smile, a little hopelessly and a little mean, and before he can stop himself he laughs. "You're right. I think your mom will really appreciate that you've started taking responsibility for your actions. I bet she'll even ask they cut my sentence in half, just for that." His laugh had gotten bitter somewhere along the way. "Which do you think I'll get more time for, the molesting or the incest?"

Dwayne recoils, dropping Frank's hand as he pushes himself back.

"Shut the fuck up," he grunts, his mask of confusion still firmly in place. "It's always about self-pity with you, you know?"

He knows his voice has gotten a little shrill, but he's not in control anymore. Not by a longshot.

"You're not going to get arrested because no one's ever going to know this happened." Dwayne's voice takes on a challenging tone as he clenches his fists at his side and meets his uncle's eyes. "Unless you tell them."

"You know I wouldn't do that. For both our sakes." He looks down, and sighs. "I don't mean to be self-pitying. It's just been a little hard lately."

The teen's eyes soften, but he's not ready to give in just yet--it's not in his nature.

"Look, you know I'll leave if you want me to." And he would, in a heartbeat or less. Part of him wants to leave, it'd be so much easier that way... But he has to prove he's more mature than that. To Frank; to himself. "But I think we need to work this out first."

Frank exhales slowly.

"I'm attracted to you. I think that's pretty clear." He smiles dryly up at Dwayne, and continues. "And either you're attracted to me, or you think you are. I don't know anything about anyone born within the last decade. But this is wrong on so many levels, and it needs to stop."

He knows just saying it doesn't make it any easier, but he has to try.

Biting his lip, Dwayne picks his shirt up off the floor and pulls it on unceremoniously.

"Yes," he agrees, voice harsh; threatening to crack. "It does."

What else is there to say?

"So we'll... we'll be careful, from now on. I know I said you're always welcome here, but... after tonight, I think I'm going to have to close that door, at least for now."

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 08:24:08 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: You owe me an IOU
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: OMC/Zach
Rating: NC-18 and then some
Disclaimer: Not mine exceot for Aaron who is totally my creation.
Warnings: slash, underage, explicit dub-con/non-con
Summary: A one-shot I wrote for psychicfridge for Valentine's Day.
Word Count: 2091

Riding his bike home, and he's got his blinders on. It's been a tough day at work, and never has his bed seemed such a welcome place. That's why, when he hears a car-horn too close for comfort, he can't react in time. Not until he's flat on his back, the grill of said vehicle mere inches from his face.

"Motherfucker!" Zach hears a voice nearby, but he can't open his eyes for several minutes. When he does there's some raving lunatic in his face, screaming for him to get up--then on his phone to his sister before Zach can comply.

"Did you hit me?" he asks quietly as he stumbles to his feet, legs quaking with effort. The man simply makes a face and whirls around, clutching his cell phone to his ear with one solid, ringed hand.

Zach's muzzy brain tries to catch up, but all he can figure is that he didn't look before pedaling across the street. There weren't many cars so he didn't often have to... not to mention they usually stayed below the speed of light 'round here.

"Don't worry about it, man," he says, attempting to smooth things over as he inspects the damage to his bike. He'll have to walk to work for a couple weeks before he'll be able to afford the repairs, and he thinks it's a result of the fall that it doesn't make him angrier.

"Like fuck I'll let you walk away with my license number," the man snaps, his phone snapping closed in the same instance as he slides it into his pocket, whipping out a pack of Winstons and a match. Zachary's mother smokes Winstons, and as he ponders that... he places the face.

"You're Aaron Ernst," he says dumbly, the tabloid cover vivid in his mind. Whether the man liked it or not, he was rapidly approaching idol status among young, gay entrepreneurs.

"I know who the fuck I am, kid," he grunts, flipping open the pack in offering. When Zach shakes his head, it disappears again, and he's rubbing his temples, trying to work his head around what's happening.

"Why are you in Texas?" Of all the places to meet a hero.. Zach had not been expecting his own backyard to be a possibility.

"Getting away," Aaron murmurs, taking a drag, and the way he says it... Zach knows it wasn't meant for his ears.

"Odessa isn't the best place to get away to," Zach relates, laughing a bit before survival instinct kicks in and he goes silent again.

"I didn't fucking ask you." Aaron flicks ash near Zach, frowning darkly. "So who the hell are you, then?"

"Zach," he says automatically, wide hazel eyes searching Aaron's face, wondering what happens next.

"Well, Zach," Aaron punctuates with a drag. "What'll it take to make this go away."

Even in such a state, Zach could tell when he was being mocked, though in this particular instance, he can't figure out why.

"Yes, because you did such a great job covering up your relationship with Teddy--what's hitting a kid on his bike?"

The last thing he sees are those ridiculous rings, and the last thing he feels is the asphalt at his back... again.

--

When he comes to, he's on a hotel bed, and further investigation of the room tells him he has no idea where he is. It's much nicer than the Odessa Inn, and that's about as much as he could ever afford.

"Hello?" he attempts to call out, frowning when he realizes it had come out more like, "Brghhh."

He's gagged--that's great. Secured to the headboard, as well, he finds out as he attempts to leap off the side of the bed.

That's when he begins to scream.

"Shut the fuck up," comes a frustrated voice as Aaron stumbles back into the room, lobbing his cell phone at Zach's face. Zach wonders idly if it was his sister again.. or perhaps Teddy, on the other line.

With an exasperated sigh, Aaron undoes the makeshift gag, holding his finger over Zach's lips as the cloth shifts away.

"Teddy doesn't mean anything to me." The words are desperate, deliberate, and for some reason that's when Zach begins to laugh.

Hysterically.

"You don't have to.. prove anything... to me.." Zach manages, eyes tearing up as the laughter consumes more of his lungs, eyes fluttering closed in mirth.

Aaron's expression turns cross as he clambers onto the bed, looming over Zachary. Shaking his head in a gesture of confusion, pale green eyes meet wide hazel as one hand ghosts over Zach's throat, the other pushing against the boy's mouth.

And that's when Zach gets his first real taste of fear. Is he going to die here? Maybe he'll make the next tabloid cover.

Aaron latches onto his fear, and drinks it down like a well-mixed gin and tonic. Another moment of that hard stare, and he shoves two fingers past those softly yielding pink lips. Too pink and too young, but Aaron doesn't give a fuck anymore. Zach struggles with the intrusion, making a small noise in the back of his throat even as Aaron presses against it, keeping him silent as danger burns in those jade eyes.

"Go with this and maybe I'll let you live," he hisses in the teen's ear, fingers hitting the back of his throat before he's pulling away--look obviously spelling out that any noise on Zachary's part would be a serious and most likely fatal mistake.

Aaron's fumbling with his belt-buckle and the fear mixes, churning into terror even as he feels himself hardening. This is so wrong, but he can't help but want this man who's taking such pleasure in breaking him--who won't stop till he's satisfied.

And that's when he feels the man's cock pressing against his lips, and he takes some small measure of comfort in the fact that he has no choice, because then he doesn't have to think about how much he wants this. Aaron pushes into the wet heat mercilessly, and Zach fights himself to keep his teeth back and his mouth as wide as possible, even as his eyes squeeze shut and his fingernails bite into his palms.

The older man pauses a moment, grinning lopsidedly before sliding his length out, then pushes himself in until his fully-hardened head brushes the back of young Zachary's throat. The teen nearly gags, struggling against his bonds, but Aaron fucks his mouth without reservation, making small pleasured grunts of his own.

"Is your ass as tight as your hot mouth," he wonders aloud, thinking that it's fucking inconvenient that men couldn't self-lubricate like women. But gagging the boy on his cock isn't enough; he wants to bury himself in wet heat. And now he's shoving away thoughts of Teddy as he pulls out of Zachary's mouth, leaning forward to kiss him bruisingly in a gesture that's more bite than kiss.

Aaron studies Zach curiously, eyes raking down the slender boy's chest. A t-shirt. He could rip it, untie the boy and remove it properly then retie him, or simply fuck him without removing the garment.

...In the end he decides to rip it, scratching blunt nails down the boy's taught chest as the other tears through it easily. Aaron can't help the stirring in his loins when Zach reacts to that, eyes going black and now-swollen lips parting. His thighs even spread a miniscule amount, but it's enough for the scientist to notice, the kid's belt hitting the floor in seconds.

"Do you want me?" he asks suddenly, needing to know as he searches those large hazel eyes, full of fear and something darker.

"No," Zach bites out immediately--he's not about to give this bastard rapist the satisfaction.

Aaron's smile is spun of wrath and cruelty as the yanks down Zachary's jeans and boxers, the articles also making their way to the carpeted floor. He pitches forward on his heels, grasping the teenager's cock in a vice-like grip.

"Do you want this?" he hisses, pumping to illustrate.

Zach looses control, and he can't vocalize he's breathing so erratically, wanting to move away though all his body wants to do is move into the man, let him take what they both so desperately need.

All he can do is nod, eyes sliding closed once more as his face burns in shame.

Then knees are drawn up, strewn over shoulders, and Aaron's fingers are pushing against his opening dry. Zach can already sense how much this is going to hurt, and he can't help the way his muscles tense in realization.

"Relax," he warns the boy, scratching his stomach a bit harder than he had intended, watching--fixated as small pools of blood gather in the marks.

Zach hisses in pain, but complies out of necessity, eyebrows drawing together as one thick, unlubricated finger breaches him. The ring is cold against his insides, and he thinks he might explode, but all too soon a second finger joins it and he lets out a pained moan.

Green eyes light in anger, and the second hand comes up, closing around his throat once more. The way Aaron squeezes his air passage is the way he had squeezed his cock, and all things considered.. he finds himself getting hard, if only a little bit.

"You want me," Aaron insists, and by the tone of his voice.. Zach knows it's a justification. One hand tightens as the other probes deeper, searching for that small bud that might make the boy jump.

Turns out it does, and after, Zach is a quivering bundle of nerves, struggling for breath even as he's granted very little. And all too soon, the man is lining his cock up to Zachary's entrance, pushing in as he pushes down on his larynx. Just as he thinks he might drift off, lose himself to a much-welcome black, Aaron pulls his fingers away, resting them on the boy's shoulder instead.

The hand that had been inside him comes up to rest on his hip, fingers immediately digging in as he forces himself to pause, feeling Zach's muscles contract around him. Not even Teddy had been this tight, and it takes him a moment to adjust. As he thrusts in, those ringed fingers come up off Zach's shoulder to plunder the depths of his mouth, no doubt stifling any noise that might want to escape. And for the first time Aaron feels fully sheathed in warmth, and completely without restraint.

With a muffled groan he starts up a torturing pace, matching his blows with the fingers thrusting in and out of that tender mouth. After a few minutes, he gives up on trying to find the boy's prostate, simply driving into him without mercy, fingers forgotten in the moment as they slide away with a knowing pop.

The fingers are replaced by Aaron's mouth as he chews Zachary's lips to ribbons, fingers moving down his body to do as much damage as possible even as he's breaking the boy from the inside out. It's not until he realizes that his movements are lubricated by blood that he truly looses himself, crying out as he bites into the boy's shoulder, hammering away until the world dulls around them and the body beneath him goes limp.

Aaron spends himself and pulls away from the broken teen, pressing one last kiss to those bloody lips, chaste and in contrast to every other action. He unties Zach from the bed-frame before moving away to shower, calling back over his shoulder that they're even now.

Zach stares unseeing at the hotel ceiling, trying to remember ever feeling this numb. But he can't, and he finds himself wondering idly... if he'll ever properly feel again.

After a time and well before Aaron's shower is done, he redresses himself sans his tattered shirt, pulling his sweatshirt over bare flesh. He makes the long trek home, not precisely sure where he is yet knowing the way just the same.

And when he drops into his bed, shoes still fastened to his feet, he sighs. It really is the best his sheets have ever felt, crumpled around him in the mockery of comfort. He can't even be angry that his bike is wrecked either because, in the state he's in, he knows he can't ride one anyway.

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 17:09:22 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Falling up and Spiraling down (2.5/?)
Fandom: Little Miss Sunshine
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne, Dwayne/Andrew (MOC)
Rating: Rish
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: incest, slash, underage
Summary: A one-shot I wrote for our RP universe.
Word Count: 362

Lips crush his, but they're heavy; sticky with want. Not at all like... That's certainly not appropriate, not here; not ever. The most acceptable way he can think up to tell himself he doesn't want this is, I'm not gay, and it's become his untidy mantra. Before he can return the sloppy kiss, he's being pushed back onto stiff, ungiving leather and everything in him is screaming at him to halt this--to make it go away. But the other boy persists, grabby hands flying everywhere until their naked torsos collide as he pillages Dwayne's mouth, his wrists held down by the same force as his hips.

And even as tears spring into his eyes, his loins stir, adrenaline causing him to buck off the seat, hot flesh meeting hot flesh, and even he can't deny that on some level, it feels good. What doesn't feel good is that piercing gaze, those laughing eyes taking him in when all he needs is to be left alone. He pushes against the boy's chest only to find himself hopelessly entangled, their nakedness becoming painfully apparent in the pale moonlight.

"Andrew, I can't--"

"Shhh," and it's all over. His world recedes into a darkness where the only music is his uncle's voice softly reciting Proust whilst he believes Dwayne to be asleep. The only sensation is those strong arms wound about him in a comfort unachievable by any other action...

And he's coming, tears streaming down his face as the image above him transforms. Dark, world-wearied eyes become bright and young; bristly beard and unkempt hair become an almost well-groomed blonde mop except for a cow lick right in the middle. Everything is wrong, and so is Dwayne.

Eyes still wide, still wet with his confusion, he pulls himself from Andrew's embrace; watches as those softly shining eyes loose their glow. He pulls on his clothes haphazardly, well-worn yellow tee-shirt backwards and inside out as he climbs out of the vehicle, stepping into his pants the rest of the way. He can't look back, but he does have the presence of mind to call, "Sorry," over his shoulder before sprinting home.

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 16:56:55 GMT

Author: Ca sesemperamabo and Lauren psychicfridge
Title: Falling up and Spiraling down (2/?)
Fandom: Little Miss Sunshine
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne
Rating: PG for this part
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: incest, slash, underage
Summary: I return to fandom with RP mmcest! Lauren is Frank and I'm Dwayne, a'course.
Word Count: 2205

The TV is tuned to some horrible show. All Frank can discern is that MTV no longer plays music or anything of any merit at all.

His cell phone beeps out a melody, and he immediately scrabbles for it. Anything for a break from this shit. "Hello?"

“Hi, Frank,” Sheryl's cheery voice rings through the other side. She's happy to hear her brother's voice—he's been distant since... well, since Dwayne visited. “How're things?”

Maybe... maybe she should suggest Dwayne visit again? They always had gotten along, but maybe they had a fight. Dwayne seems especially... angsty these days.

Frank feels that bright hot rush of fear. He told her, he told her, I deserve what I get but oh God-

"They're- they're good. How are you?"

“I'm fine!” Liar. “Well...” Break for nervous laugh.

She shrugs, eyeing Dwayne's closed door.

“You know.” Does he? “Dwayne seems... off lately. Do you have any idea what's up with him.? Lord knows he doesn't talk to me.”

Yeah, it's cigarette time. Sneak-out-without-Richard-noticing-because-he's-too-wrapped-up-in-his-nine-steps quality smoking time.

"I don't know." It sounds like he's being deliberately stupid, even to him. "He didn't seem mad, when he left the- the room."

The blood is pounding in his ears. Liar.

She frowns, taking a long drag as she ponders his question—much too absent-minded to notice her brother's abruptness.

“Oh,” she says finally, biting the inside of her lip. “You know, I've been thinking... I think you two should hang out again soon.”

She can't help it, she likes the idea of her boys together.

Her smile's evident when she relates, “You're good for each other.”

Frank winces, mouth going dry. "I don't know. Dwayne's got his own problems. I shouldn't... dump mine on him too."

He can't think of any better excuse.

Except for the truth.

Her frown deepens and she looks at her cigarette, wondering idly if she really wants to finish it.

“Nonsense. You know he's not like that. And anyhow, I bet you can help him a lot more than you think.”

And even if he can't, she knows it will make Frank feel better at no cost to Dwayne. He likes to listen, the strange creature that he is. But how else could one go almost a year without a word?

“Look,” she sighs, stubbing out the cigarette and dragging her hand across her forehead as she forces herself back inside. “It's not like I'd make you; I think we both know I can't make you do anything...”

Dwayne passes by her in the hall, head down as he stalks back to his room. Perfect.

“Just.. talk to him.” Her smile turns terse as she shoves the phone at her son.

The teen's face takes on the look of absolute confusion.

“It's uncle Frank,” she says simply by way of explanation, walking away quite pleased with herself—back to her dishes. Great.

“H-hi.” Shit. Dwayne hadn't stuttered in at least five years. That had taken a lot of coaching dammit.

"Hi." Frank's voice rasps. "Your mother didn't tell me she was going to- yeah. How- how are you?"

Dwayne can't bring himself to speak. He hasn't been talking since... yeah, again. Sometimes it's just easier that way.

“Been trying to figure out a way to bypass my colorblindness,” he says finally, his voice flat ad emotionless as his mind wanders... too fucking much. “Nothing new.”

Taking a deep breath he can't let out, he has to wonder why the fuck his mom had handed him the phone. Had something happened? Did she... suspect.. No. She couldn't.

“Are you... okay?” Am I?

And somehow that gets a quick laugh from Frank, who hadn't thought it was possible, in a situation like this. "Yeah, I'll be fine, I think." It was a little sad, that he was in a bad enough place that the nephew he'd recently molested had to ask.

Which brought him right back to the problem. Not necessarily the real one, but immediate. "Your mom wants us to hang out."

“Do you, uh... want to?” He knows it's pathetic, but he can't shake the voice in his head that screams, He hates you! He hates you! and every cry cuts a little bit deeper.

He can hear the waver in his nephew's voice, the little change in pitch that means he has to tread lightly. "Dwayne, I... I'm not sure it's such a good idea." Not after what happened last time.

Dwayne bites his lip, nodding into the phone even though he knows his uncle can't hear it. Speaking has quite nearly become a chore.

“We're going to have to see each other sometime,” he reasons, though honestly, not many situations would call for them being unchaperoned. He knows why he's really saying it, and it's scary as all hell to analyze. So he leaves it off. “But I.. get it. I like your company, okay? It's that simple.”

Not simple at all.

"Yeah, I know," he sighs out. He does.

"We can go out someplace. There's a- a restaurant, near here. I could meet you there." He'll go anywhere, as long as they're not alone. He doesn't think he can take a repeat of the last time.

He lets out a breath he had forgotten he'd been holding, the small remnants of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sure thing,” he says softly. “What's it called?”

Dwayne scribbles the restaurant name on his hand and walks out without so much as a glance to his mother in her domain. He needs the walk, but not so much the headache.

Waiting outside the Italian place with local flare... he knows he's been here before, but what he can't remember for the life of him is this feeling. This stomach-fluttering, soul-crushing feeling that he's waiting for the only thing worth waiting for on this whole planet. He... they just need to talk. He has news, too; another thing he'd forgotten until he sees Frank, dressed in something almost dark for a change.

Frank almost feels like it will be alright, that he can get over what happened for long enough to have a normal evening, until he sees Dwayne. The look on his nephew's face...

It's not alright. It's going to take more than a few weeks of avoidance to fix this.

"Hi."

Dwayne snaps out of it, but he's never been one for his mother's brand of problem-solving. Pretending had never gotten him very far.

“Hey,” he says, not at all focused on reality. He's afraid if he does his world itself may crumble. “Let's... grab a table then.”

A weak smile, but it's there all the same.

That little smile, it almost puts Frank at ease. Almost. He smiles back, tightly. "Yeah, sure."

Dwayne nods—guess that means I'm doing the talking then. It's a new concept, but as they sit down at a booth, menus hiding carefully coached emotion, he can't think of a word to say.

But as the drinks come around, their meals in the works... even Dwayne can't stay silent any longer.

“How do I tell if I love someone?” he asks suddenly, then freezes, blush threatening to turn him into a tomato before he can even jump to his own defense. “I didn't mean...” you.

And he hadn't.

“There's this guy at school who...” Biting his lip and looking back at his shoes—which is difficult, he admits as the table is rather in his line of vision. “Nevermind,” he mutters, taking a sip of his Coke and resigning that he can shut up, after all.

Frank almost chokes on his ice tea. "I don't... I don't know how you tell. You just kind of figure it out, eventually."

He pauses before he takes the bait. "What- who's the guy at school?" As dangerous as it is, he wants to know.

“He's... gay.” Shaking his head, he cracks a lop-sided smile in hopes of lightening the mood. “Come on, who better to help me with this than you?”

Fuck. Not working. A month ago, that would have been an acceptable comment. Now... Now it's just. Fuck.

“Not what I meant. I'm not saying anything right so let's just forget it.” As he shakes his head a second time, the waitress comes with their food, but Dwayne sure as hell isn't hungry.

"Yeah, okay." Frank focuses on his food, which looks decent, for as long as he can, before he looks back up at Dwayne. "If you want to talk, whatever... whatever happened, we can still talk."

“I...”

Frank really wants to know? He... Dwayne could owe him that much.

“I'm just... confused,” he sighs, cheek on his hand as he looks across the table to his uncle. This is awkward.

"Yeah, that- happens to the best of us." Frank knows.

The rest of the meal passes mostly in awkward silence, for which Frank is almost grateful. He pays the check and walks out, Dwayne behind him, completely unsure of how to keep the evening normal.

They're walking out the door, and he can't keep his heart from pounding. Memories and images flooding his mind and he can't... get a grip.

“The Air Force isn't too keen on gays either,” Dwayne says, a small bark of laughter forcing its way past his lips. “I don't know what to do.”

Frank looks at him, sidelong. "So you're... you're gay, now? This doesn't, doesn't have anything to do with-" He sighs.

“I'm...” not gay. “I just...” like you.

Dwayne's face takes on a pained expression, but this is the end. They have to talk about this.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he snaps, knowing there are fresh tears in his eyes. Knowing he's lying. “I don't know how I feel about... him. And, he's... persistent.”

"I'm sure." I can see why. Frank winces and tries another route. "I'm sorry. I thought I wasn't quite conceited enough to think it's all about me, but... I'm sorry. I'm sure you have your reasons."

Which of course sounds worse. Fuck.

My reasons...?

Taking a deep breath, he tries to look into his uncle's eyes.

“I think... I think I'm going to try this out; see what happens.”

Wincing, Dwayne looks away. But there's nothing else he can say until he's heard Frank's reaction.

Frank is disappointed. He knows he has absolutely no right to be, but... he is. He was hoping that Dwayne was at least as broken up about this as he is, but... evidently that selfish little need for schadenfreude wouldn't be satisfied.

And he knows it's irrational, but he feels a little spark of anger. This is that stupid business with Josh all over again- being left for the newer, better model after a test drive. Of course it's not the same thing. Of course Dwayne is making a good decision, and of course Frank is being stupid.

That doesn't stop it from hurting.

So he just says, "Yeah, try it out. That sounds like a good plan." It sounds lackluster even to him.

Is his uncle... jealous? Goddammit.

I thought this is what you wanted, he thinks, too distraught to say anything aloud.

“I'm not even sure I really even like him...” Dwayne bites his lip, looking up at his uncle and the houses going by. Where are they now? He hadn't been paying attention. “I'm not even sure I'm really...”

With a deep sigh, Dwayne runs a hand back through his lengthening hair. Maybe he'll let it go back to his natural color. Black was getting tired.

“Do you know where we are?” he asks after a beat, wishing things weren't like this. Wishing... he could have his easy relationship with his uncle back.

"Yeah, I think we're about ten minutes from the hotel, that way." Frank points to his right. "Your house should be just a little further than that."

They walk, and Frank lets the silence build for a few minutes, before he speaks again. "Look, Dwayne, what happened that night... it was a mistake. We both know it. It called up some strange things for me, and it probably did the same for you, but it was just... I'm getting through some things, and you're fifteen. We shouldn't let a... a lapse in judgement make things this hard. You're my nephew, and I love you. So let's try to put it in the past."

They're just words, and he knows it, but words are all he's dealt in, all his life. He should be able to use them for something real now.

Dwayne's breath catches in his throat and he's running into Frank's arms, a smile plastered against the other man's torso.

"I'm sorry,” he chokes, pulling away after a reasonable amount of time. “It was a mistake, and we can... get over this.”

At the time, he could almost believe the words, as long as he had his uncle to rely on.

Frank's breath hitches as Dwayne hits him headfirst in the chest. He lets his arms rest around his nephew, lets himself relax more than he has in weeks.

"Yeah. It'll- it'll be okay."

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 18:44:58 GMT

Author: Ca sesemperamabo and Lauren psychicfridge
Title: Falling up and Spiraling down (1/?)
Fandom: Little Miss Sunshine
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. etc.
Warnings: incest, slash, underage
Summary: I return to fandom with RP mmcest! Lauren is Frank and I'm Dwayne, a'course.
Word Count: 5616

Dwayne stared up at his poster of a man he had so idolized. A man he had based solid months of his life around, hoping to one day fly jetplanes. He was starting to realize it for the immature boy's dream that it was. He discarded his math homework and stood, staring at the cot where Frank had been mere days ago. Dwayne supposed he should be happy for his "uncle", but the truth was... he missed the company. Grandpa and now Frank. Gone just like his vision--in a flash; a crazy roadtrip from Hell.

"Dwayne! Get the chicken out of the car!" He scowled, crossing his arms across his chest as he stalked across the living room carpet just to show his mother how dismayed he was. He supposed that was pretty immature, too, but so was walking right past the car without skipping a beat. Didn't mean it would stop him from doing it. And on the way to the hotel where Frank was staying--what? It was inevitable. He didn't have real friends, and Frank was the first person who had ever talked to him without mocking or loathing or the motherfucking 9 steps. Fuck it, maybe he could convince Frank to let him stay for the weekend. He had had to give up his space when Frank was hurting; it was only fair.

Frank got up to answer the knock on his door, guiltily throwing aside his (stolen) copy of Larry Sugarman's new book. It might be petty, but he was going through the book, red pencil ready to mark out its flaws.

It was unfortunate that he hadn't found any yet.

A quick glance through the viewer and he opened the door to his hotel room, a little confused. "Dwayne. Hi."

Dwayne glanced nervously past his uncle. Now that he had gotten here, he was ready to flee.

"I, uh, needed..." You needed what? What the fuck are you even going to say now? "I needed to get away."

He looked into Frank's eyes, wondering what exactly it was that made him crave this man's company so, but he just.. got it.

"I.. miss you," he offered as a sign of weakness, grinning lopsidedly to hopefully prove he couldn't possiby be serious.

Frank's eyebrow furrowed a little. Dwayne's voice sounded forced. "Uh, why don't you come in?" He stepped aside, holding the door for his nephew. "How is... everything?"

Meaning, are your mom and stepdad back to the brink of divorce?

Dwayne bit his lip as he walked into the hotel room, frame tense as he tried to work out what to do now.

“I love what you've done with the place,” he snarked, sitting heavily in the lone armchair by the window. Even he noticed the book that had been cast aside with little care. Larry Sugarman. Perfect chance to skirt Frank's question with one of his own. “Doing some light reading?”

"No, no, it's just... Yeah. I'm a Proust scholar-" the Proust scholar until this jerk got published- "and it's important to keep up with... advances in the field." He smiled, a little tightly. "Why, wouldn't Nietzsche approve?"

He had to smile at that, staring at his heels, fingers twisting in his lap.

“Not of the way you're beating yourself up over it.” It was an honest, sincere sentiment. He didn't often make a point of conveying those. “This guy's just a skank anyway—you'll find someone who's not... as easily swayed.”

His grin broadened as he looked up at his uncle—Larry Sugarman had nothing on Frank.

“You're the #1 Proust scholar in the nation, man,” he reminded the other man, his leg reaching out to tap Frank's fondly; fleetingly. “Who wouldn't want you?”

Frank inclined his head slightly, confused. It almost seemed like- but no. This was Dwayne. It was sick to even think that way. He quickly walked over to a drawer in the mini-kitchen. "Want something? I think I've got some tea somewhere in here." It was the only thing in the drawer, but he made a show of pawing through. Anything so he wouldn't have to look at Dwayne while he was thinking about...

It was still sick, even if he liked the thought.

"Sure," he said softly, withdrawing back into his shell. What was he trying to do here? Just because his uncle was gay didn't mean it was appropriate for him to say these things; even think them.

He forced a smile, flicking on some worthless TV program so he wouldn't have to hear the too-rapid beat of his own heart.

“Sounds great.”

It was hard to believe that Dwayne watched MTV, but then again, he was a teenager. Keep reminding yourself of that.

Frank handed Dwayne the styrofoam cup full of tea. "Chamomile. Careful, it's hot."

He let a minute of awkward silence pass, before he asked again. "I'm pretty sure you didn't come here for the ambiance. Something on your mind?"

Dwayne stalled the question with a cautious sip, taking a moment to throw Britney Spears on mute. She would only ruin what he was about to say.

Which was.. what exactly? He still had not a clue.

“I can't stand another minute.” His voice was already dimming, close to cracking if he weren't careful. As if Frank needed a reminder of his inexperience; how pathetic he was. “Those people... I felt like when you were there, I had half a chance.”

He knew it wasn't fair, but when he looked up this time it was with all the frightened child his soul had to offer. How was it Frank made him feel this way? Safe.

Frank sighed. "They're your family. Everyone has to hate their family." A beat. "Especially Richard."

He turned to Dwayne. "If it gets to be too much, I'm here."

That was the point, wasn't it? He had come because he knew Frank would be here for him. He didn't know how; he just.. knew. He put his tea down and stood up, nervously chewing on the inside of his mouth.

“It's too much,” he whispered, fists clenched at his side, voice threatening to waver. There—this was it. His cards were out on the table and fuck the rest.

"Hey it's- it's okay." Frank awkwardly hugged his nephew. "It'll be okay. It gets better." The bandages still on his wrists only made the lie even more obvious. But it was one of the things you said.

Dwayne froze for a moment, suspended in Frank's arms. He could have called him on the bandages, the book, but he didn't. Instead, he felt his own hands make the awkward climb up Frank's back, clinging to him for all he was worth.

His face against his uncle's chest; he could feel the steady lubdublubdub of Frank's heart, only... it wasn't very steady. Well, it was about as steady as his own, actually.

“Please,” he choked out, a tear running down his exposed cheek, saline no doubt soaking through the pale shirt where his eye was pressed against it.

Please let me stay.

When he felt the teardrop, Frank tried to make the right noises, to sound soothing, but it wouldn't come out right. He gave up, and just tightened his arms around the boy. "It's okay." It came out just above a whisper.

This was stupid, childish. Everything he had fought so hard to prove he wasn't. Pulling away abruptly, he scrubbed at his face, wishing that there was any chance in hell Frank hadn't noticed.

“It's harder without you there,” he admitted suddenly, eyes wide and searching. “I need your help.”

"Okay." He nodded, stepping back to put that extra distance between them. "I'm not sure there's a lot I can do, but I'll try. What do you need?"

He didn't think that anything he could do would really help Dwayne, but it did feel good to be needed. Better than it had since before... well. Before.

“Let me stay the weekend,” he said firmly, not sure where his voice had come back from though he was grateful all the same. If he could just... ignore them for a little while, maybe he could...

The phone was ringing. Dammit. Frank turned to open it, but Dwayne grabbed his arm. No one else called his uncle.

“Don't tell her I'm here,” he pleaded. “Please.”

Frank looked a little pained. He couldn't help it. He was stuck between his obligations to his sister, and the desire to help his nephew out. "I can't do that. I'll just... I'll just say you needed a little space." He caught the look he was getting from Dwayne, and said, "She's my sister. I can't let her worry all night."

Dwayne fled to the bathroom to give Frank and his mother their space. What the fuck was he doing? There was no way in hell this would work. His mother would be here within the hour, and then what? Then he'd have to leave, back to that house; mockery of a home.

After a few minutes he reemerged, face and hands scrubbed nearly raw with his anxiety. He wanted to ask Frank when she'd be here, but the words caught in his throat.

“I'm sorry for causing you trouble—I won't show up here again like this.” He shook his head and gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

Frank looked at him, confused. "Your mom said you could stay, if that's the problem." He laughed a little at the look on Dwayne's face. "I told you, she's my sister. It wasn't a big deal." And it hadn't been, which said a lot about how much his sister cared for him. Sheryl was letting her son stay with him, in spite of his suicide attempt just a few weeks before.

It made Frank feel impossibly worse about looking at her son the way he did.

“Oh.”

Dwayne's mind stopped running, and he took a moment to just... laugh. There was very little humor in it. He found it funny in an entirely dull way that if he had asked his mother to stay at Frank's, there would have been no way he'd be allowed to come here. Then again, if he had asked Frank in advance, maybe the result would have been the same.

“Do you... have anything I could cook for us?” He was going out on a limb, and not many people knew he liked or even knew how to cook, but if he was going to take advantage like this it was the least he could do.

"Well, I have a microwave and a toaster, and I do have soup and bread..." He forced a smile at Dwayne. Yeah, that's what every teenager wants, a prepackaged cup of soup and some toast.

He regrouped. "Pizza sound good?"

"No," he said shortly, near immediately regretting his tone. "I mean..."

Shaking his head, Dwayne disappeared into the kitchen, poking around for some bowls and spoons.

“Soup sounds fine,” he insisted, switching on the microwave as he opened a can of Vegetable Medley. He would probably never admit to why he had prevented his uncle from ordering pizza, but the truth was... he didn't want anyone else in here.

He was one fucked up kid.

Frank nodded. "Yeah, Campbell's does a good job..." His voice faded partway through.

They took turns with the microwave, and Frank cleared his clothes off the chairs around the little table.

"How's... Olive?" He was on the verge of asking about Sheryl, but he figured Olive was a safer choice.

He started, leaning against the counter with his too-hot-to-eat soup.

“She's.. okay, you know.”

Another tight smile as he popped some bread into the toaster.

“You'll have to let me cook for you some time... for real.” He took a tentative sip of his soup, a real smile carefully hidden behind his spoon.

"I didn't know you cooked." He raised his eyebrows briefly, but couldn't shake the awkward feeling of having someone to whom he was so attracted (and how the hell had that happened?), but so untouchable, in his small hotel room.

Dwayne shook his head, heaving out a sigh of dismissal; breaking the spell.

“So what have you been doing around here to keep yourself... entertained?” He pondered a moment, and before Frank could answer he was back with another question. “Any luck in the job department?”

Frank jumped a little at the "entertained" question, but he collected himself quickly. "Well, I've been working on my resume for the past few days, and a friend of mine from my old job has been... trying to get my name out there." The resume part was a complete lie, and while one of his former coworkers had said he could ask the friend of a friend for a possible favor... it was a long shot.

"I figure, until then, I can just... think about writing again. That's what I loved from the start about being in literature. I miss it."

"That's neat, you know," Dwayne said softly, throwing a slice of toast at his uncle as the toaster popped up. As he dunked his own toast in his soup, he thought about what it would be like to write. "I don't think I could ever have words in that much... volume to ever write a book."

He shook his head, taking in his mediocre meal. It felt home-cooked next to a bucket of chicken.

“Do you have something in the works now?”

"I was thinking of starting out with just a nice, pretentious article. You know, boring and dry, but something. Then I'll work my way up to a book. Of course, with that... thing fresh on the shelves," he gestured to Sugarman's book, "I doubt anyone's going to want to read a second time about understanding Proust."

And there it was. He was old news.

Dwayne frowned. He hated that Frank thought this way about himself; that he didn't see his own potential. Even Dwayne knew you had to believe in yourself to do shit like this. Even if his father's steps were bullshit, they weren't completely bullshit. Gesturing with his spoon, he had to point something out.

“Look, I may not know fuck all about Proust or this Sugarman guy, but if you want to keep your #1 status that you so rightly deserve...” He gave a chuckle, looking at the floor as he set his half-eaten soup down. “You have to take a different tact. Say something different with the same words.. you know?”

Am I speaking English?

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just..." He smiled faintly. "I think I'll work on that paper and my resume before I start in on a book."

Then a corner of his mouth turned up a little, real this time. "Thanks, Dwayne."

Thank you? Thank you? "Thank you?" Dwayne blinked owlishly, crossing his arms over his chest. "For what?"

Frank shrugged. "You're the first person in a while to say I'm... a winner, as Richard would put it. At least, the first person I wasn't paying by the hour."

He blinked, then snorted. "By which I meant psychiatrists, in case that wasn't... abundantly clear."

Not that he'd been getting much of either- sex or psychiatric care- lately.

Dwayne blushed, a small laugh escaping his lips.

“Look, man, you don't have to thank me for being honest.”

With a shake of his head, he leaned forward to pat Frank on the arm before disappearing back into the “other room” behind the partition. He felt... strange, but hell if he knew what it meant. Dwayne dropped onto the hotel bed with a sigh.

“But you know,” he called out so his uncle could hear across the room. “I already feel a lot better... Want to watch a movie or something?”

"Yeah, sure, I've got..." He searched through the pile of books to one side of his bed, pulling out the DVDs. "A bad documentary on French philosophers, a bad romantic comedy, Aliens, and Casablanca. Pick your poison."

He laughed at that and shook his head.

“Maybe some stupid TV instead, or maybe I can find some movie on here somewhere...”

Dwayne channel surfed until he landed on something almost tolerable, but he still didn't have the attention span to actually sit there and watch it. He felt a lot more fidgety than usual.

“I have a question.” He couldn't look at his uncle for this one, but... “When did you first know you were gay?”

Oh. Oh. That explained some things.

"I suspected in... I guess middle school. I dated a little in high school, but it didn't really do much for me. I knew, for sure, in college."

He considered, for a second, how far was too far, when talking about this kind of thing with his nephew. But he did still remember how hard it had been at Dwayne's age. So he went with airbrushed honesty.

"It was after I first slept with someone I really loved. I woke up the next morning, next to him, and realized that I couldn't feel like that about a woman."

Dwayne bit his lip and patted the comforter next to him.

“Is it... uncomfortable, talking about these things with me?” He had to know; he had so many questions, but.. he wasn't about to push it.

"Yeah, a little. I'm not sure... how much information is too much information, and how little is lying." He exhaled slowly. "But it's probably good to talk about it. For... everyone's benefit."

He wasn't exactly sure what that was supposed to mean, but as his uncle took a seat next to him he felt like the older man must be right. And it meant his most likely outlandishly invasive questions would be answered so.. It worked out.

“What did that feel like—waking up next to... him?”

Dwayne took a deep breath and held it, at the ready to absorb any information Frank sent his way.

"Ah. Well. It felt like... I didn't feel like the night before had been a mistake. That was a first. And it seemed like the rest of the day couldn't be a mistake either, because... I didn't have to hide it, anymore."

“When did you tell Mom?” he asked suddenly. It wasn't that his mother was conservative, or unaccepting of her brother. On the contrary, it was just hard to believe Cheryl and Frank were raised the same way at times.

He was becoming the obnoxious little boy who wouldn't stop asking why and he knew it; he just didn't know how to stop it without a new vow of silence.

"I told her about a year later, after I graduated. She took it fine." He paused. "Is there... any reason you're asking me this?"

He had a pretty good idea of why, but he wanted to be sure before he started making too many assumptions.

And just like that the blush was back.

“No reason,” he snapped, staring intently at the floor. “I don't get much human interaction. Sometimes...”

He looked over at his uncle when his color resumed its normal state, chewing on the inside of his lip again.

“When did you first have thoughts of suicide?” Fuck. That hadn't been what he had meant to say at all. He knew he had taken up silence for a reason.

Frank rocked back slightly. "I don't... I don't think I should talk about that with you," he said quietly. "If you're feeling that way, I know a couple of doctors who could help."

But not me. Frank knew that he wasn't stable, not yet, and trying to relive it one more time for anyone else's benefit, even Dwayne... he wasn't ready.

“I'm sorry,” he managed around the lump in his throat, the pain etched in his uncle's eyes clear for him to see. “I didn't.. I didn't mean that.”

Trying on a warm smile and moving in for a short, impulsive shoulder-embrace, he sighed.

“Tell me the truth,” he said in mock warning. “Was I better when I... didn't speak?”

Frank laughed, to break the tension, and put his arm around Dwayne lightly in turn. "Honestly?" He faked a wince, then went back to smiling. "It's good to hear you talk for yourself."

Good to hear your voice.

Subconsciously leaning into Frank, he pulled his legs up underneath him, kicking off his shoes in the same (almost) fluid motion.

“I can tell they love each other,” Dwayne said softly, into Frank's collarbone. “But I guess it's true what they say... sometimes it just isn't enough.”

"It's true." He let his eyes flash down to Dwayne (when did he get so close?), then fixed them on the wall straight ahead of him.
"Love doesn't fix anything. It makes things worth the pain, but they're just as hard. Sometimes harder." His eyes flicked over again.

Dwayne gave out a sigh, giving into the urge to drop his head on Frank's shoulder.

“It must be very painful for you.” He couldn't imagine that kind of loss; wasn't sure he'd ever want to put himself out there to discover it for his own. “What...makes it worth it?”

Last question, I swear...

Frank exhaled quickly. "The good parts. Those little moments when... when you're... close to the people you love." Oh God.

He rushed on. "Family. A lot of people will do anything, just for the sake of not being alone." He let himself touch his nephew's hair, just run his fingers through once. It was sick and wrong, but as long as that's all it was, a little touch... he could allow himself that much and still get to sleep at night.

He let out a small noise of content, smiling to himself over his uncle's fairy tale prospect. He wondered idly if he might ever meet a girl to feel that way about.... a boy, even. Sitting here like this, it was easy to pretend, and that's all he needed just now anyway. Some small illusion to make this week worth seeing the end, and perhaps the one after that. Some shifting around found him with his head in Frank's lap, his lean form stretched over the width of the hotel bed.

“You would make a good father, you know.” Dwayne laughed when he realized what he had implied, staring unseeingly at the television screen. “If you were so inclined.”

Frank laughed too. "I don't think I am. But thanks for saying it. Every time I think about trying to take care of a baby... it wouldn't work."

Frank remembered when Dwayne, and then Olive, were in diapers. Those hadn't been good years, and he didn't think he could deal with that full-time, no matter how attached he was to the kid.

“Yeah, I get that. Taking care of a whole new person... it's completely daunting.”

Dwayne wasn't sure what to think of kids, but he supposed he had a few years to think about all that. It wasn't exactly pertinent in his life just yet. What was perhaps more pertinent was the way his stomach churned while in proximity of his uncle, the way he felt completely and ridiculously relaxed while in his company, even when he was busy being a nervous wreck. It just seemed so natural to lye here this way, even though Dwayne didn't consider himself a physically affectionate person.. this just fit, with him and Frank. This was just how it was, and he was cool with that.

“How are your... you. How are you healing?” He didn't seem to know how to shut the fuck up anymore, even at the expense of his uncle's feelings. “Sorry again―don't answer that.” Unless you want to.

Frank looked down at the boy's head, resting over his thighs, and realized that he could answer that and it wouldn't feel as bad as it usually did. "I'll have scars. It's not- not a question of that. But they don't hurt so much, anymore."

He ruffled Dwayne's hair, wiggling his fingers. "See? No pain." It was as much to lighten the mood, as just to touch.

He smiled into the man's leg, intercepting his other arm so as to not discourage him from keeping up the pressure to his scalp. Human contact... It was nice. His own fingers ghosted over the neatly wrapped bandages as he flipped over so as to better make eye contact.

“I'm glad you made it.” And he was, but it was so much more than that. Frank had shown him a world that cared what he had to say. His words mattered in this room and only―no one else had ever truly listened. He gave his uncle that genuine smile though it was fading fast. “Don't know what I'd do without you.”

He froze, but he didn't recant; he couldn't even breathe. Had he really just said that? How stupid could he get?

Frank's eyes widened. He wasn't an idiot, even if it had been stupid to ignore the hints up until now. He knew that look. "I don't think you mean that," he whispered, barely audible even to him.

His hand was still against Dwayne's face. He let his thumb just graze his nephew's cheek. It was something they could both ignore, if they wanted.

Frank just didn't want to.

“It's the truth,” he insisted, teenage defiance coloring his words even as he leaned into Frank's hand, letting out a small shudder at the sensation. It was pathetic, but he felt himself having to say it despite that. “You're the only one to ever listen; to make me want to say anything in the first place.”

Dwayne bit his lip―needing Frank to understand; to not think he was a freak.

“You get it.”

Frank's breathing hitched. "I... I try to."

He couldn't move, one way or another. Now was the time to tell Dwayne to leave, now, before they did something stupid and regrettable. Or, now was the time to lean in, kiss him, and 'fuck the rest'.

Instead he was frozen in place. "You should- we should-" but his mouth couldn't get the rest of the words out.

He scowled. That certainly hadn't been the right thing to say, and yet.. he couldn't convince himself that it was a good idea to move. Instead, he clenched Frank's arm tighter and buried his head in the man's stomach like a small child would―to hide his face, to get some small measure of comfort he couldn't seem to achieve on the opposite side of the room.

“Don't make me leave.” He managed to shake himself with the murmured plea―he wasn't willing to give up this newfound intimacy, regardless of what it might mean.

Frank couldn't suppress a gasp when he felt the boy's face against his stomach, those lips moving by his navel. "I won't. It's just..." He slowly pulled Dwayne up, till their faces were inches away. "Are you sure you don't want to go?" He let his hands run over Dwayne's shoulders, lightly.

Dwayne could feel that familiar heat in his cheeks and he had to look away from those intense eyes. Frank didn't trust himself―it should have scared him shitless and yet he felt safe as could be.

“If you want me to leave, I'm gone.” His voice was all over the place, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not with Frank's breath splaying across his face that way.

Dwayne took a deep breath, positioning his body so he could fall onto the pillows; at nearly the last minute, pulling Frank down on top of him. He could feel their chests rise together, both having difficulty exhaling and it was exhilarating. Exciting in a way he was best off not analyzing. They were so close now that if he blinked, his eyelashes might graze his uncle's cheek... but now that he felt this comfortable weight over him, and he wasn't going anywhere...

The sudden realization was terrifying, and yet, it didn't make him want it any less and it certainly didn't cause him to come to his senses.

Frank gasped out softly, "Don't leave," and, haltingly, lowered his head, brushing his lips against Dwayne's. He paused, pulling back slightly. "Don't leave."

He stroked Dwayne's cheek, lightly. This was his nephew, his sister's teenage son, and yet...

He cradled Dwayne's head in his hand and kissed him again.

Dwayne gasped against his uncle's lips, clinging to the man's upper arms as he felt Frank's lips graze his again and again. He couldn't bring himself to return the kiss just yet, tears welling up in his eyes. This made no sense; was wrong on every level and yet...

Angling his chin upward, he hesitantly slid his tongue into Frank's mouth, little noises carrying between them that echoed his confusion. His desire.

“M'not going anywhere,” he promised without breaking their lips apart, eyes sliding shut as one arm moved across Frank's back.

Frank made a strangled noise in his throat when he felt his nephew return the kiss. This had gone from an innocent evening to deeply wrong, so fast, and yet every tiny motion the boy made beneath him sharpened his focus, his desire.

He dragged his mouth down to Dwayne's neck, pulling the neckline of the boy's shirt aside and mouthing the skin there, his teeth and tongue just gentle enough to leave no marks.

Dwayne cried out, hands automatically darting out to hold the man's head in place. His hips jumped off the bed in response to what his uncle was doing, groin meeting thigh in a clumsy crash. Taking a deep breath, he reluctantly directed Frank's attentions off of him for long enough for his blaringly yellow shirt to drift soundly to the hotel floor.

What were they doing? He shook his head as his hands moved shakily up his uncle's chest, enjoying the way his muscles tensed beneath his ministrations. With a sigh, he replaced his lips on Frank's, winding spindly legs about the man.

Oh, God. Dwayne was painfully young- all muscle and bone beneath his hands, his mouth. He traced his fingers over the now-bare chest, dragging his nails down to just above the line of his pants, then back up to whisper over a nipple.

Dwayne's breath hitched as he met Frank's eyes, lips stilling and breaking away to gasp his pleasure. Nothing had ever... felt this way before. Felt this good. Shaking his head to dismiss his own swirling thoughts, nimble fingers reached for the button's of Frank's shirt--hospital white as always. Undoing them with slow, tedious movements and with a swift kiss for every success Dwayne managed to remove the oxford, heated skin-on-skin leaving his mind blank and his body open.

“Will you... wake up tomorrow and regret this?” Regret me?

"Yeah, I will, and you will too."

He pulled away and dragged his hand over his face. "Shit. Dwayne, I'm- I'm sorry." He covered his eyes, but he couldn't stop the words. "I'm sorry."

It dropped like a stone in the pit of Dwayne's stomach. This was a mistake, and of course it was. Just... No. He could have cried, or screamed, or reacted in some other way, but... He pulled Frank's head to his shoulder, keeping himself wrapped around his uncle. He didn't have anything else to say. They just needed to wait this out; nothing like this could ever happen again.

“It's not your fault,” Dwayne assured dumbly, refusing to dislodge himself when Frank tried to pull away. This closeness. It would be all he'd ever get, ever ever again. And he latched onto it as desperately as his uncle.

Frank cautiously tried to pull away one more time, then dropped his hands to his sides, giving up. "Yeah, I think it is. You're fifteen years- fifteen years old-"

He felt something inside him snap. Snap a little more, anyway. His fifteen-year-old nephew, by blood. How fucking stereotypical was that, a gay uncle molesting an underage boy.

Except it wasn't a stereotype he could sit back and watch from a distance. This was current and real.

"I can't- This is wrong-" He managed to break Dwayne's hold and sit back on the bed.

Dwayne nodded shakily, reaching over the side of the bed to retrieve his tee-shirt. What had he done? Alienated his only ally, that's what. Then again, uncle Frank had kissed him... that wasn't the point. What now?

"Just because I'm fifteen doesn't mean I can't make my own decisions," he muttered, knowing that really wasn't the point either. A pained look came across Dwayne's face as he realized what this meant.. and hated it with all he had in him to hate. Which was rather a lot, at times. "I should probably leave now then." Getting up slowly and trying not to meet Frank's gaze, he went in search of his hoodie, reluctantly pulling it on when he found it.

Frank nodded, and just barely stopped himself before "Please don't tell your mother" crossed his lips. Instead he stood up and walked over to the door.

"Let's... this doesn't have to be a big deal. We'll just- just forget about it." Frank knew it wasn't going to happen, for him at least, but he could pretend.

Dwayne frowned, biting his lip and hugging his sweatshirt to himself. It suddenly seemed a lot colder than before.

"I, uh... had a good time," he said softly, "Let's do it again soon."

A small smile, and he was gone. Looked like Nieztche would be hearing his tears again tonight.

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 09:17:34 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: The Echo of Thought
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder, hints of Mohinder/Zane
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: fluff?, sex, violence, extreme angst
Summary: Happy [early] Birthday, shadowkittykat_!
Notes: I usually don't do this, but this has to be mentioned. The good majority of this fic was written at 4 AM while I was drunk off my ass with my ex-girlfriend as the beta. Yeah, I'm cool.
Word Count: 2209

“Are you making breakfast?” And just like that, her whole face lit up, impossibly wide eyes resting on the frying pan as he folded in the last corner of an omelette.

“Why, yes, I am,” he said with a wide grin. Nothing could spoil this day.

Mohinder stepped out of the bedroom with a yawn; his hair sticking up every which way, just as the kettle came to a boil, its scream echoing down the hall. A warm smile came over the Indian's features as he sidled up to the man, pouring some water into a mug as he went for the refrigerator—pouring two glasses of orange juice.

“Good morning,” he greeted after a few moments, handing the first cup to Molly as she pulled out a chair to sit—looking a bit bleary herself. Dropping unceremoniously into the chair next to her, he couldn't help but smile a little wider as Matt set the egg in front of him.

He couldn't remember anyone ever making him breakfast before.

“Thank you.” It was as sincere as he could muster this early in the morning, and he found himself leaning into the man's scent just the slightest bit, albeit unconsciously.

They had been sleeping together since he had returned from Cairo—oh no! Not like that. Just, in the same bed; sleeping. He knew the other kids at school probably thought otherwise of Molly and her two male guardians, but none of them could afford think of such petty concerns.

Really, they couldn't. That is, Mohinder really needed to stop lest he be overheard. And wasn't that a comforting thought. But late at night, with the other man so close; steady.. and devastatingly sweet; he couldn't help but think it, taking a bite of his egg. It nearly shattered him the way Matt reminded him of Zane—Sylar pretending to be Zane, anyhow.

And that was where they were now, eating toast in silence as wide child eyes flickered from one man to the other.

Matt sometimes—oftentimes, heard things he shouldn't. Things he had no business, no desire to know. But whenever it went quiet, and Mohinder withdrew... he would see a man much different from the murderer he had hunted. A man with a soul; a man Mohinder had clearly trusted with every fiber.. every timbre of his being.

Just as Matt found himself trusting Mohinder. He wondered idly if it was just as much of a mistake. Could a man who had so easily let a monster into his life, head, home.. really be trustworthy? Matt's stolen glimpses of the man's true intentions all pointed to one, consistent answer.

Yes.

It was why he was here, wasn't it? They both had wanted to save Molly; save the world. An overly ambitious goal, perhaps, but Matt would gladly take those bullets again. Well, not.. gladly, but surely without qualms.

“You done?” he asked abruptly, realizing rather suddenly that he had finished his own meal several moments ago, and had been staring out the window, immersed in Mohinder's tortured thoughts...

Zane, Always.. Zane.

The man simply nodded, Molly mimicking his action as Matt rose gingerly from the table and collected their dishes.

“You'll be late for the bus, Molly,” Mohinder said softly, rising from the table himself on spindly legs to help Matt clean up.

“You don't have to,” Matt assured without looking up as they both heard the pitter-patter of Molly's steps and the succeeding door-slam. The sound echoed in Mohinder's head and Matt found himself wincing before he could suppress the reaction.

“What is it?” the doctor asked softly, resting a gentle hand on Matt's shoulder, his breath ghosting across the man's cheek.

“Don't.” Matt shrugged him off, still not meeting his eyes. He couldn't look at the man and hear his thoughts, so obviously crying out for a man who never existed. A man who would never exist. Then another thought clawed its way to the surface, past Zane Taylor and Sylar... the image of Mohinder's gun pressed to the man's forehead would never leave him, to be sure.

But there was something else there.

Matt turned hesitantly to Mohinder; he knew he couldn't be hearing this right... He wasn't gay... he had just divorced his wife. This was so wrong. He could be... just reading the man's intentions the wrong way. Had to be. With a light cough, he fled the room with a look that even Mohinder could construe properly.

Don't follow.

A long time after Matt entered the room where Mohinder was reading quietly, glasses low on his nose as he proceeded to vanish into a side of the sofa, work piled around him—his own little Fort Knox. Matt had to smile at the image the man made as he crossed the room swiftly on dead-silent feet.

“Boo,” he said softly, dropping his hands to the man's shoulders. To his credit, Mohinder jumped, but oddly... didn't move away from his touch; rather leant back into him when he realized who it was. “How goes it?” A more.. obligatory question than most, but he had to fill this space somehow. He couldn't keep listening to the other man's thoughts. It was... creepy.

“Not so well,” Mohinder said with a sigh, massaging his temple idly as his blood pressure rose.

“You're tense.” The words left his lips before he could stop them. Such generic, stupid words; stereotypically employed by men with far too much testosterone... to get women with far too little self-respect into bed.

...What? No.

Matt ignored the niggling voice, and Mohinder's resulting chuckle at his own words as he began to move his fingers over the man's back, easing the pain and tension away the only way he knew how: through touch.

“How's that?” he whispered, leaning down to speak in the man's ear. He saw the residual echo in Mohinder's mind--”This is going to hurt.”

A simultaneous shudder ripped through the both of them, and Matt withdrew his hands. Too much. Too much. Mohinder let out a small cry of loss, turning soft brown eyes on the other man. Why did you stop?

Matt flinched, looking down at his beaten and weathered cop-hands before his eyes snapped up to intercept the geneticist's. The emotion he saw written there.. the pain, desperation highlighted by the man's thoughts he couldn't seem to shut out... And as easily as their eyes met, so were their lips, Matt's hand grasping at the man's shirt as if the closer he could get the quieter Mohinder's thoughts might become.

Mohinder reacted in an instant, pulling Matt down on top of him as the kiss grew deeper. He was Zane and Matt; his father's son, he was anyone and everyone in that moment as he focused on solely the man's lips and his own long fingers skimming down his back, drawing him closer. Matt let out a soft sound, his fingers working into the man's short hair—he could still hear the faint cry of Zane, Zane but their lips seemed to drown out most of it. When a dark leg reached up to hook around his hip the voice stopped altogether, and he found himself mouthing down a long expanse of neck, losing himself in Mohinder's flesh.

He pulled back to look into Mohinder's eyes, but their expression was unchanged.

Why did you stop? that terrible, beautiful voice demanded of him again as their erections brushed through layers upon layers of clothing. He moaned deeply against Mohinder's jugular, calloused hands working at the opening of his pants. Mohinder strained into his ministrations, eyes glazed over with need as he unbuttoned his own shirt, hands reaching out—falling short of Matt's chest.

Matt could deny what he felt all he wanted, but he couldn't deny what he heard; Mohinder's mind-voice telling him to touch him, feel him and never stop.

“Molly will be home soon,” he gasped out around the other man's skin even as he began to unzip his jeans, his polo catching the edge of the TV as he flung it away from their hot bodies.

He couldn't even react as his hips met Matt's of their own accord, his nails digging into a pale back to encourage. Every doubt Matt seemed to have was easily combated by the manipulative thoughts running through the Indian man's head as he pushed him back, hands moving hungrily over his chest; nails scratching idly down his abdomen. Mohinder, never taking his eyes off of his, sucked in Matt's fingers in a languidly wanton display of lust, working the digits around his mouth even as they thrust against one another.

The larger man bit back a groan against Mohinder's shoulder, moving his fingertips slowly down that perfectly dark body, resting against his opening. Mohinder immediately tensed up, his body wanting to pull away, but he wanted this; he wanted Matt, here, now...

Pushing against insistent fingers with determination, Mohinder managed to fill himself with the other man, pulling closer even as a sharp spike of pain shot up his spine. Matt pulled away when he sensed his discomfort, but Mohinder only pulled him deeper, a surprisingly strong hand wrapped around Matt's wrist.

They both began to lose themselves in the rhythm, moving against each other with abandon, cheap-furniture fabric rubbing against Mohinder's back; Matt's thigh.

“Please,” Mohinder choked out, his free hand grasping the other man's cheek. Please.
Matt swallowed, his throat going painfully dry as Mohinder finally allowed him to extract his fingers, and he aligned their hips to replace them. He kissed him once, firmly, as if he could steal the man's confidence through his lips. How could Mohinder be so sure?

As his hands pressed slim hips into the couch cushions, gaining access to the man's body at long last, Mohinder arched up into him, bringing him deep inside—he felt some of that certainty spike through him, hitting him like a bullet. He hit that place within the other man, watching his undoing with unrivaled fascination.

One word echoed through both their minds, very nearly falling from Mohinder's lips as he mouthed that name. Zane.

Matt pulled back only to move forward again, burying himself in the other man—eradicating that hateful spectre from Mohinder's thoughts with long, almost loving strokes. Kissing the man's face, Matt thrust for the last time, climaxing within him. He felt a warmth coat his stomach a moment later, but it didn't register as he seemed determined to collapse against the man, utterly and completely boneless as he tucked his chin into Mohinder's collarbone.

This one thing, like the most obvious thing in the world, and yet... It had been so long in coming; so sweet in delivery.

“Nothing could spoil this,” he whispered against dark skin, his own personal challenge as those long, delicate fingers found his hair.

The door opens and it's about that time for Molly to come home from school. Without a word, Mohinder's telling him to take his clothes to the bedroom—get redressed. Matt doesn't think twice.

Mohinder dresses with deft hands, but when he goes to the door... it's still open; no one's there. He feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle and he slams the door, angrily.

“I said I wasn't done with you yet.”

Matt rushes out of the bedroom, gun drawn even as gunshots echo through mindspace. He's not sure where they originated, and he's not sure he cares. Then he's shooting and he can't remember pulling the trigger, but it doesn't seem to matter as the casings clatter to the floor, rendered useless.

Mohinder doesn't get the chance to scream; no time to react as all too suddenly his blood's running in rivers over the floor, soaking through the carpet under Matt's stocking feet. I'd like to see how this works and Officer Parkman's firearm falls from his hands, impacting the floor with a muffled clang.

There's no stopping Sylar now, and Matt doesn't even think to try.

The door opens a second time and it has to be her. There's no one else... The boogeyman. And it's the last thought Matt Parkman will ever intercept.

Such a pretty little thing, he thinks, stalking towards her. She's shaking already and that's hardly any fun. Then he recognizes her. The Walker girl.

Sylar knows how this one works, and then... the girl begins to scream. Not just any scream. This noise is far worse than any tuning fork, any victim between Dale and the present. He wants to snap her neck just to be able to breathe again.

But this girl is special—perhaps the most special of them all, and he wants to open her up and tinker for a little while, but he just can't focus when she's making that awful sound.

One twist of his finger and she goes deathly silent, her vocal cords crushed. She's screaming mute and it's quite nearly comical.

He doesn't stop until the blood all intermingles near the door, one happy family and they're all together in the end. Sylar doesn't bother to shut the door as he exits, no—doesn't matter now.

He's off to find the cheerleader.

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 06:19:58 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Win Tonight
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Clach
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: fluff?, a bit of angst, some Zachary-introspection
Summary: Claire tries out for cheerleading; Zach doesn't.
Word Count: 479

“Alright, alright!”

He hears her through the door, wonders who she's talking to. Zach has just walked past her entire family downstairs, so it's a safe bet she's alone...

“Claire?” he calls, leaning up against the door when she doesn't seem to hear him.

“Go fight! Win, tonight! Let's get down, Wildcats...”

Oh, right, the Cheerleading tryouts were this coming Wednesday. Claire had been on about them for weeks. Rolling his eyes and shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, he barges his way in, grinning at the scene she makes. Long blonde curls done up high on her head, a stuffed toy in each hand as she goes over a routine even he knows she can do in her sleep.

“Take a rest already,” he chides, diving for the end of her bed. She's been at this all month, and he muses that he must be losing her to the cheerleading beast. He should ask it if her soul is tasty.

...Or not.

She lobs the stuffed kitty at his head, grin threatening to split her face.

“Practice with me, Zachary?” she asks in well-rehearsed iambic, drumming out the beat playfully on her thigh.

He looks at her like she's nuts, but Zach knows already that she's won. When it comes to him, Claire Bennet can't lose.

After a beat, he rolls off of his stomach and grabs the pink kitten. He thinks he just may know these steps as well as Claire herself as he walks it out for the first time, realizing just how much time he's spent in her room.

For a single, terrifying moment he imagines being out on that floor with her, showing the Union Wells Wildcats that he could be one of them just as easily as she. But it's a stupid thought, just a scary, stupid thing to think up.. and it fades, as all things must. As this time they share.. eventually will, just as they'll grow old and apart some day.

Some far away day.

It's getting dark, and he knows he shouldn't stay, but she hasn't asked him to leave yet... and even though the walk home may be treacherous, he'd rather brave it than let her be. Not when they're so close; the routine nearly complete.

He thinks that before the last bit, they should synchronize their watches, but before he can share his wit.. they're tumbling across the floor, one near-perfectly-timed somersault each. And when he looks up, he's surprised to see his own wistful gaze staring back at him in shades of green.

“I know you'll be perfect,” he says for what seems like the thousandth time as he picks himself up off her floor and climbs out her window late at night.

He knows she will be, and when Wednesday rolls around.. she is. Maybe she'll even make captain one day.

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 06:20:32 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: A whisper out of you
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Mohinder/Zane hints, maybe a Paire/Clach hint or two.
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: gen, angst, melancholyness, general strangeness
Summary: A little bit of juxtaposition for the Back to Mylar ficathon.
Word Count: 653

"I don't know what to do with your shirts or your letters, they make a whisper out of you."
-Elliott Smith

Back from Haiti. Back to his little apartment. Back to rot. If he touches the walls, he knows he can see Sylar's blood pour from them, squeezing between his fingers. It emboldens him, and yet it's terrifying; death in his house, on his hands...

Matt's asking him what happened, but all he can see is those steady brown eyes at the nose of that gun. The gun he had been so eager to destroy, even when Matt said he shouldn't. Matt tells him not to do a lot of things, but he finds that the only words he listens to pertain to Molly. Little Molly whom they both love so much. Who they want to keep safe; eradicate the boogeyman for.

--

She's been found out. Dad's gonna flip, and it's all she can think as she picks up West's copy of Activating Evolution. It feels just like Zach's had that day...

Muggles is barking, and she looks up just in time, to see West.. fly away. Like Nathan; Peter... they're all family, they all share that same code. They're all lizards.

--

He picks up the reptile, his namesake, and hands him off to Molly. The girl has taken quite a liking to the little creature, and Mohinder imagines that he might return the feelings, but he knows it isn't any more than anthropomorphizing. They've both seen things they shouldn't have; lived through more than most, and so maybe... it isn't such a stretch.

Matt's reading the newspaper. They found another body, but it isn't Sylar's MO.

Virginia Gray. That name shouldn't strike a chord, and so he doesn't let it.

--

Her car's gone, and for one fantastical moment she thinks it's her family. Her real family. He wonders where they are; if they'll find her. If they're looking.

She found them once; she can do it again.

--

When Sylar finally knocks on their door, it isn't what he'd been expecting—and he has been expecting him. But not like this...

“You killed her,” he accuses, and he doesn't remember who he's talking about. The man outside the door looks just as perplexed.

“Dale, you mean?” It's a soft question as Sylar tips his head to the side, the cogs in his brain always running far quicker than he could ever regulate.

Then Molly's there, in the dark, complaining of a nightmare. He tells her to wake Matt—he always knows what to do. Sylar grabs him by the throat as Molly pads away into the bedroom, her footsteps keeping pace with his heart, its beat surprisingly even.

He's eye-level with the murderer's chest and he recalls when The Ramones insignia had been proclaimed boldly instead of the innocuous oxford. It's stupid now to think of Zane as a different person, but he was... A man Mohinder hadn't known, and yet known so intimately.

Sylar's boot comes down on tiny lizard Mohinder, and fleshy human Mohinder thinks that this will perhaps be Gabriel Gray's one accidental kill. As the world fades, and reptile blood seeps through his carpet with a wet squish, he allows himself to remember Virginia Gray. So much like his father, and now just as dead.

He'll join them soon.

--

She's flying and she wonders if this is what it would be like.. growing up with Meredith and Nathan, the way God intended. It doesn't sound too good when she thinks of it that way, and her bubble shatters as she pushes away from a boy who might be as broken as she's about to be.

“You have to trust me,” he tells her, but she can't hear as she's falling through the air.

Claire finally lands with a crunch; an unfamiliar desert land and she's all alone. But she has her comfort that someday.. she'll find her limits.

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 21:47:55 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Lies
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Candice/Claire
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: femslash, het?, angst, weird mindfuckery
Summary: Loosely based on "Four Months Later". Claire has doubts. Written for femslash100.
Word Count: 249

“You thought he'd what.. want a replacement?”

Laughter echoed through the space, ricocheting off the walls caked in blood.

Was it Peter's? Her one sentient thought.

“Not a replacement,” she insisted, angry tears stinging in her eyes. “A daughter.”

A bare hand against the soft flesh of Claire's cheek, and the echo threatens to deafen this time.

“He had everything he needed.”

I ruined that.

“You should have shot him when you had the chance.”

Reality wobbled and rippled around her, and just like that, easy as pie; there was Peter, happy-go-lucky smile pasted on.

“It won't work.” But Claire was already smiling back, leaning towards the false Peter; her Peter.

Candice's grin grew wolfish, betraying the bounds of Peter's face as she sealed her lips over the girls.

“He's not coming back.” And then she was Sylar, biting those plump cherry lips like she enjoyed it.

Claire cried out, beating ineffectual fists against a form she couldn't get proper hold of. The man's shape morphed again.. leaving a haggard Nathan in their wake.

That was far more terrible than she could have imagined, and her father, this.. this fake visage, pinned her against childish-pink walls, consuming her deep like a drought. His beard itched against her face and the acridity of it was a shock to her system, a white-hot quiver penetrating her spine.

“I know,” she sobbed. “I know you miss him, too... I miss him so much.”

And Candice drank her up.

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 08:58:35 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: With a Noose from the Sun
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Zach/Claire
Rating: Rish
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: slash, het, smut, surrealist nonsense
Summary: Written for the Three's Company Challenge over at mature_heroes.
Word Count: 765

All he remembers is sunflower hair; eyes like the sea... Her flesh tastes like home in his dreams.

--

He walks alone in the desert sun, soaking up its warmth. But it won't seep through his pores, he can't catch it... It slips through his fingers, like so many yesterdays.

--

That fatalistic word has her on her knees, she can't turn away and yet.. there's nowhere left to turn. She's lost herself in this; to feel this high is too tempting. Fuck pretend.

--

He shivers alone in the darkness, hating the black more than the blanks in his memory. He thinks he knows her name without knowing his own.. she calls to him, but there's no sound, and he mourns for her; what they could be.

Dreams of her are gifts of color; they splash against his eyelids like rainbow acrylic to blank canvas. He knows he loves her, and the irony eludes him.

--

He hefts his loan book across the hall to her locker where it stands, untouched, a time-capsule of artifact and frozen time.

What can he do? He's just an unextraordinary boy.

--

She can't do this anymore. Texas was too small, and California is smaller still, closing around her like the end of a fable—she's not sure she can breathe.

Would it matter if she stopped? She's just a cheerleader, and not even that, anymore.

He tells her he's an alien, and she wants to tell him she's one, too. In her dreams, she's brave, but she can't afford to dream...

--

Lips singe like flame, licking at his teeth, and he strives to draw her closer; pull her inside for his alone to safeguard and keep. The darkness prevents him, and yet the green prevails, ruling his soul and driving his flesh until he feels nauseas and whole.

--

Lying in the grass; their grass, he heaves out a sigh, and he thinks he can feel her fingers on him. It hurts to remember her touch: a light brush against his forearm; a wisp of hair against his face.

--

She closes her eyes and imagines... imagines a place where she can be Claire Bennet, just the girl without any of the excess.

When his lips find hers, she knows now she hasn't breathed, but she doesn't care. It's a new test she wants to see if she'll endure. Her eyes stay screwed shut as she fists her hands in his shirt and they soar high above all that matters, usurped by the stratosphere.

--

He wakes up with her lithe form wrapped around his middle, and he won't move her; can't see this any other way. He still can't see or remember, but he has her now. Her with the sunflower hair and eyes like the sea.

She calls him Peter, and whisks him away to a land of color.

--

He's waiting for them to arrive without knowing who all they are. Just that they'll be down for a spell; a visit, and then they'll be on their way again, to see the world and leave him behind.

She lands from her flying saucer, an alien among aliens, and before he can open his mouth to say hello.. her tongue is down his throat, small hands pushing at his chest, and he thinks he must be dreaming. She pushes him more forcefully and he's biting back a moan as strong arms wind around his waist from behind, keeping him there as lithe fingertips trace sharp hips.

--

She quivers as a heavy hand winds into her hair, tugging their bodies closer, teeth clacking together with abandon.

Claire still hasn't breathed.

--

Peter moans in Zach's ear, rocking into the boy as he watches them kiss, hopelessly engulfed in his newfound sight; identity.

--

The sensation catches up with him and he's drawing away, horrified, but it's been too late. His lips drop to her neck as he climaxes against her thigh. He is but an instrument of this love, and as they kiss over his shoulder, he cries out in pain; feels himself chip away.

--

Green eyes focus on his as their flesh melds and yields; breaks and tears as they fall into each other, nothing between them but the stars.

--

He crushes her to him and takes her as his. It is then he feels her cooling flesh, those sparking irises detached and grey. But he remembers it all and he is not afraid.

--

He's falling for sure this time, crashing to the floor, the sheets bunched around his ankles. Zach wipes at the silt in his eyes, and feels as though he truly sees.

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 05:21:21 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Phonecalls to mend and break
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Clach :D
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: gen, angst, melancholyness, general strangeness
Summary: Loosely based on "Four Months Later". Claire has a conversation with an old friend...
Word Count: 260

He hadn't known what alone felt like until the day she left. No amount of high school evasion could have prepared him for that emptiness. His best friend, gone away to hell knows where. No number to call; her old one was disconnected. The Bennets had up and left Odessa, and their identities had disintegrated along with their old house, their old lives.

Zach felt like his life had gone with them.

---

“I don't know if I can do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?” He bit his lip; held his breath, she had to stay on the line just a little bit longer...

“Be this.. person they want me to be. I can't pretend.. I needed someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”

He wanted so badly to tell her.. that he understood. But what could he do? He didn't even know where she was, let alone what she was going through.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, taking a deep breath to compensate for the one he forgot he had been holding. “I'm here, Claire.”

“I can't be.. Claire Butler. I won't do it. I have to find.. I have to get back to New York.”

“And do what?” he asked softly, noting her slip. “Save the world?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He could hear the clench in her teeth and he winced, forcing a smile on his face out of old habit—one he hoped she could see; hoped she could hear.

“What can I do? Anything, you just say the word.”

The line went dead.

Mon, 23 Jul 2007 04:06:39 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: Sharing Dish Duty (not crack, i swear XD)
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Zach/Peter/Claire, if you choose to see it that way (which I do)
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: slash, het, fluff? melancholyness, general strangeness
Summary: Written for sweetbelle07 . Happy birthday, luv!
Word Count: 547

He knocks on her door; he doesn’t even know…

“Vivian?” he asks, brown eyes widening as they register her. His voice is a lot deeper than she remembers.

“Zach?” she hisses, pulling him inside. “You shouldn’t be here…” She’s shaking, wrapping herself around him. He’s dropping kisses in her hair, holding her close.

It feels like coming home.

He gets a hysterical call; he can’t even remember…

“Claire?” he asks, tears stinging in his eyes.

“Peter.” She sounds anguished; abandoned. If there had been another way…

Shaking his head, he takes the phone out of the room, ignoring the glare it earns him from a certain blonde at his kitchen table.

Peter packs up his things and heads to Texas.

Claire is engaged now. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does when he shakes Andy’s hand, spits out a blessing.

How quaint.

“So, you’re Peter.” A voice in the dark, waking him from his rest. Not sleep anymore, never deep enough for sleep.

“Zach, I’m guessing.” he scrubs a hand over his face, split in reminder, and sits up to greet the boy… man that Claire respects so much.

He nods, but doesn’t come into the light. He had heard so much about the man before him... to see him is… almost unimaginable. He’s fiction, as far as Zach is concerned.

“I don’t bite,” Peter assures, a bit of his former self leaking through as he pats the comforter beside him and smiles as Zach takes a seat, bed creaking slightly.

Claire doesn’t know how to hide anymore.

With Peter and Zach here... the most important people in her life. Her only family; her only friend…

Who the fuck is Vivian?

She has to break it off with Andy, she has to leave Texas… she has to do something.

But all she can think about is seeing Peter.

When Claire walks in, she looks wretched. And Peter wants to kiss the look off her face.

…Only that wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? And not in front of Zach, surely.

Claire chooses then to launch into both of them, hugging her boys in tandem.

“I’ve missed you.”

Somewhere, they had lost track of reality, falling in step as a unit. A highly irregular unit, but a unit all the same.

“Zach, could you do the dishes?” Claire’s voice, and he smiles. He knows what’s going on, and while it should scare him.. it doesn’t.

So every night he does their dishes; keeps their secret.

“Don’t you feel like we’re… leaving him out?” Peter asks. It seems innocent enough to his ears, at least.

Claire doesn’t know what he means. And Peter’s almost… grateful for that.

But as the nights wear on, he really can’t stay silent. He has to say something, again.

“What do you mean, leaving him out?” Green eyes close and reopen in an owlish blink. “Because he doesn’t know.”

Peter snorts at that. “He isn’t stupid.”

One night, Zach finishes his dishes earlier than usual. He’s not about to impede; he knows…

They share everything else.

And just like that, Peter is kissing him, and Claire is touching him and… he’s falling; drowning, he can’t stay afloat.

They take turns with the dishes now.

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 20:24:46 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: "It's midnight."
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Mylar, Gabriel/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: slash, fluff? this so fails at being fluff
Summary: Written for arfwoogah for the mylar_fic ficathon (fluff week) and I'm cheating a bit and using it for my Hour prompt on heroes50.
Word Count: 417

Mohinder couldn’t sleep.

Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed, frowning at the cool sheets, and made his way to the kitchen. He would do the only rational thing he could do in this situation.

He crossed his arms across his chest tightly, drawing his robe around himself and pulling a kettle down.

He would make tea.

It must be at least midnight, he thought restlessly, tugging absently on a curl—his hair had grown much too long. He watched his tea impatiently, giving a sidelong glance to the timestamp on the oven.

12: 00 Midnight.

He groaned, remembering that his clock was seven minutes fast; nearly starting as the whistle sounded. He poured himself some chai and just stood there for a moment, looking out the window at the dark night sky.

In India he would have been able to see the stars.

Sighing again, he moved himself into the living room, sitting cross-legged in an arm chair and flicking on the television.

He caught the tail-end of Criminal Minds just as he heard the door slam.

“When you seek revenge, dig two graves,” the older man on screen proclaimed, just as the credits began to roll; just as the door opened.

“It’s midnight,” Mohinder said matter-of-factly, not bothering to look up as the other man leant over his shoulder and placed an awkward half-kiss on his lips.

“Not for another minute,” he retorted immediately, not even looking at the clock—his gaze was still focused solely on Mohinder’s dark, inviting lips; hand locked in a gentle hold on the other man’s chin.

Brown eyes flickered to his, a question apparent on those delicate features.

It was always the same question.

Always the same answer.

Mohinder decided he didn’t care; not tonight. It was midnight… and he reached for Sylar, all too aware of the man’s heat. The other man had the decency to look surprised, but they both knew much better.

Midnight… he heard the soft chorus of ticks, all meeting up perfectly. They met up like his and Mohinder’s lips, Gabriel decided, clambering on top of the still form and hastily taking the other’s mouth.

He wondered idly if Mohinder knew the difference. Maybe he could taste it like Sylar tasted fear, sampling each bit of flesh as Mohinder tore away; as Mohinder drew closer…

“Now it’s midnight,” Sylar growled, forcing Gabriel back as he tore at Mohinder’s clothes.

Mohinder shuddered, giving himself over to the beast. It was midnight and he was tired.

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 06:56:40 GMT

Author: Ca
Title: "I won't say it if you don't"
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Gabriel/Mohinder
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own Heroes, yo.
Warnings: slash (not really at all), angst
Summary: Written for arfwoogah for the mylar_fic ficathon (angst week) and I'm cheating a bit and using it for a Writer's choice prompt on heroes50 .

He’s always skirting around something, biding his time until… what? Until the end of days? There isn’t much else left of interest for him.

There had been the scientist, but Sylar had sent him away as quickly as he had come.

Mohinder will come back, though, he is certain. If only to defy Sylar, the man will return. Gabriel has never been so sure of anything in all his life.

He is as certain that Mohinder will return as he is that minutes hold sixty seconds. That time is constant, save for the times when Sylar bends it to his will.

Gabriel hates such times.

Waiting could become such a complicated process, especially for a watchmaker. Pacing would often develop into the slow and steady beat of the pendulum, and it could be enough to drive even Gabriel mad.

But when he is most fragile, Sylar could take even that from him—sweeping down to snatch his identity, wear his flesh; impose it on the night.

When Gabriel’s skin comes back to him, it always felt beaten and weathered, and he has trouble fitting back into it again.

Each time, it grows harder. With each beat, his suit becomes tighter.

Sylar is trying to break him; discourage him from the tedious wait.

If there is one thing Gabriel has, it is time. Though Sylar keeps sharp eyes on every timepiece, he cannot keep pace.

Gabriel could easily utilize this advantage to bring him to his knees, but he is waiting. Waiting for Mohinder to walk through those doors, and waiting for Sylar to grow sick of this vessel—to realize that he has used it up and worn it down past its due potential.