Katu's Fanfiction

Gwaandorlok

Thu, 22 Sep 2005 06:46:16 GMT

Another original story. Science fiction. One day I'll write more.

I can't find anything except the void inside...

I have a neighbor. She lives in the next room from me in our building. She's small, tiny really, with black hair and blue eyes. Humanoid in race and neurotic in personality.

She stands at my door, her huge eyes half open. She's wearing what seems to be a large pillowcase, or a tent made of curtains. In one of her miniscule hands is a limp and bedraggled pillow, covered in her strange eye-black. She walks into my room without so much as an invitation and climbs up onto my bed. She snuggles her little head into my chest and then lies down, facing away from me, curls up with her pillow and falls straight to sleep.

She's only slightly bigger than my hand...absolutely miniature. I reach down with an elongated claw and stroke her tiny head, pulling the black strands of hair away from her white skin. She smiles a little and starts purring. She rubs her face with her hand as she yawns and smacks her lips sleepily.

Little darling.

***

The sun is rising, orange and spectacular against purple sky. The leaves overhanging my window tremble in the passing wind, shedding their hoarded droplets of rainwater. It's beautiful outside our grounded ship...what passes for our home. The little human elf creature is still sleeping on my bed, curled up into a little ball. She woke me occasionally last night in fits of nightmare, clinging to my underclothing and whimpering...but never for long. She soon would settle, and we would both of us slip back into sleep.

I don't know her name.

***

Mess hall at lunchtime is no place for gentle creatures. The large ones fighting over scraps, the small ones stealing our crumbs. Somehow we all get by on whatever food we can eat before it's snatched away. As I eat my hard-won meal, I wonder passingly where my little neighbor has got to. Undoubtedly she is one of the small skittering creatures that dash out into the open, grab a cracker, and then scoot back underneath the table to eat their prize.

Under the table, do they fight for scraps amongst themselves? Do they leave one another alone? Or do they share their spoils with the others so that everyone gets an equal share? I don't know, for I am too big to lean down and see underneath the tables I eat at.

***

I don't go outside much. There's not much to see. There's grass, short and green. There's mud. There's water. There are trees, giant and imposing. But I don't go out much. I see enough from my window.

Sitting on my chair, I can hear others playing outside our institution. There's nearly always someone out there, playing on deck or building castles out of the clay. Usually the undertable folk. Most of the larger creatures prefer to sleep or mock-fight in the hold. Me? I like to read. I have a lot of books, though I don't understand some of them. I can read, I know letters. But sometimes I don't know all the words. But reading makes me feel...strange. Like there was more to life, when I knew all the words. I can't quite remember, but I'm getting used to the feeling. There's a lot I can't remember.

***

You...sweet you.

My visitor is back. She speaks now, high pitched and soft. I don't understand her, but there doesn't seem to be any need, as she wanders into my room and clambers up next to me. She pokes my abdomen and smiles at me, still clinging to her pillow. She speaks again, and lays down beside me. I put a hand across her...I could lift her up with very little effort. Her eyes flutter shut, her tiny, fat, naked body plump and warm beside me.

I feel a warmth equal to hers fill my stomach and I smile. I close my book and set it down, then lay down my head and move my strange neighbor closer, holding her gently in my comparatively enormous hand. Sleep comes easily to me this night.

***

this is just...random stuff about the character

Gwaandorlok Ccatneure Klehdian Anachnaar

was highly respected, intelligent, considered an Elder despite his relatively young age. When his planet was destroyed, thousands escaped, but all scattered. he was in second or third escape pod, but a leak in the pod caused a gas to leak out which wiped his memory.

no others of his species will talk to him because the older ones respect him too much, and the younger ones, who never knew the planet, don't believe that he's this "great leader" cuz all he does is sit around and read.

girls uninterested ever since it became clear that he was sterile. perhaps started a relationship with a particular (what should species be called?) female on board, but since the entire point of mating is to procreate, the relationship is soon broken off. (species) mate for life as soon as conception, and so gwaandorlok is both lucky and unlucky: he is free to pursue as many females as he'd like, but he is doomed to be officially alone for the rest of his life.

is somewhat amphibious; needs saltwater to live comfortably, otherwise loses appetite, skin becomes dry and brittle, eyes become sunken and face drawn.

race used to live almost completely underwater; webbed hands and fingers, gills on ribcage. still with lungs, though. eventually began to make more permanent use of the land on their planet, and now gills are internal (inside throat: when underwater, lung tubes close off, and water is taken in through the mouth, filtered through the gills, and then expelled out through the nose in a completely subconscious process), hands are only half-webbed (second knuckle), and lungs have expanded to the size of a land creature. Tails are not as large as they had been, eyes are smaller and more human, noses have developed. feet still webbed, though toes have retracted a little.

needs to immerse in salt water once a week (for no less that two hours) to be comfortable. More than two weeks without water, symptoms begin. can drink water, to keep insides from drying out, but skin will still crack and split, and often death is caused by blood loss from such wounds, since without salt water, they cannot heal. fresh water will help a little, but the nutrients in the salt water are needed in many physical processes, including healing and digesting. hence the lack of appetite. if too much food is consumed during a salt water withdrawal, it will stop being digested and lay, masticated but not broken down, in the creature's stomach until it is either vomitted up, or the creature dies.

Homeless, scraps.

Thu, 22 Sep 2005 06:41:37 GMT

One of my original stories, based on a dream that I had a while ago. This will be better once I write more. XD

Diverton is your average metropolis in many ways. Full of aloof businessmen and activist hippies, so on and so forth. Like most metropolis's...metropolises? Metropolii? Like in most big cities, it kinds of looks, to me, in many ways, like someone applied a greyscale filter over the town. Or at least turned the colour down a bit. It seems to me that in most of the non-residential districts, the only colour I can see is the neon signs of the bars.

My name's Katie. I live in Diverton, if you can call it living. I'm homeless, got evicted from my apartment ages ago. Yeah, I'm just another lost soul in a teeming mass of them, just another dirty kid in a black hoodie sweatshirt that's covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else. I've even got gloves with the fingertips cut off and everything. At first, I cut the whole fingers off, cuz it looked cooler, but as winter drew nearer, I cursed myself for ruining a perfectly good pair of gloves.

***

Everything in this store is immaculate and white, and the shelf in front of me is decked out with all sorts of stuff: coffee cakes and tins of cookies, stuff that I still delude myself into believing that I could afford. I checked out one of the cakes - it was cherry and had frosting - and it was ten bucks. Damn thing wasn't even as long as my forearm, and less than twice as wide. And it was ten bucks? I ought to just grab it and go, I think.

"Dude," I called out, attempting to find where my friend had run off to. Some poor guy passing me on the street took pity on me, and took me into this gas station store, to buy me some food. I hate begging, always have, but hunger doesn't give a damn about how stupid I feel asking for food, and swearing up and down that I, for God's sake, don't do drugs. Anyway, this guy, he must have been about seven years older than me, got a wife and a six-year-old, and doesn't look like he's got much more money than I do. That's what pisses me off. You don't get those damn white-collar Yale boys offering to buy me Meal (I don't conform to that Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner thing anymore, it only leaves me feeling empty - so long as I get Meal, I'm satisfied), it's only people who are barely out of the gutter themselves. I guess it's cuz they feel closer to my plight. They know what it's like to be an inch away from starving. And maybe they're thinking, "Dear God, please don't even let me be like this." If it was up to me, I would make sure that they weren't.

"Dude," I repeat, finding him, "Give me a spending limit, I don't wanna break your budget, cuz I'm hungry enough to eat this whole damn - " I've seen the kid looking at me, "- er, gosh-darn pastry section."

"Um, ten bucks sound okay?"

I nearly die.

"Uh...yeah! Wow, um, thanks!" I head back to the white-painted rack, and then my Super Sales Shopper brain kicks in. For ten dollars, I could buy that insufficient coffee cake with its clarion call of cherries and sugar-coated tooth decay, and be full for maybe a couple of hours. For the same price, I could purchase about twenty assorted donuts, eat two now, and keep the rest for later. But keep them where? Where the fuck am I going to hoarde away eighteen damn donuts?

I'm just pondering this dilemma when I see the man's wife - she's white but she doesn't know it - looking at me in disgust, like I'd just fucked her boyfriend instead of asking him for a buck or two. She hates me, and she's trying to make her kid do so, too. Well, fuck you, lady, I need this food. But then I see the guy's face. His wife is taking the kid out of the store, they're gonna go sit outside until we're done, and this guy just looks heartbroken. He's a better person than his wife is, and I can see in his eyes that this happens all the time. I'd be doing him a favour if I fucked him, I think. He'd do better off with a homeless chick than with that bitch outside. I'm seriously considering just going up to him and kissing him - but my breath fails the Attractive test, and anyway, dude's got a kid. I go up to him.

"She doesn't like this, huh."

"No," he says, like he's not thinking. His eyes are glued to the girl outside, smoking a cigarette, heedless of the lung cancer that she's probably giving her kid. "She thinks we can't afford it. But, I mean, it's only ten bucks."

I scratch my head. My hair used to be dyed black, back when I could still afford to be goth and spikey and unlovable by the masses, but my natural colour is a kind of gross mousy brown, so nondescript that it almost defies description. Which is what nondescript means. Fuck. Anyway. I scratch my head, contemplating. Eventually I decide that this guy deserves a happy marriage and ten dollars to spend on that poor little kid outside, in whom I swear I can see cancer developing - her mom's on her second cigarette. "Look," I say, hating my kind-heartedness, "It's okay. I understand. You don't look like you could stand to lose even five bucks. I'm sure there's someone else out there who can actually give me ten bucks and not even think about it. I really appreciate the thought, you know?"

He looks at me, like I'm guilt tripping him, but he must sense that I'm not, cuz he smiles at me. Then he averts his eyes. People tend to do that to me. Unless they think I'm not looking, in which case they turn into Starey McStaringson. I almost pat the guy on the shoulder, but then I remember how much I hate touchy-feely homeless people.

"Thanks a lot, though, dude. You're a great guy." The door swings shut behind me, and the little -ding-! goes off, kind of a delayed reaction. I also don't do the God-bless-you, may-the-Lord-keep-you, Jesus-loves-you thing. Yeah, sure, you think it's gonna make people think "Oh, what a good, pious unfortunate," but it doesn't. It just alienates non-Christians, who, I've found, are more likely to buy me lunch. Maybe it's just me. But while Christians may love that homeless-but-faithful shit, I think everyone likes that homeless-but-grateful schtick. Christians like to be blessed by God, but everyone likes to know that they're a great guy. See what I'm saying?

As I'm walking away, I can hear that bleached-blonde lady yelling at her husband. She really doesn't seem to realise that she's caucasian. Even though I'm almost across the gas filling area, and facing the other way, I can sense her head snapping back and forth indignantly. "So? How much did you give her?"

"I didn't give her anything, Jessie, because you made her think we couldn't afford it!" That man knows he's white, I think. Somewhat ironic, I add, since he's the one with the dark skin.

"Well, we can't! Shit, AJ, we can barely afford to feed Alleshondra! And you think - "

They're out of earshot, now. AJ? I would have said Albert. And Alleshondra? Damn. That kid is mixed, and now, she's damned to being thought of as "black." I hope she takes after her dad, I think. I hope her mom dies of a crack overdose, I think. I hate myself for thinking that, and sigh. So much for Albert's happy marriage.

I'm still walking, hands in my pockets. I have thumbholes cut in my hoodie, but I wish I didn't. Sure, it's nice and comfy and you can use the sleeves as gloves...but I have my own gloves, and now it just lets drafts in. I'm passing this sort of empty square, with benches on either side. I don't know why it's there. This isn't a parks-and-benches neighborhood, and there's nothing to look at when you're sitting on the bench, except the couple on the bench across the plaza, and in any case it's shouting distance, so all you'd get would be awkward eye-tag. Eye-tag is when two people simultaneously try to stare at the other without being stared at, yourself. It sounds awkward, but it's probably my favourite game, nowadays, ever since I learned the rules. Don't get embarrassed. If you're not ashamed to be caught staring at someone, you've won. And I always win.

My stomach rumbles, and I'm suddenly pissed off. Ten bucks, dude! Ten whole dollars just slipped through my fists, just like that. I'm a goddamn liar and no one else in this godforsaken town is gonna spare me a glance, much less a ten dollar bill. I think about making one of those will-work-for-food signs. We had this guy, back in my hometown, had one of those signs, and stood out on the corner of Washington and Highway 31 every day from, like, three to six. I don't know where he went in the meantime. Dude was pretty big, girth-wise, had grey hair and a cane. Didn't look like he was really capable of doing anything other than a desk job. I always felt bad for him, but he looked like he was okay. He might have had different outfits, I don't remember...but his hair was always clean and brushed, and he never looked dirty.

I always used to cry when I saw him. He was a beautiful man, ladies and gentlemen, a beautiful fucking man, the absolute epitome of hopelessness. I always wanted to give him work, but I never had any work to be done. I wanted to invite him to my house for Christmas dinner, and I'll be damned if I didn't cry my ass off, thinking that he didn't have a family to be with on December 25th. I was gonna give him an Easter basket, but I didn't. I couldn't find him on Easter, and anyway, I didn't have a basket for him. I cried then, too.

I nearly cried myself to death when I saw that he had a series of cuts on his upper eye, and my mind regurgitated Clockwork Orange at me, and I saw this poor, wonderful man being roughed up by a bunch of fuckers in stupid white outfits. I imagined his sign lying on the ground beside him. That sign, on the side that faced the road, said, "Will Work For Food." On the other side, the side that only he saw, it said, "Don't Worry, Be Happy." It had a smiley face on that side. It was a damn good sign, too. Had duct tape on the sides and looked pretty sturdy. The sign also made me cry.

He was still there, on the corner, the day I left for Diverton. Granted, that was about a year ago, maybe.

I decide I don't want a work-for-food sign. I don't want to put anyone else through that much crying. I contemplate maybe just asking someone what I can do for ten bucks, but I'm a skinny white homeless girl, and I used to be pretty. I can only think of one thing that anyone would want me to do, and not even hunger can beat my pride on this issue. I don't fuck for money. I don't even kiss for money. I just don't. I'd rather be a slack-ass and beg.

Speaking of. A car pulls up beside me, and a bunch of young guys climb out. I sort of cozy up to them and shrug my shoulders cutely. "Do any of you guys have some money I could borrow?" I always say borrow. Makes people think that I might pay them back. Plus, force of habit.

"Um," replies one of them, looking somewhat horrified by my presence. "No." They all laugh, and I really don't understand what's so goddamn funny about me starving to death. They start walking away. I hate that man. I hate him, and I want to punch him in his face. I hate it when one person speaks up for the whole group, like I wasn't asking everybody. But people are instinctively afraid of the homeless. Hell, so am I, but I'm not, like, some weirdo war veteran with scars on my neck and only one eye! They're still laughing. I want to punch them.

"And she asks me for money - " I hear the guy say. I can't take it anymore, and I run after them, shouting.

"Oh, yeah. This is Diverton. No one ever asks anyone for money!" The group stops walking, and turn to face me. Fuck. There's five of them. Now, suddenly, I'm the one on the ground, just trying to get through the refrain of Sweet Molly Malone. But they're just staring at me. And then, one by one, they scatter.

Whoa. What the fuck just happened?

That one guy, the one I want to hit, is heading into this alleyway that shoots off of the plaza. I follow him, not sure whether I intend to deck him, or apologise for breaking up his group of friends. He's opening up a dumpster, and climbing inside. Again, I ask myself, what the fuck? "Hey, dude," I call, and his head appears above the edge of the dumpster. He's a pretty average-looking guy. Blonde scruffy hair. Angular. Got kind of a big nose. Nothing special.

"Fuck off, skinny."

And his manners aren't great, either.

"Fuck you, asshole!" I retort, and then silently stand there as he starts going through the garbage. I can't stand dumpsters. I'm not that hungry, yet. Yet. A wind whips through the alley, bringing the stench of the trash up to my still-sensitive nostrils. I hold my sleeves over my face to keep from puking. How can he stand that? How can anyone look at one of those things, and think "food?"

What the fuck is he doing in there? His head reappears, like some absurd whack-a-mole game, where I don't even get to smash cute fuzzy things with a mallet. "What are you still doing here?" he demands, like it's his fucking dumpster. I shrug.

"It's a free country," I say, rubbing a stray cigarette butt into the ground. When I was a kid, I used to hate it when people threw them on the ground when the end was still red. Thought the grass might catch fire or something. This one was on cement, and had died long ago, but habits are habits.

Dumpster boy isnt impressed by my super-original comeback line. "Yeah, and I'm free to kick your ass. Piss off, broad!"

I'm not impressed by his. I've always thought of broads as busty blonde girls. I peer into my shirt. My boobs are losing some of their mass, cuz my body needs the fat. But it's okay, cuz I've still got a fair amount to go. I'm no mammoth, but I'm not as twiggy as I'm sure I will eventually be. Anyway, I'm not blonde, so I'm not a broad. I say as much.

"What are you talking about? You stoned?"

I prickle. "I don't do drugs."

"Right." His head disappears again, thank God. Then, the lid on the dumpster clangs shut, knocked over by a passing breeze. I hear a loud, muffled curse, and then he tries to lift the lid. He can't, because it's one of those fancy dumpsters that locks itself automatically when it shuts. They're unlatchable from the outside, and I don't think I really understand the point. Garbage doesn't often try to escape. I think the mafia invented them.

I can't help it, I laugh. "Serves you right, ass!" I call, and turn to go. But then, I kind of don't. I don't know...I guess I don't feel quite right, just leaving him there. But...I don't really wanna let him out, either. So I turn back, resting my weight on my left foot, with my right foot kinda sticking out, and contemplate. Eventually, I decide that maybe I'll let him out...but not yet.

"Hey, girl, you still out there?" he calls. I don't say anything. I let him suffer. Let him sweat. "Girl?"

I feel I'm obliged to huff on my nails and then use my chest to polish them. I can do whatever I want, so I do. I also tap my foot a little, as if waiting for an elevator. I need new shoes. These ones were almost done for when I bought them at the second-hand store. I could have afforded good shoes, then. I wish I had bothered.

"Let me out of here, it fucking stinks! Let me out!" His voice sounds genuinely troubled, and I suddenly feel really bad for him. My heart aches a little, but I'm determined. "Oh, God..."

That last one sounded pretty desperate, I think. My sadism is fading fast, and I'm seriously about to break. I hear him throw up, and now I can't stand it. I'm on my way to lift the latch, but then the laughing voices of his friends reach me. No, he can stay until he damn well apologises. Except he doesn't know I'm out here. Fuck.

"Somebody, please, help me!" He shouts, and his voice is all screechy and breaking, and it sort of tears through my heart like it's tissue paper. I can't help it, I'm just not a bad person. And he's crying. Holy mother of fuck, he's crying, and I'll be damned if my own eyes aren't suddenly stinging. I think I'm gonna sneeze, but I run forward and lift the latch. The top of the dumpster explodes open, and this guy just jumps out and starts gasping. He throws up again, like for good measure, and then he regains his breath. Tears are still glistening in the corners of his eyes, and I hastily wipe my own away.

"I knew you were there!" he yells, like I didn't just save his damn life, "What the fuck took you so long?"

I don't answer right away, and suddenly he gives this cry and just charges straight fucking at me. I hurtle against the alley wall, with this guy's shoulder against my right boob, and we start to scuffle. I suck at fighting, and I'm mostly a biting-and-scratching type. This guy is a punching-and-more-punching type. He pries my head off of his hand and socks me in the mouth. I feel my lip split, and, with my vision still blurry, punch him right in the eye. It's a good punch, and he falls off of me like he just came, and clutches at his face.

"Oh, fuck!" he cries out, at the ground. I'm touching my lip gingerly. It fucking hurts, but it's not too bad. It'll go away in a couple of days if I don't smile too much.

"You're welcome, cuntface," I snap at him, though admittedly, I'm kind of on an adrenaline high from that punch. That was fucking awesome. He sneers at me, and I decide to add a quick, "You're going to have a hell of a shiner."

He's probably going to beat my ass, now. I can feel it.

blahblah

My back hits the wall, and it's cold, so I reach for my hoodie. Just as my fingers reach it, though, it slides away from me, and lands on Travis's skinny shoulder. I give him a sort of what-the-fuck look, and he crawls forward on his hands and knees and kind of falls against me, leaning his head against my bare shoulder, and digging his hip done into my crotch.

"Hi, bony - I mean, Travis," I state, pointedly. He doesn't give a shit.

erik's misfortune

Thu, 14 Jul 2005 14:17:46 GMT

Erik/Khanum darkfic. Contains post-smut, and disturbing concepts. Like pseudo-castration. Be warned.

A final spasm tore through my aching, overloaded nerves, my body barely registering the orgasm except as a tortuous pain in my loins. I collapsed, heaving and panting and - for the first time in my life - covered in a cold sweat.

"Mmm," cooed the Khanum, arching her back up to meet my weary form, and I despaired as she wiggled her tight accomadations around my exhausted member; was this woman never satisfied? If all sexual encounters were expected to last for four hours, with an insatiable female partner...then I was glad I had been missing out! I regretted ever wishing to partake in the pleasures of the flesh, and vowed never to think of them again. Certainly, the very thought now sickened me.

"Erik, it is so very lovely when you make that noise; that face...I wish you would do it again," she whispered, in my ear. I could not help myself - I whimpered.

A sudden, frightening laugh rang out into the room. A full set of nails tore affectionately through the skin on my back, from my waist to my shoulderblades, and I could feel the blood begin to blossom, preparing to drip down my emaciated sides.

"It is as well for you that I am beginning to tire. I believe I may have had enough...for tonight."

I was shocked, and a little confused. My weakness, where it had before angered her, now supplicated her. Where I had remained strong and calmly requested an end to our interplay, she had fumed and threatened me with death and worse. Yet now, she would grant me the reprieve I so desperately needed, simply because of a small noise.

Gratefully, my eyes closed, and I would have fallen asleep there and then if the Khanum had not begun to push impatiently on my shoulders. "Get off of me, you corpse."

Trying not to seem too eager, I withdrew myself with immense gratitude. To my vague, delirious shock, my softening member had not shriveled away and disappeared, or retracted back inside my body in terror, but was merely preparing to rest, now, for what was likely to be the rest of my natural life.

"Go to your chambers," the Khanum ordered lazily, as I reached with some stiffness of my arms for my trousers.

"I had not intended to stay - " I began, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. There was a half-frown on the Khanum's sourly beautiful face. A warning pang shot through my stomach, and I tremulously considered my next sentence. "I trust I...did well."

"Satisfactorily, indeed," came the reply, along with a smile that glowed with an evil warmth. A rush of relief spread through my tired body. Yes, I had satisfied her, though my self-loathing barely allowed me to register the fact. "Very satisfactory, Erik...as your work always is. In your chambers, when you arrive, there will be a small token of my...appreciation."

I smiled wanly. "You must have arranged that beforehand. Yet you would not award me with treasures if I did not perform to your standards. What if I had failed your exacting test?"

"You would not have lived to see your chambers again, of course," the woman before me, still gloriously naked, replied. Of course. I should have known. My smile did not fade or change as the last button slid into its respective hole (God...even that tiny innuendo made me slightly ill to the stomach).

"Good evening, madam," I said, shortly, offering a small bow before turning impertinently and walking straight to the door. I heard a small, jovial laugh come from the khanum as I shut the door, and judged that she was still of good humour, giddy with pleasure.

I judged wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

***

My apartments were dark, and empty, and smelled still of the various animals I'd only recently dispelled. And, of course, the ever-present smell of death. I lived in it, and most of the time barely noticed it. However, in my sensitive state, the stench of decay grated.

The lamp on the table beside me sat neglected as I stumbled forward to my bedroom. I could see well enough in the dark. The door slid shut behind me, and as I went to go collapse, I saw there, on my bed, the package that was left for me.

I upturned the silken bag, and out of it fell a plethora of golden coins and some jewels, and a small, intricately labelled bottle. I glanced at the label.

Arak. Oh, good. I rarely drank alcohol, or at the least, not strong alcohol...but perhaps it would help to dull my mind enough to let sleep come more easily. I uncapped it, downed a small but sufficient dose, and placed it on my bedside table. I then lay down on my mattress, swearing to myself that in just a moment, I would replace the cap on the bottle of arak, and remove the uncomfortable coins from beneath me.

In moments, the bottle's cap was spinning unheeded on the floor as I slept blissfully unaware of the danger that awaited me.

***

I awoke to my own screaming the next morning. Pain was flooding my body, burning off all the nerve endings and ripping screams from my throat like flesh from my bones. My groin was aflame with agony. If I'd thought, last night, that it had known the epitome of pain after my sixth or possibly twelfth orgasm, I was mistaken.

Curses in my throat fought for supremacy, pushing and shoving to escape my mouth, form themselves around the pain. My hand moved to inspect the affected area. Or would have.

Ropes bound me hand, foot, wrist, arm, ankle, leg, hips, stomach, waist, chest, neck, and head, to a stiff table. Someone definitely did not want me to escape. And little wonder! There was a man standing near my feet, looking terrified, and holding a long pair of scissors in one hand. In the other, a neat length of suture thread, in a highly curved needle.

The poison that I now knew must have been stirred into my gift last night was still affecting my dim brain, and it was a moment before the data reconciled itself in my mind. Like a kaliedescope, my mind was seeing many things at once...thoughts that had no bearing kept racing through my mind as a desperate attempt to distract me from my torture.

But slowly, like the destructive force of a glacier, it occured to me what must have happened. My stomach turned, and I remember being vaguely annoyed at that horrendous shrieking noise...until I realised it was my own. Horror claimed my eyes, which widened like the gibbous moon until I must have looked quite frightful.

That bitch!

That unbelievable, horrendous torturess of a demon! Words that were barely half-formed, in a semenous mixture of unmitigated hate, ejaculated from my raging form, as my limbs snapped the ropes like so much spider gossamer. My mind went red, and I barely saw the human shapes pounding on the doors, begging in rapid Persian to be let out. Soon I was freed, standing in full nudity atop the table, bleeding still from the new wound on my pubis, a would which I did not dare inspect. A fleeting glance indicated dark black stitches, as ugly and large and unprofessional as the stitches in my mother's first mask for me.

A primal scream flew out of me like a phoenix of dark fire, bringing with it the claim and the promise of vengeful retribution. Unbidden, my hands reached forward to grasp, to twist, to mangle and kill...

***

The next thing I remembered was drowning in a sea of blood. A reccuring dream for me, but now with an added horror. Nearly seventeen bodies in varying states of dismemberment, lay strewn about me like cadaverous confetti at a dead child's birthday party. I am not prone to nausea, but my stomach turned over its contents pensively as I stared at the carnage around me.

My shoulders slumped in exhaustion as a despairing sigh escaped my lungs. It would be ironic, dryly sarcastic and perhaps amusing to some, to say that I was half the man I used to be. But not entirely accurate, for I was now lacking what made me a man, at all.

But...no. Alas, as I attempted to clean the flowing crimson hate from my skin, I realised what my body must have known all along - she had not removed everything. The phallus, yes, but not the accompaniment. Those she left in perfect condition, carelessly clinging to the underside of my groin, looking alien and frightening without their counterpart.

Could she have made my punishment more complete? I doubt, after the initial shock and anger, that I would have minded too terribly a eunuch's life. It would have freed me from one of humanity's burdens, something I would never have denied that I desired. But this...not only to incapacitate me in achieving sexual pleasure (not to mention the suddenly daunting issue of...voiding while standing), but to leave the means of wanting to do so...

By God, I would have cut them off myself, that instant, if I did not all ready ache like Hades. Well, I hoped she was satisfied. That hellspawn in the shell of a beautiful woman...she must have been watching. She would not let such a show go to waste. And what a show it had been. How I wished I could have missed it.

My eyes scanned the room, glacing up at the ceiling. And there she was, standing imperiously in a high window, looking down at me with a friendly smile that gave away all too easily her pleasure at my agony. A willowy hand lifted to gesture to something at her side, and I saw, in a jar of brine that must have been the length of the Khanum's forearm, what was unmistakeably my phallus.

Unnerving is far too tame a word to describe the feeling of looking at a jar thirty feet away and seeing your disembodied genitals. There are, to my knowledge, no words to describe the fear, the hurt, the anger and the screaming, burning hatred that coursed through my body. I'm sure I heard another cry from my sore throat before my stomach decided, finally, to release the bile it had been slowly mulling over. I vomitted vigourously, adding to the sick detritus of the room.

My mind reeled still with the drugs in my body. This couldn't be happening. Certainly I knew that the Khanum wished to have me killed...perhaps even kill me herself, but I admit that in my arrogant, youthful folly, I did not foresee this. I did not credit her intelligence enough to think that she might be capable of such immense and irrevocable atrocity. My eyes rolled back into my skull, and I saw a bright red cloud of macabre, amorphous dreams floating toward my troubled mind as I passed out again, wishing for the death I knew the weak poison would not bring me.

And in my ears, the khanum's pleasantly delighted laughter, so innocent-seeming, echoed endlessly off of my newly increased misery.

Future Nicole/Wonka stuff.

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 14:34:19 GMT

I have a lot of fic clips in my folder...Since my computer is being kind of touchy lately, I'm going to post these all so that I don't lose them.

If you want to read them, you can...but I would recommend against it. They don't necessarily reflect what's going to happen, they are not in any particular order, and I highly dislike most of them.

Nicole seemed to be, by nature, a modest person. And as such, Wonka rarely had the chance to see her undressed. When he did, however, it was all the more special. She would lay next to him, in his arms, her delicate skin pale underneath his fingers. Her head would nuzzle against his shoulder, her small face buried in his neck, and he would tenderly embrace and revel in her soft roundness.

But it would last for only a couple of minutes before her self-consciousness would overwhelm her, and she would reach to the foot of the bed to retrieve her soft cotton dress. Wonka, frankly, was unsure of what she was embarrassed to show. Perhaps she was not thin and shapely, but her roundness was not unattractive, and her curves were rapidly forming. She was the fresh seedling of a lovely woman. The black fabric of the dress dropped to hide her bare flesh, and Nicole fidgeted to get it to fit properly. As Wonka's arms slid around her waist, pulling her back into the warm, sweet confines of his embrace, he gently kissed her ear and rested his chin on her shoulder. Nicole smiled contentedly and leaned back against his chest, before turning her head just enough to lay a small, chaste kiss on the side of his pink mouth.

Wonka's erection was not showing any signs of abating. Every time the young girl lying behind him moved, sighed, or gave the slightest indication of animation, the tightly tied knot of sexual frustration that had made apartment of his stomach would shift slightly. He pulled the covers up under his chin, as if hiding from some horrible libido monster, trying to ward off nightly groinal issues. She was a fourteen year old girl, and he was not a sexual predator, not some kind of pervert.

But he wished he was.

Nicole rolled over, and Wonka could feel her face brush against the back of his hair. His lower back twitched involuntarily, and he made a small squeaking noise, but she didn't seem to hear, because she heaved a heavy sigh. A heavy sigh that brushed heavily over the extremely sensitive aura of sensuality surrounding his ears. A lightning bolt of arousal shot down his back, looped about, and struck, dead-on.

"Hoo ha ha!" Wonka cried out, involuntarily jerking forwards. He could hear his young companion's mouth open, and she let free a small, content moan that travelled (though more quietly) to the same place her sigh had gone.

"What was that?" she asked groggily, draping an arm over Wonka's thin, cotton-clad waist. Wonka coughed surreptitiously, unsure of what to say. Suddenly, brilliance struck!

"There was a monkey," he announced confidently.

Nicole paused. "Er. Are you sleeping?"

Wonka immediately affected a loud snore. Nicole made a sleepy noise and shook her head, before nuzzling her face into the middle of Wonka's upper back.

The room was rather dingy, with a row of mirrors all on one side. There were a few chairs, and a table, and a bulbless lamp hanging from the cracked plaster ceiling. If this was Tollywoddle's factory, Nicole was certainly never eating any of his candy.

Nickels who was still wearing the same suit he'd done when she'd first seen him, strode forward, holding something behind his back. It's a gun, thought Nicole, They've found out about the recipes, and that's why they've brought me here. Surely a few fake recipes isn't worth killing me?

But, then, I didn't think a few real recipes were worth harming my family, either. Oh, god...

Slowly, terrifyingly, Nickels pulled his hands to meet in front of him. His right hand raised up, just inches from Nicole's trembling face. It was holding...the recipes. Well, she'd been half-right.

"I beg your pardon!" Nickles cried, and though the phrase itself was merely a polite way of excusing oneself, it was anything but polite in the shrill, enraged voice he'd shrieked it in, "What is the meaning of this? We had an arrangement! Miss Heltquist!"

Nicole cowered from the exquisite wrath of the man before her. His eyes were widened into mad saucers of bloodshot indignance, his mouth in a thin line across his face. He raised one arm up above his head, as if he intended to bring it down onto Nicole. She cried out and jumped backwards, to avoid the blow, but Nickels merely brought his arm down harmlessly, though he was still seething at her.

"I recognise that perhaps you do not understand the immediate danger, my dear girl," his words were calm, but his tone broke and trembled with underlying rage, "Miss Heltquist, do you know that your entire family could be dead, this instant? Do you realise that you have endangered them all, simply for this petty loyalty to a candymaker?"

"It isn't petty! It's - "

"More important than your own family, Nicole?" Nickels inquired with heavy tones, "Be sensible, my dear. Now, shut your quivering mouth for just half a moment and let me finish what I was saying! Now, since - "

"No! I shall not! No!"

"Miss Helt - "

"No! Shut up! Shut up!"

"If you would just - "

"Shut up! I won't listen to you!"

"EXCUSE ME - "

"No! I shall not! You're evil! No!"

Nickels was getting terribly aggravated, now, and puffed up his chest, shouting ever louder to try and be heard over Nicole's screaming.

"MISS HELTQUIST, I - "

"Shut up! Shut up!" But Nicole was suddenly silenced by a hand colliding with the side of her face with a resounding SMACK. She had to admit to herself that she'd been asking for it...but as the tears began to fall, she very much doubted that she'd deserved it.

"There. Much better. Now, Nicole, perhaps we've started out on the wrong foot. Recipes, perhaps, were too much to require of your simple abilities," Nickels stated coldly, and it was clear from his tone that he did not expect Nicole to recognise that as an insult, "So let us start somewhere else. Just simple questions. And a high wage for every answer. One hundred dollars for every factual answer you give us. After they are proven, of course..."

"No," Nicole said, simply. She had caught the insult, though she would not have told him anything anyway. Nickels flinched at her clipped reply, but continued in dangerously calm tones.

"It's a simple enough procedure, Nicole. Why don't we begin somewhere simple? For example, how did you get inside Wonka's factory?"

"I'll not tell you."

"Hmm. Perhaps that is too much to begin with. Ah! I've a perfectly harmless question. Who is working at the factory?"

Despite her waryness, it occurred to Nicole that that was a relatively unincriminating question. After all, what could they possibly do with that information? But there was the thing, she didn't know what they could do. Perhaps more than she bargained for. She would not take the chance. She set her jaw in defiant silence.

"Certainly Wonka cannot do all that work by himself?"

Nicole looked Nickels square in the face, trying not to allow fear to overtake her. I am safe... she thought to herself, They can't really hurt me, not really...

...Can they? she added, tremulously. They wouldn't really kill her, would they? They couldn't! She decided not to think about it, lest she lose her nerve.

"I tire of asking you, Miss Heltquist," Nickels was growling now, allowing his irritation to mount again.

"Then stop," Nicole snapped, and Nickels, in a fit of supreme aggravation, grabbed Nicole's shoulders and shook her violently, causing her to cry out.

"Girl!" he barked, his voice gruff and strict, "Tell us, who is working at the Wonka factory? Surely the man can't do it all by himself!"

"I won't tell you!" Nicole insisted, and braced herself for the retribution. It came in the form of a backhanded slap across the face. Tears welled up in her eyes and she scowled at Nickels, "I'll not tell you anything!"

"Oh, but you will," came a new voice from the doorway. Nicole's head snapped to attention, stinging cheek forgotten. There was a man in the doorway. Or, perhaps it was better to say that a few slivers of doorway could be been surrounding a elephantine figure. He was huge, not just tall but obese, with a balding scalp and piggy eyes. He held a thick, foul cigar in one hand; his other was stuffed into the pocket of his tidy grey suit. His clothes seemed to be slightly baggy on him, though how that was possible, Nicole's mind boggled. Overall, he gave off the appearance of an ill-tempered elephant. As he stepped forward, Nicole fancied that the room, despite appearing to be a basement, shook at the foundations.

"My employer," Nickels announced, letting his grip on Nicole cease, "Mr. Klaus Tollywoddle. Mr. Tollywoddle, this is - "

"I know who she is."

Wonka was tall and lean, with sweet, finely-clipped dark brown hair and blue eyes the colour of candies and lakes and other vibrant sapphire things. His face was a milky pale, as if clothed permanently in an unbroken frost, though his smile was warm and welcoming.

His coat was velvet, deep wine-coloured, though perhaps a bit more reddish, with faint stripes. His cane, filled with colourful candy, swung carelessly from his gloved fingers as he swayed up and down the hallway, filling Nicole's young heart with a sort of awe. He seemed even more chipper than usual, a fact that caused the girl to giggle to herself and turn slightly pinkish.

She had absolutely no idea where they were going. Wonka had not specified, but she gathered from the skip in his stride that it was worth the suspense.

***

They'd woken late that morning, around twelve noon. Nicole, with a start, had begun to get up, reaching immediately for her sweater.

"Oh my goodness!" she cried, "School! I'm late! It's nearly lunchtime, I've missed science block and - " Nicole paused, her arm halfway into the sleeve of her sweater, and looked back at Wonka apprehensively, "Aren't you going to stop me?"

At this, Wonka laughed, abruptly and startlingly geniune. A coy hand reached out to take her upper arm, and he dragged her back down underneath the duvet. She snuggled up underneath his chin, cooing softly and kissing his collarbone, stroking his shoulder absently with one of her hands. Wonka found that again, he'd had almost no contact with any girls her age, ever, not even when he was that age. He wondered if they were all so innocent-seeming, childlike, but yet not.

There was an intelligence in her...not obvious at first, but soon apparent. Her kind personality and tendency toward sweetness kept you endeared until her other qualities got their snares into you.

Wonka had decided that morning, that today would be the day to show her. After all, she couldn't leave by light of day (it just wouldn't do to break his own rules, would it?), and after all, he really didn't have that much work to do...Yes, today was perfect.

***

Rainbow-coloured candy butterflies beat their silken wings against the insides of Wonka's chest, causing his breath to come all the faster and his head to feel quite light. Quite giddy, indeed.

Nicole's footsteps were reassuring behind him as he danced ahead of her, twirling his cane to and fro, left and right, up and down, whistling a tad to himself and resisting the urge to giggle.

He hadn't ever shown this to anyone, before. Not except the Oompa Loompas, but they didn't quite count. He'd spent over a year designing it, and another year or two to manufacture it, test it, work out all the bugs (some were reluctant to leave, so Wonka, being a kind-hearted man, offered them a position in his bed-mattress, provided they didn't bite), and then to set it into action. He was really quite proud of it, and he was more than eager to finally show it to another human being.

"Oh, oh, my dear, we've arrived. Here we are! This is the entrance, well, one of them, we shall enter through here. Logical, don't you think? My dear, logical is my middle name.

"Now, I have never shown this to anyone save the Oompa Loompas since I built it. That means that, aside from me, because I don't really count, well, I do, I count quite well, actually. I can count to fifty in ten different languages, did I ever tell you that? For example, French: Une, Deux, Trois - Oh, I'm sorry, of course. What was I saying? Oh, yes, you are the first human ever to lay eyes on this. That makes you very special indeed."

"Oh, go on, Wonka," she laughed, and shoved him playfully, "Open the door or I shall die from excitement!"

The grin that was playing around the corner of his mouth, twisting it up into a smirk, overtook Wonka's entire face, and he nodded. "Oh, all right. Without further ado," he said, pushing on the double-doors behind him, "The Chocolate Room."

***

Wonka was watching Nicole like a hawk, desperately seeking her every reaction. It was so immensely fulfilling to have swung the doors open, and watched her face go from rapt eagerness to awed admiration. Her mouth formed a small 'o', and her eyes widened as if trying to take in the massive room all at once.

"Oh...goodness," she breathed, looking about herself, "You built this?"

"I did," Wonka choked out, his breath having momentarily left him in a fit of proud ecstasy. He regained it after a second, however, and began to speak again, "And what's more is that almost everything you see here is completely edible. Or perhaps I mean that everything here is almost completely edible. Or possibly everything here is completely almost edible. In any case, you can eat almost everything you see. Though I don't recommend it, or you'll get a tummy-ache, and we can't have that."

Nicole had begun to wander out into the sugary garden, touching a marzipan petal here, sampling a bit of gummy flower-bud there, seeming completely amazed by everything that surrounded her. The flush of pride Wonka felt growing in his heart swelled greatly, almost to overflowing. Watching someone so entranced by his work was by far the best reward he could have asked for.

He realised that his lips were moving unconsciously, and words were coming out of his mouth. "You know, some people think that just because I own a chocolate factory, that I eat nothing but candy. Which is preposterous. I love sugar as much as the next few children, but I cannot survive on it alone. As such, not everything in this room is sugary-sweet. I mean, certainly, the majority of it is, but there's some lovely fresh tea in those buttercups over there, do try the green ones, they're mint. Yellow is honey, that's my favourite. I have a sandwich bush around here somewhere, but I'm not sure what it's blooming. You do have to be careful, because it can be peanut butter one minute and liverwurst and pickles the next."

"Liverwurst?" Nicole echoed with disgust. Wonka chuckled slightly. "Oooh, is that river made of chocolate?"

She was trotting toward the chocolate river with one arm outstretched. Wonka emitted a small squeaking noise and darted after her. "Yes it is!" he cried, reaching out to stop her, "But it mustn't be touched! Nicole, don't!"

Nicole's hand stopped just short of the river, and she straightened up, chastened. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. Why - "

Wonka reached her side and put one arm around her shoulders as if to make sure she wouldn't fall into the goopy substance, "Because it's the chocolate. The exact batch that will be hardened and whipped and poured into molds, then packed and shipped and sold to children around the world. And naturally I can't have people reaching in and contaminating it."

"Oh, I understand," Nicole replied, and then gave Wonka a faint, shaken smile, "I am sorry."

"No, not at all," Wonka assured her, as the tension in his chest unwound and he could breathe properly again, "Just be careful. If you ever fell in, I would fear for you. There's a dreadful undertow."

"I shall stay well clear of it, then. Can you show me to those buttercups you mentioned? I should really love some tea just now..."

"Wonka Chocolates, can I help you?" the voice buzzed from the speakerbox in the pillar.

"Um...Hello. My...my name is Nicole," Nicole began tremulously, clutching her purse, "I wondered if I might have a word with - "

"One second, please, miss."

There was a moment of silence, and Nicole shifted from foot to foot. She was nervous, extremely so. It had been four years, almost to the day (she knew, she'd been counting), since she'd moved away. Three years and two months since the last letter (however had she stopped writing? She missed him every day). And it had been four years, three weeks, and two and a half days since the last time she and Wonka had...Nicole blushed brightly.

"Come in," crackled the speaker, giving Nicole quite a start. The gates before her unlatched with a metallic clink, and she pushed one of them open just enough to let her through. She then entered, and shut it conscientiously behind her. She couldn't remember ever having entered the factory from this entrance before, but she'd seen it often enough to know which door was which. She approached the oak door and steeled her nerves. Then she knocked.

The door swung open, and she was gestured inside by a very old man indeed. She looked at him with polite shock. He smiled at her as he shut the door.

"Hi," he said with a twinkling smile, "I'm Grandpa Joe. You must be Nicole."

"Er. Oh. Yes. Yes, that's me. How did you - ?"

"I heard you on the intercom. You wanted to speak with Charlie?"

"Oh," Nicole began, "No. Er...well, actually, I came to see Mr. Wonka."

"Oh, I'm afraid he's terribly busy. Our Charlie isn't old enough to do all the paperwork quite yet, you see. Wonka doesn't accept any visitors, I'm afraid."

Nicole's heart sank. No visitors? "Oh. I suppose...I suppose I should go, then."

"Well, don't just run off like that! Come on in," Grandpa Joe insisted, leading Nicole through an unfamiliar corridor. Nicole opened her mouth to politely protest, but in that instant, the old man spoke the magic words, "Would you like a cup of hot chocolate?"

Nicole's heart leapt and broke at the same time. Her mouth curled up into a sad little smile, and something that was half-laughter, half-sabbing escaped her throat. Hot chocolate...

She sighed. "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt," she said, Too much...

Grandpa Joe smiled at his minor victory, and led Nicole into what appeared to be a den of some sort. There was the head of what Nicole identified immediately as a Snogglewhomper (a terrible lion-like creature that preys on small children) above the brick fireplace, and attractive rugs hug about the walls. There were no real lights, just candles and the fire, and it sudden felt to Nicole as if it were evening, when it was, in fact only midday. She found herself seated in a plush violet armchair and a mug forced into her hands. She smiled weakly.

"Thank you, Mr...Joe."

"Grandpa Joe, please," Grandpa Joe insisted, "That's what everyone calls me, here. Even Mr. Wonka."

"Thank you, Grandpa Joe," Nicole said, and took a sip of her cocoa. It was amazing. Every bit as wonderful as she remembered it being, so many years ago. She gave an indulgent sigh and felt her lips pucker up against her will, and kiss the side of the mug.

Oh. Well. Nicole blushed furiously, acutely aware of Grandpa Joe's bemused gaze on her. She offered him a rueful smile and raised her mug to him. "I'm sorry...I love hot chocolate."

The old man laughed. "That's all right. Wonka's hot chocolate has that effect on people. Oh, Charlie! Glad you could join us!"

A sandy-haired boy entered the room, smiling broadly at the strange woman in the armchair. "Hi Grandpa Joe. Who's this?"

"This is Nicole, Charlie."

"It's nice to meet you, Nicole," the boy said, offering her his hand. He seemed to be about ten years old, and Nicole felt distinctly aware of the fact that she was nearly twice his age. Yet there he was, the new owner of Wonka's beloved factory. It gave Nicole mixed feelings. They shook hands, and Nicole mumbled something about it being her pleasure.

"Grandpa Joe," Charlie said, turning suddenly to his grandfather, "Grandma Josephine asked to see you. Something about marshmallows, I couldn't quite understand her."

"Oh, not again..." Grandpa Joe groaned, lifting himself out of his comfortable chair and heading toward the door, "I'll be back as soon as I've cleaned things up a bit..."

That left Charlie and Nicole alone. Both of them smiled nervously.

"So, Nicole. What brings you to the factory?"

"Well, I...I wanted to talk to Mr. Wonka. But Grandpa Joe said he isn't receiving visitors."

"No, not ever," Charlie agreed, "Except for me, of course, and my family. He's still not sure if we should let people in at all, but I think it's okay. And he trusts me, I hope. So you can talk to me, if you like," he added helpfully. Nicole couldn't help but smile at the boy's sweet disposition. She'd heard all about the Golden Tickets, of course, seen it on TV. She'd even bought a few herself, though her parents caught her after a while and docked her pocket money to keep her from getting any more. She'd always thought to herself that Charlie seemed like the nicest of all the bunch of kids that got chosen. The only nice one, really. She desperately wished that she'd been one of the winners. She wondered if Mr. Wonka had wished that, too...

"Are you okay?" Charlie looked concerned, and Nicole realised that her face had slipped into a frown.

Nicole started, and quickly replaced her smile. "Sorry. I...got distracted for a moment. I do that sometimes. It was the...Snogglewhomper. I was just wondering how Mr. Wonka captured it."

Charlie paused, and looked behind him. "You know what that is?"

"Well, yes. Doesn't everyone know what a Snogglewhomper is? It's indigenous to South Druu, and eats all the children in the surrounding villages. Isn't that right?" Nicole asked, suddenly not at all sure that she'd been correct. Charlie was giving her the most peculiar look, she realised she must be wrong. "Sorry, foolish of me. Just silliness, I suppose. Obviously it's a lion. Of course."

"Oh...no! It's not that. It's just that you got it exactly right," Charlie stated, sounding rather disbelieving.

"Is that bad?" Nicole asked, chiding herself for still being so meek. She'd been working on it, but somehow it still seeped into everything. She might have been happy to know that she would eventually inherit the Earth, but to be honest, she was too meek to want to inherit anything more than a seaside property and perhaps a small bit of money.

"Er...No...It's just, how did you know?"

Well, that was a bit of a problem. Obviously Wonka had never told them about her. Of course he wouldn't. Why would he? It was positively silly of her to expect him to even remember her, much less have mentioned her to anyone else. Well, she'd not come into this intending to lie to them, and she darn well wasn't going to.

"Mr. Wonka taught me," she admitted, unsure of how Charlie would react to this. She'd been called a liar more times than not when conferring stories involving Mr. Wonka. But Charlie just seemed surprised.

"Oh. How did you know him?"

Nicole laughed nervously. "That is a little harder to answer. We...were friends, years ago."

"Oh, well, you might have said," Charlie exclaimed suddenly, "I'm sure Mr. Wonka wouldn't mind seeing an old friend."

"What? Do you mean it?"

"Of course. Come along, I'll take you to him," the young boy was practically bursting with excitement, and grabbed Nicole's hand (she set her cool mug on the coffee table quickly) and began to drag her off through the factory. She chuckled, and Charlie laughed, too, though neither of them was entirely sure what the other was laughing at. Or what they, themselves, were.

"Are you sure he won't be cross?" Nicole asked, as they took a left into more familiar territory. She'd never really been allowed full access to the factory, and it made her slightly jealous to see that Charlie had full run.

"Probably not," Charlie said, honestly, "But it's all right. I let you in, and that should be okay for him. He'll understand, I think."

Suddenly they were in the hallway. The one that had factored highly in many of Nicole's dreams over the past couple of years. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that the door on the left was a broom closet (except on Thursdays, then it was Wonka's personal kitchen), just beyond that was the kitchen (except on Thursday, when it was a storage room - no one was quite sure where the broom closet was on Thursdays), and just beyond that, behind the deep mahogany door...

Nicole stopped, and squeezed Charlie's hand.

"Um," she began, "Thank you so much for everything. I appreciate all of your kindness...but I wonder...do you mind if I go in on my own?" she asked, timidly. Please, she begged mentally.

Charlie did not disappoint her. "Okay. His door is the third on the left, it's pretty obvious. And don't worry, he won't be upset, okay? I'll be down the hallway if you need me."

Nicole nodded feebly and thanked him again as he proceeded back the way they'd come. She then sighed and faced forward. Well, all right. She took a few steps forward and stared at the door. Slowly, she raised her hand, her fingers curling under to form half a fist, knuckles pointing toward the thick wood of the door. Poised to knock, she hesitated.

***

Wonka shuffled the papers on his desk back and forth, circling something there, striking something there, fillng in a box here or there, or adding a signature in an appropriate (and sometimes not) place. He sighed, peering at the mess of paperwork before him. It could wait. He stood up, went to half of his safe, and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with careful penmanship laid across it. He lifted it out, and surveyed it. With half a smile, he brought it to his desk and laid it down as if it were terribly brittle. He read it over, especially the last few lines. He dipped his quill in his inkpot, and lifted it up to his mouth. He sucked the chocolate ink from in absently and thought to himself.

It had been a long time since he'd last written on this particular sheet. He wasn't sure how long, but a long while, certainly. When was the last time he'd sent her a letter? He really couldn't remember. It might have been years at this point. The very thought caused a leaden guilt to settle in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't that he didn't want to write to her...just that it was taking him so very long to decided exactly what he wanted to say. And he had such little time, lately...

He read the last line again. "I miss you more and more with each passing day."

He never knew what to add after that, but he'd never had the heart to scratch it out and start over again. He heaved a great sigh and absently dipped his quill again. Pen poised to write, he hesitated.

Knock, knock.

Wonka's quill skittered across the page and out of his hand, landing somewhere in the regions of his wastepaper basket. His face was turned toward the door in shock and...utter shock. His heart was stopped, he was sure. He couldn't have heard what he'd thought he'd just heard. It simply wasn't possible, was it? It must have been his imagination.

Knock, knock.

Not his imagination, then. Must be Charlie, then. Surely, it must be. But...Charlie's knocks were much more boisterous, and lower down, as well. Wonka stood with a kind of reverence, not hoping to dare and not daring to hope, as he gingerly approached the door. It couldn't be...

The handle turned, the door opened, and Wonka just about fainted.

"N-Nicole," he breathed, spotting the young woman outside the door. And it was her, unmistakeably. The mousy brown hair, steel blue eyes, the terrified facial expression. But...she was so much older. How long had it been, precisely?

"Mr. Wonka," she replied, in rather the same breathless, subtly ecstatic tone. There was a moment of absolute silence as the two of them stared at one another, almost as if neither really believed what they were seeing. In synchronisation, both of them seemed to figure that whether or not it was real, they should make the best of it. The two of them rocketed into one another's arms.

***

Wonka's head was spinning, his heart was nigh on explosion, and he noted duly that other bits of him were reacting, as well. Nicole's lips were hungrily massaging his own, stealing his breath away and replacing it with a keen longing that he'd long ago learned to ignore. He moaned slightly, stroking Nicole's soft hair with a free hand, and holding the side of her face with the other.

Suddenly they were apart, and Nicole's cheeks were wet with silent tears. She gasped for breath and choked, falling into Wonka's arms with a quiet sob. Wonka found that twin tears burned in his own eyes. He held Nicole close - so close - and kissed her head firmly.

"You never wrote me back," she mumbled, loud enough for Wonka to hear.

"I wrote...but I could never finish the letter. It always hurt too much," he admitted, "I'm so sorry."

"I thought you'd forgotten about you."

"Never," Wonka whispered, "Never."

***

blahblah

"Yes, you must be grown-up. You came through the front door," Wonka stated. For some reason, he sounded rather saddened by this.

Wonka was an attractive man and, as such, was no stranger to sex. However, he was not particularly close friends with it, either. It was like the new neighbor on the end of the block who he'd ignored for the first couple of months, and had eventually worked up the courage to visit. Unfortunately, as with many first meetings, it was uncomfortable and awkward. And Wonka, being particularly sensitive to such things, had avoided it almost ever since.

However, with the sudden presence of Nicole, a decently attractive, nubile young lady who was generous with her physical affections, platonic though they may be...well, to take the metaphor a bit farther, if I may, he began the sort of thought process that follows upon recieving news that the neighbor at the end of the block has a new in-ground swimming pool, or a big screen television. He found himself metaphorically calling it up, laughing nervously, and saying, "Hey, you remember that one time when we hung out?"

He also found, almost to his dismay, that the frequency of his masturbatory rituals had practically doubled.

"Oh dear," he mumbled to himself, noticing the small splotch of encrusted chocolate semen on his pants. He surreptitiously scraped it off with a fingernail. Nicole noticed him doing so, but thought nothing of it. The man lived in a chocolate factory, after all. Wonka was, not for the first time, thankful for the amusing accident which had rendered his male product to melted milk chocolate.

Nicole had been sharing the bed with him for weeks, now, and each night she did it got harder for Wonka to control himself. He was almost losing sleep due to the aching between his legs. He'd thought about asking her to stop visiting, or at the least to sleep on a cot...but every time he tried to do so, he found he could not. He couldn't sabotage his addiction. Being as close to her as he was both thrilled and tortured him, a bittersweet mixture of pain and pleasure that was maddening...and delightful.

If I could make this emotion into a candy, I would make a fortune... Wonka thought to himself, watching Nicole's pouty, uncultured little lips take in sip after sip of her hot chocolate. Her head turned and she faced him, smiling broadly. Her tiny tongue darted out to collect the lingering traces of cacao from her lips. How he wished it were a different sort of chocolate she was licking off of her inviting mouth...

It is true that there are small particles of inspiration zipping through the atmosphere at any given time, hitting people randomly and offering their ideas to them. Some people are more prone to being affronted by them, and some aren't. Wonka was one of the former, and he found himself inspired, suddenly, in the most deliciously inappropriate way. The smile he gave to the girl beside him was sweet and beguiling, with a deep, underlying element of danger, like a milk chocolate that looked delectable on the outside but might end up containing something unpleasant.

Like coconut. Euch.

***

Knock, knock. Wonka could almost see her face shyly waiting outside the door as she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. She was not very graceful or proper, but she was polite where it counted, and would never enter his room without some sort of warning. It was quite endearing and, in this particular instance, warranted.

"Just a moment, my dear," Wonka called, hoping his voice didn't sound too breathy. He was nearly there, his hand pumping up and down his length at enormous speed. He'd been trying not to think of her while he did it, but he found that he really didn't have anything else to think about.

His breath caught in his throat and he clamped his mouth shut halfway through the grunt that tried to escape. Thick, creamy chocolate spewed from the end of his tensing member and pooled in the mug that he held beneath the tip. When he'd managed to force the last droplet of come from himself, he looked inside the cup.

Just past half full. He sighed. He'd been working on that single cup all day, and now had no more time. Ah, well. He would just have to adjust his own portion. It had occurred to him that perhaps he might just add some hot chocolate from the kitchen, but...no, that would make it less special, somehow. If special was what you could call it.

Quickly, Wonka set down the mug and replaced himself in his pants. He scooted back to lean against the headboard of the bed, pulled the covers up to his waist, and bid Nicole to enter. She did so, a smile breaking her face like a new dawn, her loose black sweater swinging about her round hips as she stumbled over what was likely her own foot.

The terrible mental image of her falling forward and knocking over the mug of hard-earned chocolate across the sheets, and the terrified gasp that Wonka knew he would utter if such a thing were to occur, prompted him to take hold of the cup and grasp it tightly until Nicole was well and seated.

"Is that for me?" she asked, almost immediately, "I 'spect you've gone and had yours all ready?"

Wonka grinned, "No, I was waiting for you. But I've...er...I've concocted a new mixture of hot chocolate, and I was hoping that you would be so kind as to do me the honours?"

"Really?" she asked, reaching for the cup, which he happily reliquished to her grasp.

"Yes, really," Wonka said with a nod. Nicole surveyed the drink as if it were something precious, as though it was a new flavor of ice cream that had never ever been heard of before...or like a brand new colour that no one had ever seen. She sent him a greedily excited glance that caused something deep within the bowels of his libido to twitch, and brought the cup to her mouth.

She took a tiny sip, at first, to make sure it was all right. Then, she poured just a little onto her outstretched tongue and rolled it around inside her mouth like a fine wine, absorbing it completely. Then she swallowed.

If Wonka thought he'd milked himself dry producing that drink for her, he was mistaken. The spigot from which this particular chocolate product had come forth was readying itself to create another dosage. And as Nicole gave a small, unconscious moan of pleasure and began to drink the chocolate down as if her life depended on it, Wonka was uncertain that his pipes would not burst on their own.

It would so happen that Nicole, in her haste, spilled a bit of the chocolate along the sides of her mouth, and when she set down the mug, she rather resembled Count Chocula, with thick brown semi-liquid dripping down from either corner of her mouth. Wonka almost moaned as she smiled sheepishly and reached her tongue out as far as she could to collect the precious trails of chocolate.

"Mmmm," she declared articulately, "Wow. That was really lovely. What do you call it?"

"Um," Wonka had not thought that far ahead, and the head with which he usually chose to do his thinking was currently out of commission. "Cumdiddlyumptious." It had escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. With the apples of his pale cheeks turning a distinct crimson colour, he cleared his throat and corrected himself harshly, "Scrumdiddlyumptious, that is. But I haven't decided if it should be a liquid or a bar."

Nicole's tongue searched her mouth for any chance that she might have missed some. She smacked tentatively, once or twice, as if testing something. "Actually, I think it would make a lovely candy bar. It tastes like it should be harder, you know?"

Oh. He knew.

The words, "Would you like some more," were just sitting on the edges of Wonka's pink lips, ready to throw themselves into the waiting air, when a bit of sense interrupted them and held them fast. If Wonka was going to get what he wanted...he would have to wait.

He smiled awkwardly, showing far too much teeth. As a matter of fact, it was less of a smile and more of a pained rictus that had gotten confused at the edges and turned upward instead of down. He patted Nicole gently on the shoulder, and she leaned into his chest, snuggling unashamedly underneath his arm, smiling and sighing, completely unaware of the yearning erection that was settled less than five inches from her arm.

Oh dear.

***

Wonka had refrained from making Nicole another glass of "Scrumdiddlyumptious," partly because he didn't think he was up to it, and partly because last night had been hellish. They'd laid down, and Nicole had cuddled into his embrace, fully comfortable. But Wonka had had to spend almost every moment making sure that his throbbing shame remained hidden from her. He'd not gotten much repose last night, suffice it to say. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until he'd reluctantly removed the little girl from his arms and rolled over to face the opposite way that he'd gotten any decent sleep at all.

It hadn't been that bad, previously, but Wonka hadn't fed the girl an entire cup of his special chocolate before that night, and the way she'd guzzled it down like a parched man in a desert, the way her tongue played with it in her mouth...it still brought a stiffness to his loins.

"No, no, stop it, stop it!" he insisted, waving frantically at his crotch, "Enough! Please! Oh, dear."

There was a knock at the door, but it wasn't Nicole's knock. It wasn't small and timid, it was more forceful, as if someone had fallen into the door, knuckles first. And he thought he heard a strange, strangled noise through the wood. Wonka's heart leapt into his throat. Who could that be, and what did they want? How could anyone else have gotten in? He'd made very sure that his defences were foolproof against anyone but Nicole, after he'd decided to allow her to continue visiting...Unless she'd let someone else in, but that was unthinkable. She wouldn't do that. Unless they'd forced her!

Wonka was almost certain he heard a sob on the other side of the door. Oh god, what was he going to do? He looked around his room quickly for something he could possibly use as a weapon. He grabbed a long, thick bit of foam that was dangling lazily from his ceiling. He couldn't, at the moment, remember what purpose it usually served, but tonight it would be his lance. Wonka, as a rule, deplored violence, really he did, but he was not opposed to knocking someone about with a pool noodle if it came to the clinch.

He opened the door, and Nicole nearly fell into him. She was alone, and tears were running down her face. The floppy bit of foam fell from Wonka's loose grip, quite forgotten. Wonka was just chiding himself for being an alarmist, when he was suddenly gripped around the middle by a sobbing young girl.

"Oh..." he cooed, quietly, shutting the door behind her (but not without a quick glance to make sure the hall was absolutely devoid of strange, imposing men), "Hush, there...What's wrong?"

"I don't ever want to go home again!" Nicole cried. Wonka had ushered her toward the bed, and she was climbing, shoeless, beneath the covers, still showing no signs of ceasing her tears. Wonka sat down beside her, and she buried her head in his chest, clutching at him.

"Nicole," he said quietly, but upon doing this, Nicole began to cry harder, and her head slipped until it lay in his lap. Her fingers were clutching his shirt loosely, and there was suddenly nothing more than a thin layer of cloth between the girl's hot, tear-stained mouth and Wonka's suddenly very noticable genitalia.

"Wha! Er, what happened?" Wonka choked out. When Nicole spoke, her lips brushed the fabric that covered his inner thigh. When she breathed, the air expelled from her lungs caressed bits of him that he didn't like to discuss in great detail. Needless to say, Wonka did not hear what Nicole had said.

blah blah comforting blah i might change this bit blah

Nicole sniffled, and wiped her eye on her sleeve. She smiled up at Wonka and bit her lip, causing a couple of butterflies to form in his stomach. "Thanks," she said softly (their wings flapped), "I really appreciate it. I appreciate everything you do for me, really..." she trailed off, grinning shyly and averting her gaze (one or two of them did a loop-the-loop). Wonka could feel, suddenly, that now was the time to move. If he was going to do anything, he would have to do it now (they began to do a butterfly tango).

He reached down (flap) and took Nicole's chin in his hand gently (flap, flap). He tilted her flushed, smiling face upward, and looked into her eyes (the butterflies began to feel like they had butterflies of their own). Nicole made a quietly inquisitive noise, but Wonka was all ready in motion. Slowly but inevitably, like a glacier, his head was travelling toward hers. The butterflies in his stomach were growing more and more restless, until he felt almost nauseous. He took a deep breath, but only got partway through it before their lips collided, surprising the both of them.

Nicole made a startled sound, and Wonka gave a small moan in his throat. He pressed his lips against hers more insistently, his hand going automatically to caress her hair, holding her close to him. Gods, he had wanted this for what seemed like forever. It had been so long since he'd been able to touch anyone, to kiss them, to...

The kiss, however, and anything else that might have followed, was cut short. Nicole pushed away, wide-eyed, breathing heavily. Wonka's heart felt as if it had gone bungee jumping, and the line had suddenly broken. It fell into his innards with a splash, and the butterflies exploded.

"Mr. Wonka," Nicole breathed in disbelief, a sort of fear creeping into her expression.

Wonka sat back, his burning mouth hanging slack in horror. "Oh, god," he whispered, as the girl, who was less than half his age, knitted her brow and frowned.

"Why...why did you do that?" she stammered, after a moment, looking into Wonka's eyes intensely. Wonka's heart, though having taken up residence in his stomach, was willing to pound out its tattoo, double-time, and now he thought he really would be sick. He swallowed nervously.

"Well..." he began, but choked on his next words. What could he possibly say? "I...I wanted to, I suppose."

"I...I have to go," Nicole said suddenly, rising.

Three's a Crowd: Resident Evil 4 Fanfiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:47:04 GMT

Status: Unfinished, but close

Title: Three's a Crowd
Fandom: Resident Evil 4
Pairing: Leon/Ashley/Luis
Rating: NC-17, I suppose.
Summary: PWP fluffy smut

The three of them had constructed a makeshift bed out of some burlap sacks and old sheets they'd found. It was not the most comfortable thing Leon had ever slept on, but it was far from being the least. He'd been rather concerned about Ashley, who was nothing if not used to a little more luxury. They had a single, thin blanket between them, and the cold European air was enough to make any one of them wish that it were thicker.

They slept closely huddled to conserve body heat, and Ashley was between them. It wasn't really that Leon would have been opposed to sleeping next to Luis, though Leon wasn't quite ready to vouch for the Spaniard's heterosexuality, but he worried about Ashley's delicate health, and even moreso about her protection.

blahblah

As if to jar Leon from his thoughts, Luis tugged on his end of the blanket, exposing some of Leon's previously covered form.

"You're hogging the covers," he accused, and Ashley giggled. Leon tugged back.

"No, I'm not. Move in closer if you don't have enough," he ordered, and tightly clamped the blanket in his grasp, effectively thwarting Luis' teasing attempts to steal it back. Eventually the man gave up, and the three drifted into a rather uncomfortable sleep.

***

Leon woke up because Luis had shifted positions, causing the blanket to retreat from his, Leon's, rather chilly legs. He impatiently leaned down and reclaimed the few precious inches of cloth, and met no resistance. He must just have turned over. Leon lay back down.

When sleep did not immediately claim him, he allowed his mind to wander. Ashley; fragile, soft Ashley with the silly outfit and secret bravery, was lying just behind him. Her hazel eyes were closed in repose, and though Leon was facing away from her, he could just picture the sweet, tender look on her sleeping face as she dreamed.

Leon wanted to fuck Ashley like there was no tomorrow. He simply ached to grab her ample tits and groped them roughly as he pounded her into the mattress, reckless and lusty. Just thinking about her slender frame (er...in places, anyway) behind him, a mere few inches away from his back, caused blood to rush to inopportune places. He shook his head vaguely. He needed to go to sleep.

He listened to her breathing. In, out, with maybe a tiny hint of a snore here or there. Occasionally a small sigh would escape her lips, the hot air brushing the tender skin on the back of Leon's neck, and encouraging his overactive libido. How he wished he could just roll over and...

He shook his head again, and then thumped it back down on his pack, which he was currently using for a pillow. Luis shifted once more, and Leon retrieved his share of blanket before attempting to regain unconsciousness.

***

Leon was nearly asleep when a third rustle of blankets roused him. He was about to grab the blanket back in annoyance, but a catch in Ashley's breathing caused him to pause. He lay, perfectly still, as he heard her breathing become suddenly harsh and shallow. A small sound, barely louder than a whisper, and as breathy as a sigh, escaped her throat. And then a name. "Luis...!"

"Shhh," came the reassuring reply in a dark, Spanish voice, "It's all right, Ashley."

A gentle, wet sound could be heard, and a quick intake of breath on Ashley's part. Leon silently, slowly, imperceptibly reached for the small signalling mirror in his pack, and positioned it over his shoulder just so.

Luis' hand was hardly visible underneath the white cotton of Ashley's panties, and his handsome face was buried in her neck, kissing and suckling passionately. Leon went immediately stiff - and in more than one way - wishing suddenly that he hadn't woken up at all. Ashley's sweet face was twisted with ecstasy, her eyes closed but not in dormancy, her mouth opening in silent mewls of muted passion as her legs moved to allow Luis further access to parts that Leon had only fantasized about. She said his name again, causing a cold shiver of jealousy to shoot through Leon's body and settle as a black lump in his stomach.

Luis was moving again, grinding his hips up against Ashley's backside, grunting and whispering inaudible, unspeakable things in her ear, each one coaxing a breathy but licentious moan from her throat. Leon saw her head nod after one such whisper, and her own hand began to snake up from its resting place to meet the aching need in Luis' loins. Leon shared this need, and the pit in his stomach gaped wider the longer it went ignored. She was his! His little Ashley...!

How could they think he would sleep through this? Her moans were becoming more vocal now, though still quite soft, and the motion would be enough to awaken all but the deepest sleeper. But the two of them, lost in passion, very carelessly kept going, without even a glance at Leon.

Suddenly, Ashley's hips began to buck, and she allowed herself one brief but loud cry of pleasure, before she remembered herself. Just as her muscles relaxed again, her hand began to move, double-time, up and down Luis' erection. But Leon had had enough, and turned sharply. Ashley gasped, her hand rapidly returning to her side, and Luis suddenly looked as if he'd been asleep - with his hard cock hanging out of his pants - the whole time. Ashley's mouth opened to explain away her reddening cheeks, but where words were intended to come out, Leon's tongue came in. Writhing, hot lust squirmed in Leon's belly, fueling his hands' sudden interest in exploring every curve and caveat of Ashley's well-proportioned body.

Surprised though she was, she did not deny him, even leaned into him as he pressed his intentions on her. She moaned, now, into Leon's mouth, and a dry chuckle was heard. Leon's hand brushed across another, facing the opposite way. The rings and bangles should rightfully have been cold in the night air, but they'd been kept warm. Luis' eyes met Leon's over Ashley's head, and in those dark brown pools was a burning need, laced with lust and sleep-deprivation. The young girl between them suddenly arched her back as Luis' hand found its way between her legs from behind. Leon resumed ravaging her mouth with his, and her body with his hands, and she moaned.

Her hands found their way to Leon's groin of their own accord, and struggled with his belt until it unclasped. The fly itself offered little resistance to her thin fingers, and within a moment her hand had slipped past the waistband of Leon's boxers and grasped their treasure, causing a low groan to emenate from Leon's open mouth.

"Ashley..."

He heard her breath catch in her throat as she began to stroke him, up and down, not expertly but very well, nonetheless. Leon's head landed on his pack, his eyelids flickering downwards to compensate for the upward direction his irises had taken. "Oh, god..."

When the world swam back into vision, it seemed to consist mostly of Luis' smirking face. While normally this caused Leon's fists to itch, now it merely set a strange bubbling feeling to his abdominal regions. He knew, suddenly and without any doubt, that -

Luis' mouth was covering his own. He cried out in surprise, but somehow the man's beringed hand had found its way to the back of Leon's head and was holding him fast into the kiss. Leon's mouth was clamped decidedly shut against intrusion, but when he felt a warm wetness envelope his cock, and a small tongue begin lapping at the sensitive underbelly of it, he could not contain the strangled moan that rushed forward. Ashley! The moment his lips parted, a tongue, tasting of clove cigarettes and the beginning hints of morning breath, infiltrated his defenses and began to thrash to and fro like a snake in the throes of orgasm.

Somehow, Leon managed to force Luis away. "I don't swing that way, sorry," he said, as explanation. Luis shrugged, as if Leon had only declined a drink or a piece of chewing gum.

blahblah

"I want to fuck you," Leon hissed in Ashley's ear, and her moan seemed to get caught in her throat, a sweet dolphin of pleasure, trapped in the tuna nets of Leon's seduction. She arched up against him, and his hand pulled her damp underwear away from her small, almost childlike sex. He let the garment dangle precariously from one ankle, to avoid confusion later, and within a moment, Leon was atop her, one creamy pale thigh on either side of his hips, the end of him poised just above Ashley's girlhood. "Is this okay?" he asked her, though he was ashamed to know that he was perfectly likely to fuck her, now, whether she wanted it or not.

"Yes," she breathed, looking him straight in the eye while her questing hands, elsewhere, had found Luis' arousal and were all ready beginning to stroke him lovingly. Leon did not hesitate, and immediately pressed himself to her opening, forcing himself inside of her until every inch of him was penetrating her. She cried out loud, now, as Leon began pulling himself back out, slowly, so slowly...then, without any warning, shoving himself back in her, fast as a gunshot.

"Leon!" she moaned, as his thrusts quickly gained rhythm, his shoulder muscles flexing powerfully in the moonlight as he threw himself into her again and again. Her head was turned to the side, twisted into a beautiful rictus of carnal excitement, stoking the fire in Leon's loins ever the more. But suddenly the picture was interrupted by Luis, his elongated manhood held expectantly out, as of a plane requesting permission to enter the hangar. Ashley's tongue darted out to lap at it tauntingly, before she brought the head into her mouth, sucking on it and teasing it with tiny kisses and tongue-flicks. Luis moaned gutterally, and nudged himself forward, urging Ashley to take more of it into her young mouth. She obediently did so, taking in as much as her gag reflex would allow, and working the rest with her hand.

Leon couldn't deny being aroused by the sight, and it brought his playing piece six places closer to finish in the game of Sex, watching his dear little Ashley, who he had worked so hard to protect, lavishing attention on another man's erection, while at the same time moaning for the sweet torture of Leon's thrusting.

Without warning, Luis removed himself from Ashley's mouth, and Leon suddenly found himself with the large, dark head of another male's genitalia underneath his nose. He hastily turned his face away in disgust. "No, thank you. I'm trying to quit."

"Suit yourself, Americano," Luis replied, his voice throaty and deep. Ashley quickly picked up Leon's slack, however, pulling Luis back into her mouth and treating it like her favourite flavour of popsicle. Attempting to put from his mind the past couple of seconds, Leon redoubled his pace, fucking Ashley harder, deeper, and louder.

Luis seemed to have the same idea, having reached down to cup the back of Ashley's head with his hand, pushing himself farther into her face until her eyes clenched shut and her nose bumped against his pubis. Out again, to allow Ashley to take a breath, then back in with a vengeance, fucking her face shamelessly, moaning all the while.

At this, Leon lost it, surrending himself to a frenzing pounding, as if in a race to the finish with Luis, desperately fucking the sweet blonde teenager beneath him. Despite Leon's sudden burst of speed, Luis reached the finish line first. He came, sending the first few spurts of come down Ashley's throat, before pulling out of the sweet warmth of her mouth to send the remaining few ropes of hot, white jism arching across her face, crisscrossing like a crude spiderweb.

That was just too much. Cursing the necessity, Leon pulled his need from Ashley's warm, wet haven and began to jerk his hand up and down the length, breathing her name unconsciously as his muscles tensed. His loins spasmed once, twice, three times, each time shooting out a thick stream of viscous semen onto her bare stomach, where a manly pair of hands rubbed them into the dainty female skin. Ashley's own hands were clearing her face of the stuff with her sweater, and Leon laughed in exhaustion as he tucked his spent manhood back into his trousers and re-fastened them.

blahblah

Luis bent down and scooped Ashley into his arms, kissing her deeply and passionately. She responded, her thin arms twining around his torso like willow branches embracing the storm. Leon dejectedly averted his eyes, though they were drawn to the scene, and kept refocusing on it against his will. Luis grunted, and then lay Ashley back onto her back. His dark eyes darted upwards to catch Leon's silvery ones, and when he was certain the American agent was watching, his head bent down to lick Leon's come off of Ashley's prone form.

Leon rolled his eyes, damning the strange arousal that rose through him, and shook his head. Luis rose again, allowing Ashley the opportunity to wipe herself off, and shrugged again.

"Can't blame me for trying," he said, finally replacing himself in his pants, and lying back down. Ashley was the next to lie down, though not until after she'd replaced her shirt and attempted to clean the juices off of her temptingly short skirt. Luis wrapped his arms around her from behind, and she snuggled into his embrace with a smile and a sigh.

Controlling the unpleasant electric jealousy that threatened to overtake him, Leon lay down. The moment he did so, however, Ashley pulled him in close to her and kissed him. Her eyes shut happily as she pressed her face into his shoulder, her hands clutching at the nylon fabric of Leon's shirt. Half a smile graced his lips as he and Luis exchanged a friendly, knowing look, and he lay his head down.

"I love you..." The quiet phrase entered the cool night air, its feminine tones seeming to echo in the heads of everyone present. None of the three people lying beneath the unforgiving wool blanket knew who it was intended for, but at the moment, it seemed not to matter. Warm and satisfied, the three of them drifted off to sleep.

Love is Strange, OR, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Angie: Secret Window Fanfiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:45:49 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Love is Strange, OR, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Angie
Fandom: Secret Window
Pairing: Mort/Angie *OC, not MS*
Rating: R for sex talk.
Summary: Mort and Angie are best friends. And that's all...right?

Mort's heart was pounding. He'd been thinking about it all day, and he still wasn't sure it was a good idea. He wanted to, so badly, and he was pretty sure she did, too...but he couldn't be certain.

She'd told him she loved him. And he'd fucked up. He'd gotten freaked out, like he tended to around girls, though he'd never been that way around Angie before. Angie had always been his best friend, as close to male as your could get with breasts and a vagina, but she'd suddenly seemed...female. She'd become a girl in that instant. One with girly-type feelings, who might, deep down, be interested in things like cute skirts and makeup.

Which he had to conceed was not a bad thing. Angie had actually, for the first time ever, worn a skirt above knee level. It was flirting around her mid-thighs, attracting the attention of all of their friends, not just Mort. Her hair was still in a ponytail, yes, and she still had her glasses, but she'd been freed from her bracey prison, and had left behind her cozy t-shirts and sweats for a short skirt and what was probably actually even a tank top.

Was she dressing that way for him? Mort didn't dare hope it, though a small part of him thought, "Well, it isn't for John, that's for sure..." He put it down to arrogance, however, and continued his secret ogling of his newly-discovered female's ass.

***

Did she really love him? Mort wondered if the whole phone conversation had been a hopelessly hopeful dream on his part. Angie hadn't acted too strangely, lately. Well, no more than usual. She definitely didn't seem like she'd spent a half hour in tears over the phone with him a couple of nights ago. Sigh. Girls.

"Mort, think fast!"

Mort did not think fast. A frisbee knocked his glasses off, and he glared shortsightedly at Angie, who was about ten feet away and the visual equivalent of tapioca to Mort's astigmatism. But very sexy tapioca. Mort was nursing a two-hour erection because of that tapioca. He had been tempted to run to the bathroom and just get rid of it. After all, it would take the work of a moment, and it wasn't like he couldn't get another one...But this one was special. This one was intended. Mort wondered if he was crazy. He wondered that a lot.

Angie picked the glasses up out of the mulch and wiped it off on the bottom of her shirt, exposing even more of her dork-quality pale skin than she all ready was. She handed Mort his glasses, and he used them to get a clear look down her shirt. She didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks, Ang."

"Sorry, Mort."

They'd spoken at the same time. They laughed and then smiled shyly, also in tandem. The look on her face was so obviously longing, bittersweet affectionate, that not even Mort, living in his cloud of dorky male ignorance, could mistake it. It tugged at Mort's heartstrings, and at the strings of some of his other major organs as well. His face broke into a shakily relieved smile.

The moment was broken by the strange sound of Steve's voice. They both turned immediately. Steve rarely spoke. But when he did, everyone listened.

"Hey, um," he said, his voice sounding like the deepest bass in a choir of bullfrogs, "Mort. You did mention ice cream."

There was a moment of silence. Then, Seymour voiced everyone's opinion. "And you chose that to deign to speak about?"

"I like ice cream."

***

They'd built a bonfire. They'd roasted marshmallows. Angie had set hers on fire. Twice. John had offered to eat them, anyway. Horror stories had been told, all though they had less to do with ghosts and more to do with classmates. No one mentioned Mort's prom incident, to his great relief. The night had passed on. Seymour had gone home. Steve's new girlfriend came to pick him up for a date of sorts. John had hung about for a bit until the marshmallows ran out. Then, suddenly, it was just Mort and Angie. The fire was still going, not blazing but crackling merrily. The fire was blindingly bright in the twilight, all else would soon be blackness.

Angie was sitting just next to him, kindly attempting to coax an unwary cricket away from the fire pit. He smiled vaguely at her good-naturedness towards insects.

"Hey, Ang," he said, vaguely. She turned to look at him inquisitively. He grinned and shrugged. "Good day, huh?"

She nodded eagerly. "You bet yer sweet buttons it was. Got rid of school and braces in one day. I'm a new woman."

"You're a woman at all," Mort said without thinking, but Angie didn't seem phased. That was the nice thing about her, Mort thought, was that he could say something totally stupid and not have her get raging mad at him. And she didn't expect him to read her mind. And she liked Star Trek.

She sat up, and looked at the fire thoughtfully. Then, very slowly, her head leaned to the side and came to rest on Mort's shoulder. Mort glanced warily at the mousy-haired head on his shoulder, then gave half a nervous smile and put his arm carefully around her mostly bare shoulders. Her hand found its way onto Mort's thigh.

His erection, which had mostly dissapated in the excitement with the marshmallows and everything, was suddenly back with interest, standing full-force with an eagerness that Mort associated with puppies left alone all day. Suddenly the master was back, and Mort's manly bits were scratching at the door and whining.

Angie sighed. "Mort, do you think I'm pretty?"

Mort knew that the correct answer was something along the lines of affirmative. But he wanted to say it with finesse. He wanted to make Angie actually feel that he meant it, because he did. He wanted to make her turn a fetching shade of pink like she sometimes did. He wanted her to know exactly how pretty she was to him. He...wanted to make her so happy that she would make the first move, so that Mort wouldn't have to. A number of cheesy romantic lines flowed through his head, involving such nonsensical phrases as "beautiful as a rose" (red, with all petals on?), "enchanting as a new day" (damp with condensation and slightly cold?), and "really, really pretty" (not exactly Don Juan material).

"Yeah," he said, with finality. Whatever. She could take it or she could leave it. "You know I do. Your...your outfit is really nice."

She laughed a little, only half-mirthfully. "It's for you."

Mort's mouth kicked in before his brain. "It would never fit me."

Angie laughed so hard she snorted. Mort had to hold her to keep her from falling off of the bench. It was, he considered, not really that funny, but it was so funny to watch Angie laughing like that that Mort couldn't resist a few chuckles, himself.

After the laughter had settled down, however, Mort's brain finally processed the information it had received half a minute ago.

"For me?"

"Yes. For you. I...I guess I wanted to look more like...well, a girl. For you."

"Oh."

In retrospect, Mort thought that he should have said rather more than that. He wasn't doing very well. Angie had been One of the Guys for most of the night, albeit one with sexy legs and boobs (John's didn't count), but suddenly she was a Girl again. And Mort was notoriously bad with Girls.

He needed to find a common ground before he started asking her inane questions, like he'd done with Suzi. He wracked his brain.

"I think...I think that Han Solo didn't really look all that scruffy."

"Perhaps," Angie said, picking up immediately on Mort's nonsequitor, "But to a Princess he might be slightly less, you know, presentable."

"I guess. But still."

"You're scruffy-lookin'."

"Yeah. Well, you look like a Wookiee."

"Shut up. Your penis looks like a Wookiee."

"Better a Wookiee than Jabba."

There was a pause.

"My penis looks like Boba Fett."

"You don't have one. I hope."

Angie giggled trecherously.

There was a long pause. Angie shifted positions and snuggled into Mort's chest.

There was a longer pause. Angie's fingers were absently stroking the inside of Mort's thigh. Mort's erection was not-so-absently throbbing.

The silence continued, broken only by the crackle of the fire, and the desperate shuffling of Mort's thoughts. What if she said no? But she wouldn't...would she? If she did, he'd never live it down. It would be awful. What if...?

Eventually, part of him kicked the other part in its metaphorical buttocks and told it, gently speaking, to get the hell on with things, or they'd never get anywhere at all.

"Um, Angie?"

"Yeah, Mort?"

He was certain her hand had moved up his thigh. Had it? It must have. It certainly felt like it.

"Um...Can I ask you a question?"

"Duh. You know you can ask me anything, Mort."

"Um...Well, I guess I was just wondering...and you don't have to, I mean, I'm just asking, I know it's a big thing and all, but...well..." Mort swallowed. Angie was looking at him, now. Her hand had ceased its allegedly inadvertant sexual tickling, allowing rather more blood into Mort's belaboured brain. He swallowed, with some difficulty. "Do you, maybe, want to have sex?"

***

Angie's stomach exploded into a ball of fiery, consuming lust. Her crotch began to tingle immediately, and she could swear that she'd positively just wet her panties with arousal. Had she heard him correctly?

"I'm...I'm sorry?" she squeaked, disbelieving.

"Oh, no, it's nothing. Don't apologise. It's fine. I said it was fine, didn't I?"

"No, no. I mean I don't think I heard you correctly."

"Oh. Er...Do you want to...Er. Sex, I mean. Do you want to have it? Er, with me?"

Angie exploded again, mutely. Her breath caught in her throat. If she hadn't been leaning bodily on Mort's chest, she would probably be on fire in the pit at the moment. She exhaled.

She knew that the correct answer would be a general affirmative. But she wanted to say it in some sort of flowery fashion, so that Mort would know that she really meant it. And oh, God, did she mean it! Her mind auditioned a number of strange phrases like, "more than a flower loves the sun" (do flowers have the capacity to love?), and, "like a Ferenghi wants money" (Star Trek and sex do not traditionally go together), and "oh God, Mort, please take me now!" (she wanted to titillate him, not terrify him).

"Yes," she whispered. All right, it wasn't the most articulate, original, or even very good answer, but she'd said it in a husky voice that suggested that she may or may not be posessed by a sex demon.

Little Dancer: Historical Fiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:43:34 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Little Dancer
Fandom: Historical Fiction
Pairing: Er...I'd rather not say.
Rating: PG-13, for drunkenness.
Summary: Yes. I wrote Degas fanfiction. Shut up.

The pencil danced across the paper like its subjects did about the practice hall. The artist's whose hand held the pencil was whistling, and he followed along with the violin part of the music playing. Small feet, clad in expensive shoes and freshly dusted to prevent slipping, pattered up behind him.

"Boujour, Monsieur Degas!"

Edgar did not turn away from his sketching, but the cheery tone brought half a smile to his lips. Marie was in a good mood today.

"You are late, mon petit rat, and Madame Dominique is not happy with you."

"Yes, well, when is she?" Marie Genevieve Van Goethem, as she always proudly introduced herself, did a small dance about the man whose distracted attention she held captive. She was thirteen years old, nearly fourteen, and was rather petite for her age. Edgar waved a dismissive hand at her, trying to move her out of the way. "You're drawing Anna today," the girl helpfully pointed out, though there was a hint of displeasure in her tone.

"That's correct, Miss Marie. Do move a bit to your left, there's a good girl." The pencil continued to trace the contours of the dancing girl's form. She'd long since left the position on the page, but Edgar found it easier to concentrate when he could see who he was drawing.

"Are you going to put me in a painting, Monsieur?" her voice was high and slightly reedy, but not unpleasant when she was using it nicely. When she was upset, however, she shrieked.

"Miss Van Goethem!"

"Oh, mon dieu."

"Late again, I see!" The impressive form of Mme. Dominique towered over the seated ballerina, and consequently Edgar as well. But the latter paid her little attention, save to lean to his right to look past her expansive hips at the strutting Anna Rust. "Miss Van Goethem, you will be fined for this. And if you continue to come to my class late, you shall be dismissed!"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Marie objected, standing up, "My - "

"Yes, Madame Dominique," ordered the bulky matron.

"But - !"

"Yes, Madame Dominique."

"Yes, Madame Dominique," Marie mumbled mutinously, glaring at her ballet slippers.

"Good. Now get to the barre! Quickly, now, quickly!"

The ballet instructor shooed the young girl up off of the bench she had shared with Edgar, and he watched her approach the wall. Her shoulders were set, her head held high. He chuckled slightly. The ballerinas were all supposed to walk that way, but little Marie did it all the time. Georges Duval once said, "A lofty bearing is one of the essential qualities of an artist," and the young dancer seemed to have taken it to heart. Looking at her, you would think she was a princess, instead of the daughter of a widowed laundress and occasional prostitute.

-

blahblah

-

The door creaked open, and Edgar peered past the bosom of Amelie, the life-sized cast of a woman that he kept in his study. At the door, slightly unsteady on her feet, was Marie, clad in her dark-coloured street clothes. Her hat toppled off of her head, and she laughed at it and nudged in lightly with her shoe.

"You little drunk," Edgar chastened, standing from his desk and picking his way through the clutter in his office. He made his way to the door and lifted the offending hat. He hung it up on the appropriate rack, and then turned to remove Marie's coat. She spun round once or twice when he took it, and hung it up. Then, dizzied, she stumbled forward and landed on Edgar's stomach.

"Now, see here. You're in my way, Edgar."

"Miss Marie, I do believe I asked you to refrain from inebriating yourself until after our appointments."

"But I am on time, this time. I remembered and everything. I shall be fine, don't worry," she insisted, and brushed past Degas on her way to the small, circular platform in the centre of the loft. It was likely the only clean space in the entire room. She stepped up onto it and looked expectantly at Edgar.

The artist sighed, and shook his head with a smile. "All right, Miss Goethem - "

"Van Goethem," she corrected waveringly.

"Marie, please take off your clothes," Edgar did not face her as he said this, for he was rummaging through his supplies. But she smiled at his back, and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"I think you are a pervert, Monsieur Degas. A wicked one."

"But yet you still come to see me," Edgar countered. He'd been called a pervert and a mysogynist too many times to be phased by it any more.

"I like perverts," Marie replied, pulling her second stocking off and letting it fall, paper-thin, to the debris on the floor. Then, her shirt went up over her head, and her skirt fell down to her feet.

"You like them? I think it is because you are one, too. Where is your underwear?" Edgar had turned around momentarily, to see the rather formless young woman naked all ready.

"I have left it at home. I didn't want to wear it."

"There, you see? I think you are also a pervert." The scattered media in Degas' box suddenly showed order, and he quickly retrieved what he needed. He turned, and sat himself at his drawing bench. "What a pair we make, such a couple of perverts."

Marie laughed riotously, and Edgar couldn't help but allow himself a few bemused chuckles. "Fourth position, Miss Marie, facing me, please."

As if hypnotized, the young girl immediately snapped into action, placing one foot far before the other, and turning it out. Her shoulders squared, her hands joined behind her back, and her chin stuck up and outward.

"Ooh," she protested, "The lights are in my eyes."

"Then shut them, silly girl," Degas said, off-handedly, as he began to sketch Marie's mostly still form. She did.

She was not the most shapely of young girls, being rather straight up-and-down instead of curving extremely. She was relatively muscular, with petite breasts and a rounded stomach, and powerful thighs. Her face was rather homely, almost boyish, and yet despite this all, Degas had to admit that he found her very arousing indeed.

The Sweetest Thing: Willy Wonka Fanfiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:41:00 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: The Sweetest Thing
Fandom: Willy Wonka (Depp style)
Pairing: Wonka/Scarlett Persephone Inamorata
Rating: PG for now, though I'm sure it will get worse.
Summary: Mary-Sue at her most stunning.

The whole world was in an uproar. The five ticket winners had been announced - Veruca, Augustus, Violet, Mike, and Charlie. Wonka bar sales had dropped by half since all the tickets had been found, though that didn't mean at all that business wasn't still booming. But apparently there'd been a problem with the printing - someone had found the SIXTH golden ticket!

The television screen showed a lovely young girl, looking to be about sixteen, with silky black hair that curled in glimmering rivulets down to the centre of her back. Her skin was as pale as a winter morning, with two perfectly rosy pink cheeks and a pouting pair of lips to match. Her eyes were a dazzling violet colour, large and endearing, her nose a perfect button. And her body...well, let us just say that there were a lot of young men tuning in to the news that evening.

She began to speak in a sweet, lilting American accent.

"I'm just so lucky. My grandmother and I called the Wonka factory, and they're going to let me come with because otherwise it wouldn't be fair. Even though there were only supposed to be five. I told Mr. Wonka I didn't mind, but he insisted that I come with. I'm the luckiest girl in the world!" At this she laughed with joy, and the TV screen turned back to the reporter.

"That was Miss Persephone Scarlett Inamorata, the legendary sixth ticket winner!"

-

Persephone, known as Sephie by her friends - or would be, if she had any friends, was sitting next to the rest of the children in the chilly morning air, waiting to be let into the factory. She was sitting next to Augustus. He was very fat, and his butt kept on seeping over the edge of his own seat and touching Sephie's hip. She was really grossed out.

"Excuse me," she said, looking at him and trying to be friendly as possible, "But can you keep your butt on your own chair, please?"

At this, the other children laughed, and Augustus turned a bright red colour. He pointed a fat finger at Sephie's nose and began taunting her.

"Well, at least I have a parent here! I guess yours just didn't love you enough to come with!"

Sephie was about to say something, but Charlie intervened. "Hey! Don't talk to her that way. Maybe they were just busy, okay?"

"No, actually," Sephie said, patting Charlie's knee thankfully, "They're dead. And my grandmother is too old to make the trip. So I came by myself."

"They're dead?" Charlie asked, looking suddenly very sad. Sephie gave him a fake smile.

"Don't worry, Charlie. They died a long time ago. It barely even hurts anymore." But that was a lie. It did still hurt. And what Augustus said hurt a lot, too...but she was very comforted by Charlie sticking up for her. She gave him a genuine smile, now. "Thank you for defending me, though. You're very sweet."

Charlie smiled and blushed, though Sephie wasn't sure why. Just then, though, the door to the factory opened, and a man stepped out. No one could really see him clearly at the moment, because a black top hat was covering his eyes. He seemed to be wearing a wine-coloured jacket, with black dress pants. He was carrying a colourful cane, spinning it to and fro like Charlie Chaplin.

"Children, come forward!" announced a security guard. They all stood up, and Veruca shoved to the front of the line. Sephie didn't like that girl at all - she was way too spoiled. And whiny! She shouldered her way past the crowd, stepping tall in her fur coat and shiny hair, with her rather rotund father following helplessly behind her, like a steamship being pulled by a particularly unpleasant tugboat. Sephie was last, following after little Charlie. He kept looking back at her, and smiling. She didn't know why he was smiling, but she figured it was because he was happy about getting to go into the factory. She smiled back, she was excited, too!

The gates opened, and the man introduced himself.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Willy Wonka, and welcome to my factory. Now, you won't all be allowed in, of course, but you are welcome to stay outside and watch the smoke rise. Also, there will be a fireworks display tonight, which you are all invited to watch - " at this, a cheer rose - "From outside the factory gates." A disappointed mumbling.

Veruca muscled forward, showing Wonka her golden ticket and announcing her name. Wonka smiled at her, and his smile even seemed real - he must have been a good actor. No one would want to smile at a brat like Veruca. Along the children went, each showing their ticket and introducing themselves and their guardian. Last was Sephie.

"Hello, my dear, and what is your name?" he asked her, his brilliant blue eyes twinkling in perfect contrast to his clipped dark brown hair.

"Persephone Inamorata, Sephie for short," she answered immediately, and reached into her old, dull black wool winter coat pocket for her ticket. Suddenly her mouth dropped open - her pocket was empty!

"May I see your ticket, please?" Wonka asked her kindly. Sephie desperately searched through her jacket pockets, then the pockets in her short skirt, all to no avail. She felt tears begin welling up in her eyes.

"I-I can't find it! I must have lost it on the plane, or in the crowd...!" She continued to desperately pat herself, and there was a hurried searching in the crowd for the ticket, but after a moment, it was obvious that the ticket was long gone. "Oh, no!" Sephie wailed, as crystal tears began to fall from her glistening purple eyes. This was the worst thing that could have happened! She couldn't remember feeling this upset since her mom and dad had died. She felt like she was going to just fall over and die.

"Well..." Mr. Wonka began, not looking at all happy, "I'm afraid I really can't let you in without the ticket."

Sephie didn't want to beg...but she had to try. "I don't want to offend you, Mr. Wonka, but I really really want to go...I did have a ticket, you can ask anyone, they saw it on TV! I just must have lost it somewhere. Please, Mr. Wonka, it means everything to me! I don't even care about the lifetime supply of chocolate, just please let me come in with all of you!"

Wonka looked into the girl's face. She was very pretty, and it hurt his heart to see her looking so utterly devastated. Her big, tearful eyes begged him silently, and he could tell that she didn't really like asking favours of people. He could tell, just by looking at her, that she was a sweet girl, not at all like most of the other children he was letting in. He thought to himself, if he could let in Violet or Veruca, he could let this girl in.

"Well," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "Okay. I suppose so. But only because you said please," he said, pointing a purple-gloved finger at her and poking her in the nose playfully. Sephie laughed with relief and wiggled her nose because of having it poked.

"Don't you have anyone with you?"

"No, sir. My grandmother is too old to come with, and I don't have any other family. But it's all right. I'm sixteen, I can be my own parent!" She smiled bravely and laughed a little. Her laugh was contagious, like a catchy song, and soon Wonka laughed too.

"Well, that's all right, then. Let's go!" he cried, and danced off ahead of the six children and their assorted parents. Sephie walked beside Charlie and Grampa Joe, because they seemed to be the nicest people in the group.

Behind them, the huge gates clanged shut, and the crowd began to disperse.

-

Wonka showed them inside, where they all hung their coats up on funny hooks shaped like hands. Sephie was surprised when they turned out to actually be able to grab things. She might not have been so surprised if what they'd chosen to grab had been her coat and not her butt. She squeaked and jumped away from the wall. She could swear she heard some laughter coming from behind the wall, and glared at it. She threw her coat at it from a few feet away, and one of the hands caught it. Having circumvented that particular problem, she continued on after the crowd.

" - If you don't sign, you don't get in, I'm afraid," Wonka explained with a grim smile to the assembled children. "Certainly you understand." But no one seemed to. No one stepped forward. Wonka grimaced - or did he smirk? It was hard to tell, sometimes. "Oh dear. It seems there may be no tour."

"I can't even read the print farther down!" Violet objected. Sephie sighed, and stepped forward with a smile.

"I'll do it," she said, "I've got nothing to lose." Wonka applauded her and whooped with joy. She took up a quill, dipped it in the purple ink, and wrote her name in the proper spot. As she went to return the pen, Wonka nudged her with an elbow.

"Try the ink - it's grape." She sucked a little on the end of the quill - and it was! It tasted like real grapes, not like the icky grape flavoured things you buy in stores. She smiled to herself, and put the quill back in the vase.

"Well, if she's going to do it, then I want to!" cried Veruca, who rushed quickly forward and grabbed a quill.

"Veruca - " her father began, but she rounded on him in supreme ire.

"Don't you dare try to stop me, daddy!"

He backed down, and the girl went forward and signed. After that, everyone else did, too. Then they continued walking. Charlie reached over and squeezed Sephie's hand slightly. She looked down at him, a surprised smile on her face.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"That was really brave," Charlie said, "Being the first to sign, I mean. And you're right, what have we got to lose?"

"I want to be the first to see everything!" Veruca exclaimed. Sephie smiled sarcastically.

"That." She and Charlie both laughed, and everyone else looked at them strangely.

-

Wonka led them to a door that led to a very small room. Everyone squished inside, and Sephie got pushed into a corner. Mr. Wonka forced his way into the room, even into the very far corner, where he was suddenly thrown against Sephie by Mrs. Gloop. He was very warm and he smelled like chocolate, and Sephie found herself wanting to lean her head against his chest. He just made her feel that way. She realised she was blushing, and she looked up, and caught his eye briefly. She didn't notice at the time, because she quickly averted her gaze, but he was blushing, too.

But the moment was just that - only a moment, and the push and pull of children and parent eventually worked the jabbering chocolatier back to the door.

"Ah! Here is the way out!" he announced, and everyone suddenly began objecting, saying that was the way they came in. But when he opened the door, it showed a different place! Everyone was surprised, except Sephie. She figured it was probably just an elevator. Everyone was so crushed together that they wouldn't have even noticed the swooping feeling you usually get. Of course, considering who Sephie was crushed up against, she'd felt the swooping feeling, anyway.

They all filed out into a strange hallway. It got smaller as they got farther in, and soon it looked like they might all get squashed again, like in the elevator thing. But Wonka led them through another door, and suddenly Sephie saw something that she would never, ever forget.

The room was beautiful. Everything was green and beautiful. She was aware of Wonka telling them that everything was edible, and she turned to him, surprised.

"What, everything?" she asked.

"Yes, everything. Everything you see, and some of the things you don't. I recommend the mushrooms."

Immediately everyone skittered away into the expanse of the room, and even the parents were eating things. Sephie smiled and wandered off by herself, down a pathway. There were Gummi Bear trees, and little chocolate pieces lying about. Even the grass turned out to be made of sugar. Sephie felt kind of overwhelmed, and suddenly felt like she needed a drink of water from just LOOKING at all the chocolate. She laughed a little at this, and suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around, it was Mr. Wonka. He smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back.

"Oh! Mr. Wonka! You startled me," she admitted.

"Did I? I'm terribly sorry," Wonka replied, not sounding sorry at all, "I must say, I was rather surprised to find that a sixth ticket had been printed and shipped."

"So was I," Sephie agreed, "Believe me. I never expected to be here."

blahblah

-

"Yes...I thought your family was rich? This looks like it was a very nice dress, once..."

Sephie blushed, looking down at her worn, patched dress. She smiled awkwardly. "It was...And my family is rich...my mother and father left their fortune to me, but I don't inherit it until I turn eighteen. Or until I get married," she added, and laughed. She didn't think she'd ever get married, especially not before age eighteen.

"Oh, I see. So does your grandmother control the fortune?"

"Oh, no. It's away in a bank, somewhere. No one gets a penny until I'm either an adult or married. My grandmother supports me, though, on her pension. It's why my dress is so bad, now...We don't have much money. Even just flying down here means I won't have lunch money for months!"

"Well, what will you have for lunch?" Wonka asked, concerned.

Sephie looked at her feet in embarrassment, "Actually," she began sheepishly, "That's what I was going to use the lifetime supply of chocolate for..."

-

blahblah

-

Wonka looked at Sephie with the most disheartening face she'd ever seen. Immediately a worry sprang up into her heart.

"What is it, Mr. Wonka?" she asked. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, and then took Sephie's shoulders in his hands.

"I'm afraid...I'm afraid your grandmother has passed away."

She was shocked. "What?"

"It was in her sleep...The caretaker discovered her this morning. They say she felt no pain."

She was devastated, and just stared ahead of herself. Wonka carefully caressed her shoulder, and she gently, slowly began to lean forward and her head rested against Wonka's chest. He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in fragrant velvet, and she began to cry. Wonka tried to sooth her by patting her and saying comforting things, but it was no use.

"Where am I going to live?" she asked rhetorically, "I don't know what to do!"

phantom.txt: Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:39:21 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Pairing: Erik/Meg Giry
Rating: R, I think. Just in case.
Summary: What he wanted was his mask back. What he got was a new student.

It had been barely a month since the Opera Populaire closed. The insides had been scorched out, leaving little but the charred remains of both luxury and toil as audience to the operatic echoes that never completely died away. The House was declared condemned, no one was allowed in, anymore.

That was why Margaret Giry, Meg for short, was clad entirely in dark colours, covering her fair skin and hair, as she picked her way through the blackened, rain-eroded detritus inside the ruined Opera House. She knew where she was going...she'd been there once before, and her memory was good.

Her mother had always expressly forbidden her exploring the catacombs beneath the building, but all the same had warned her to keep her hand at the level of her eyes. Meg was unafraid, however, because cupped in her small, cold hand was her ticket through this area. The white of it glinted in the dim torchlight.

***

Many of the passages had caved in to one extent or another, and the going was less than easy, for limber as Meg was, she was wearing women's clothes, and her skirts tended to get caught. As she cautiously climbed down a particularly large slope of rubble, her footing gave way, and with her legs sliding out from underneath her, her arms windmilled, and the smooth, white skull of the mask in her hand flew away across the floor. Upon landing, and with little thought to her aching derriere, she immediately rushed to the mask and lifted it gently. It was unscathed, much to Meg's relief. Its demise could likely mean her own.

She gazed at it, cold and beautiful in the flickering firelight. It was not her mask. This she knew, and yet she still felt somehow cheated to have to return it to its rightful owner. She had saved his life, after all, had declared him dead and brandished the mask as proof. She'd kept it as a sort of token, something to remember her life with the opera by. She'd intended to keep it. But he'd found her.

-

Walking home in the dark had never bothered Meg. She'd worked late at the pub, trying to avoid the lewd and lecherous stares from the drunken bastards that populated the place. They disgusted her. Many tried to win her favour, or at least her favours. Occasionally they would offer her money in exchange for what they called a "small service," which Meg was happy to vehemently decline. Her mother had worked hard to protect her daughter's virtue, and Meg saw no reason to throw that all away for a few francs.

Her shortcut home went through an alley or two, wide and decently well-lit, not a terrible danger for an unarmed teenage girl, and the walk was not long...but he'd been there. Tall, she remembered, and very dark, and though it was surely just his cloak, all of him seemed to billow like some terrible Gothic angel, the black leather of his mask reflecting the odd light here and there.

"Give it back." His voice was deep and gruff, with a hint of impatience, as of a man who has been woken too early.

Meg hadn't said anything stupid, like "Give what back?" or, "Who are you?" or any other questions she all ready knew the answers to. She thought of many of the other chorus girls as the type to play a maidenly innocence, but she herself tended to be too prideful for that. She'd merely taken a step back, wide-eyed, looking him fearfully up and down to see if he was armed.

"I don't have it," she managed to choke out.

"Give it back!" he demanded again, his tone heightening in his ire. His arm seemed to be reaching for his hip, and in Meg's mind, he grasped the hilt of a sword with a skull motif.

"It's not here!" Meg insisted, her voice crackling, "Please! I don't have it with me!"

A black hand shot forth, and she heard the creak of the leather gloves as his fingers tightened around her throat. Her own hands came up to beseech him to let go, but he wasn't exactly choking her...not yet. "You will bring it to me, then," the Phantom hissed, and Meg was immobilized beyond speech, or even a simple nod. But that would not be a problem. He knew she would deliver. He released her, and as she took a step away from her assaultor, she bumped into a trash bin. She turned behind her, startled, emitting a small squeak of surprise and fear. When she looked back up, he was gone.

-

blahblah

***

The portcullis in front of her raised before she even had a moment to wonder how to circumvent it. She used her staff to punt herself forward, through the sudden opening, and the first thought that ran through her head was how bright it was, down here. There were hundreds of candles, all about her, illuminating all but the farthest walls. There was a grandiose organ, she thought she saw, and even as she gazed, an incredibly loud chord emenated from it. She cried out, and her flinch rocked the boat to and fro. She was forced to steady the boat with her hands and dancer's thighs before continuing.

"So you did come. I wondered if you might."

She couldn't see him, didn't know where he was, but she fought her hand's impulse to rise to her forehead, and struggled with her fear. As her boat nudged the rocky shore like an affectionate pet, she unsteadily stood and deboarded.

"I came, yes," she answered, and pulled the requested item from a fold in her skirt, "I brought it."

"Very good," and now the hint of a moving figure, slipping from shadow to shadow without ever quite emerging into the light, "Bring it to me, Meg."

Meg did not ask how he knew her name. After all, she knew his, which made her one of a very few. She doubted even beautiful, perfect Christine knew his name. She stepped forward, her blonde hair glinting dully in the dancing, multifaceted lightsource. She approached the Phantom's shadow and, fearful but unblinking, held forth the pearly-white accessory. A hand, clad in a colour as dark as the pitch it hid in, moved forward with the alacrity of a snake striking, and snatched the mask from her. She resisted the impulse to shriek. You are not afraid, she told herself.

"That is all I require. Now leave me."

This was what Meg had been dreading. She feared turning her back on him more than she feared facing him...She imagined what it would be like to turn, begin to walk away, and suddenly feel hempen death tighten around your neck, as you suddenly realised why it was so important to keep your hand at eye level...

"I said leave me! Let me alone!" This time, his voice was almost pleading, threatening to break in its anger and sincerity. Slowly, and with the certainty that she would regret doing so, she turned away from the shadowy Phantom, and took a hesitant few steps toward the boat.

Her every muscle was strung more tightly than violin strings on opening night, and as her feet absently turned outward while she walked, keeping her inner thigh muscles taut, as she'd been taught to do all her years in the opera, she tensed herself to fight for her life. One step, then another, slowly inching closer to the boat...to her freedom. Hopefully. A sudden voice out of what seemed an immeasurable silence starled Meg to a scream.

"Tell no one what you have seen!"

"I...wouldn't dream of it," she said to the empty air before her. And she wouldn't dream of it. People were all ready saying that the Opera Ghost was little more than superstition, that there was no candlelit cavern beneath the ruined Opera Populaire. She'd been shocked; less than a month ago she had come down here with almost fifteen men, and now every single one of them was denying what they'd seen with their own eyes. It was unbelievable, but then again...so was the Opera Ghost. If she told anyone what had happened, they would call her mad.

Her feet suddenly found the edge of the outcrop where the boat was resting, untied but seemingly unwilling to move unless someone made it. Well, Meg was definitely prepared to make it. She lowered herself gently into its rocking interior, clutching at the sides as it regained equillibrium in the water. Then, with a slowness that almost gave an air of reluctance, she lifted the punting staff and placed the end in the water. One push, and the boat sailed easily toward the opened portcullis. The candles drifted past as Meg continued her journey toward the exit, her mind refusing to think about the situation at hand.

A clank, and a horrible grinding, metallic noise was suddenly heard, and Meg screamed as the portcullis, with its fetid garlands of dead or dying seaweed, came crashing, splashing down barely a foot from the bow of her dinghy. She turned around in the boat, her flexible form twisting with ease at the waist, her hand seeming to pull off a sloppy salute as it flew instinctively to eye level.

On the igneous beach, a creature, lit now by the sickly light of a thousand miniature torches, but still dark as the black hole he employed as a heart, stepped forward. His white mask, that gleamed like porcelain but was stronger than iron, now occupied the left half of his face, and Meg was struck not by the fear that she had come to know, but by his regal bearing. Behind him, crimson curtains lifted up to the ceiling, harboring small shards of broken mirror, and the effect was such that he appeared to have great, feathered wings, dyed red with the blood of his victims, and glittering with the stars collected from his admirer's eyes. Something inside Meg moved, and suddenly she was acutely aware that immediately assuming this man was going to kill her might be deemed offensive. Her hand quickly fetched to her hair, patting it back into place.

A low chuckle echoed about the place, throwing itself off of stalactites, off of the volcanic-seeming stalagmites that rose unabashedly from the murky water, rattling inside Meg's ears. And then, the voice again, with its cool composure, its pleasing tenor.

"Do you sing, young Margaret?"

***

Meg could sing, and did. She'd not had any real training, being little more than a glorified chorus girl, but the raw ore of talent was there, and the Phantom posessed the means to transform it into the diamond it could become. With each scale, progressing upwards, the Phantom could feel in his heart the blade-winged phoenix of elation rising within him, dragging his heart upward into the rafters, the clouds, the heavens.

It had been so quiet, lately. No rehearsals, no performances, no singing, no humming, no chatter, not even whistling on the stage (a heinous faux pas at the opera). He'd been able to create his own music, of course, and he was thankful for that...but most often he preferred to listen. And now here she was...she was not Christine, and in his heart of hearts he could not lie to himself and pretend that she was...but she did posess talent, and in her young face was set the love of music that he, himself, saw in the mirror every day. Or would, if he had any mirrors left to look into, or any desire to look into them.

His fingers found the keys easily, by second, or perhaps by first, nature, and the organ obediently bellowed out the notes he'd chosen, grasping Meg's voice and pulling it upward, upward like the spiral of ecstatic energy that rose within the two people present. It seemed as if it was no longer just them singing, playing...a heartsong cried out into the darkness, of broken dreams and sunken hopes, of love unrequited and consequently dashed...and then, of those things refreshed and renewed, and a pregnant breath caught in the Phantom's chest...

Then, suddenly, as of an embracing couple suddenly realising they are being watched, the music and Meg's voice broke off, and there was the hint of an echo reverberating around the suddenly silent cave. The Phantom could feel Meg's blush, though he was not facing her.

"Good," he said, simply, "And now go."

He heard no footsteps. "Are you deaf, girl? I said go."

Again, there was no movement from the mesmerized girl behind him. With a fluid movement, he turned his swivelling seat, and stood towering over the young ex-ballerina. "Go!" he cried, his hands coming up instinctively in a gesture of irritation. For only the tiniest of split seconds, he was afraid she would stay put, but she turned, quickly, letting the glass thread of Music between them fall to the ground and shatter, and leapt into the boat. She did not look back at him as she steered her way out of the cave, and therefore he did not see his tears mirrored in her eyes.

Confused and upset, the Phantom turned to his organ, lifted a piece of blank sheet music, and began to write down his feelings, in a series of obscure circles and swoops.

***

The letter folded under the pressure Meg's fingers placed on it. It crumpled into an approximate ball, and landed in her wastepaper basket. She looked at the letter that had inspired her to write, its neat, feminine handwriting drawing her gaze.

'Dearest Meg,

'I hope this finds you well. Raoul and I miss you so, do come visit soon! It really is very lovely out here, I think perhaps I shall arrange for you to visit in June. Do you think that would be all right? I really would like to see some of my old friends at the Opera. Have you seen Paul or anyone lately? Give them my love if you do.'

There was some more of her cheerful writing, wishing Meg's family the best and asking if she was doing all right, financially. Questions about the weather. The usual. But then, near the end of the page...

'You did take my advice, didn't you? About the Angel? I would hate to think that you'd endangered yourself. Remember, he kills without feeling, without even thinking. No matter what you might want to think, you must remember that! That cannot be forgiven. I worry about you, Meg...Please write me quickly and reassure me, before I get too foolishly concerned.'

Meg broke off reading, and stood up from her desk. Her candle was nearly burnt down...she'd need a new one. Christine's letter lay, open and unanswered, amongst the debris. On each end was a pink ballet slipper, keeping it from folding up, the last remnants of Meg's ballet career. Well...almost.

The young girl reached down for her walking shoes and slipped them on. She had to go back. She wasn't sure why...but she had to. There had been something there, something between them. Something powerful, and Meg found herself unable to ignore it. There was a swish of fabric as Meg's cloak hugged her shoulders and fastened at her neck. She looked at herself in the mirror, squared her shoulders, and headed out of her room.

"Meg, where are you going at this hour?" Her mother was sitting in the living room, knitting needles in her thin hands, casting Meg an inquisitive look.

"Out. I feel like a walk. I may be back late," She replied, inwardly cringing. Her mother was not likely to go along with her plan. Somehow, Meg suspected that her mother knew exactly where she was going, and why, despite the fact that she had never even divulged to her mother the continued vitality of the Phantom.

"Meg, it's too late, you are too young to be out at this time. Stay home." Madame Giry's voice was not one that was used to being disobeyed. There was no question in her tone that every syllable would be followed to the letter. The ballerina in Meg blanched, but the girl in her stood defiant.

"Mother, I just want a walk. I'll be fine. I'll be back before morning."

"Meg - "

The door shut. Madame Giry sighed, and began a new row in her knitting.

***

Meg's mind had been wandering the entire time, as her feet took her instinctively to the Opera Populaire. She thought of Christine, her best friend in all the world, her surrogate sister. She loved Christine, of course she did, there was no question that it was so...and yet...yet Meg resented her.

She'd been happy for Christine when the Phantom had chosen her for training. She'd suspected her mother had suggested it to him, somehow, and it was that that Meg resented. She'd been happy for Christine when she'd gotten the lead. But her mother had suggested Christine, not Meg, and it was that that she resented. And while she could not blame her mother for Raoul's affection for Christine, she couldn't deny that she resented her friend for that, too. Meg didn't like to say, but she'd rather fancied the man, herself. But she wouldn't have dreamed of telling that to Christine, whose heart was set on winning back the man that she'd spent a summer with when she was barely twelve.

Meg was torn between her good nature; her love for her friend, and the fact that she always seemed to come in second, when running against Christine. Even to her own mother, it seemed. Of course she loved Christine...but...

The stench of the standing water, of the many drowned rats, hit Meg's olfactory system like a flaming chandelier, completely derailing her unpleasant train of thought. She was almost glad for the interruption, for no matter how foul the smell, it could not be worse than the taste that her dreary thoughts had left in her mouth. It was now, as she made her way down the stinking tunnels, that she began to question her actions.

Was it really wise to try her luck like this? She was walking into the lair of a known murderer, after she had specifically been ordered to leave. She'd been in once before, and was lucky to have escaped with her life. Why on God's Green Earth would she come back? But somehow, however hesitantly, her feet kept taking her forward.

***

The portcullis was open, and it was dark inside, with the exception of a few candles atop the organ. They seemed impossibly bright, though they illuminated only a very small amount of the darkness, and a lot of that was obscured by the black silhouette of a man, seated at the instrument. He was playing, though Meg did not recognise the tune. The same couple of bars repeated over a few times, and an irritated noise issued from his throat. So engrossed in his music was he, that he seemed not to notice as Meg stepped onto the shore and approached him in the demi-darkness.

With each step, Meg moved more and more slowly, as though wading through molasses. Seeing the Phantom's form before her, now, made her heart begin to pound in her ears, beating a tattoo against the intrusive organ melody. For the first time, and too late, the appropriate fear seized upon her. Her breath hastened in her chest, and seemed strangely audible, though it was surely drowned out by the Phantom's music.

His hand darted out in front of him to scribble down on parchment the music flowing from his fingers, while his other hand seemed intent on playing. Then he returned to his keys, patching together a quilt of Music, each piece hauntingly beautiful. Though her fear was not forgotten, Meg's skin began to gooseflesh. But still, the Phantom seemed displeased. Over and over, he played the last bar, ending it differently each time. Each time, Meg thought that it was perfect, but each time, it improved, somehow. Then, without warning, he cried out in frustration, and his arm swept all the candles off of the surface before him.

It was as if Meg had gone blind. With the exception of one or two phantom light spots dancing in front of her face, Meg could see absolutely nothing. Her fear morphed into absolute terror, and her hand immediately shot upward to massage her temple, and remained there. She backed away, each step uncertain, her breath deafening in the sudden silence. Where had he gone? There wasn't so much as a footstep, not a breath aside from her own.

There was a sudden pressure on her wrist, yanking it down from her face. Then, a voice in her ear, behind her.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was gruff and angry, and Meg spun away from him with a quickness that was characteristic of her profession.

As she backed away from the source of the sound, she came to realise that she didn't have an answer for him.

"I-" she choked out, and she could sense him advancing on her. As her eyes adjusted, she could almost see the white outline of his mask with each soundless step he took toward her. "I..."

"Why did you come back?"

Meg's mouth opened to answer him, but each reply that came to her lips was dumber than the last. To sing? To see you? Completely imbecilic! "I...don't know," she finished, lamely. "I...felt...like I should. Come back." She flinched. She felt that she should? Meg, gather yourself. If you're going to die, try to die as less of an idiot!

There was a pause. Then a flame pierced the darkness, illuminating the white leather exo-skull that covered a third of the Phantom's face. He stood before Meg, tall and somber. His hand came up, and Meg flinched...but it was holding a bundle of papers. Gingerly, Meg accepted them. She looked down at them, and the notes struck her as familiar. This had been the first piece she'd learned to sing since joining the chorus. She knew every part of every harmony, she could have sung it in her sleep.

"Do you know this?"

"Yes," she said, simply, though her mind added, "Like the back of my hand."

"Then sing."

***

Meg was an apt pupil, though the Phantom was inclined to liken her to a sponge. Each instruction he gave, she took immediately. No, she did not posess the same talent that Christine did...but she was a much faster learner. In a single night, he had managed to teach her what it had taken Christine a week to learn. Whether she could ever become as good as Christine could have been remained to be seen...but it was worth the effort, either way.

When they'd finished, he'd sent her home again, with no invitation to return. Then, with a sigh, he sat back down at the keyboard of his artistic medium, and retrieved the score he'd cast off in irritation.

As Meg reached the streets, far below her, the deep and feeling strains of organ music began to play.

***

She came back the next night, and the next. A week passed, and each night Meg would make her way to the Phantom's lair, and sing until her voice ran dry, until her shoulders sagged and her eyelids drooped, and then, exhausted, would drag herself home and sleep until late afternoon. Her mother was becoming quite irritated with her, and though Meg felt bad, she knew there was little choice in the matter. The lessons had to continue.

She hurried down the corridor. She'd left late, despite her best efforts, and she hoped he wouldn't be cross. Meg feared and respected the Phantom as a tutor, but she was not yet sure she trusted him as a man. Christine's warning echoed in her head, and she remembered the fear her friend had felt, just thinking about him. She remembered Joseph's face, ruddy with bloodrush, as he dangled above the as-yet oblivious dance squad. She remembered the fire.

"I'm sorry," she called quietly, as she approached her dark teacher. He turned wordlessly in his chair, and held out a fresh sheaf of parchment. She took it, unthinkingly doing now what would before have caused great suspicion. It was completely unfamiliar to her, though it was well-thumbed. As she rifled through it, it began to dawn on her. "This is new. You wrote this."

"I did. And you shall sing it, Ma'am'selle Giry. I thought perhaps we would begin with the refrain. Page three, measure twenty, and - " the music began to play, and Meg obediently began to sing the notes written on the page. But she'd barely gotten to the next measure before her mentor stopped the accompaniment and corrected her. She nodded, the music began, she sang. The music stopped, the Phantom corrected her again. She nodded. The music began.

Before the end of the night, Meg was in tears. No matter what she sang, it was incorrect. She was too loud, she was too quiet, she was too crisp, she was too slurred. She had too much vibrato, she had not enough. She could not get it right, and eventually she was reduced to her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking in frustration.

A hand reached out gently to stroke her arm, and she was startled nearly out of her tears. The Phantom stood before her, and the half of his face that she could see was plastered with concern. Unused to this sudden display of emotion, Meg's sobs ceased.

"No more tears," the Phantom whispered, gently, "Don't cry. We can't stop now, we've nearly got it."

"I'm tired," she sighed, and this was evinced by the yawn that claimed her mouth, "I want to go home." Her eyes shut, and she felt her equillibrium shift. But the hand on her shoulder steadied her, and she felt a second hand brush her cheek lightly, caringly.

"We can't stop now. One more time, Meg. Once more."

Her eyes fluttered open sleepily. "Once more," she repeated, resigned. The touch was suddenly gone from her, and without apparently moving through the space between, the Phantom was seated again on his stool, his fingers perched over the keys.

"From the top, Ma'am'selle," he ordered gruffly, and Meg patiently let the few bars of introductory melody waft past before beginning her part. Without stopping the music, her once impatient tutor now called out instructions as she reached each part, and she adapted accordingly. As she did so, she felt her skin begin to tingle as if cold. Even she could hear the difference the Phantom's instructions made. Without his direction, the piece of music was gorgeous. With them, Meg's heart rose and sunk with each arpeggio, her skin goosefleshed and sensitive areas tingled with the incredible sensual power of the organ music combined with her vocal efforts. When the aria ended, and the last echo of the last note of the last chord had faded into muteness, the Phantom's shoulders slumped.

Cautiously, slowly, Meg approached him. Her hand tremulously inched forward until it met the cool velvet of the Phantom's coat. He turned, as if summoned by her touch, and as his face became visible, Meg saw on it a single, lonely tear, sliding down his pale flesh. A shock ran through her, and warm tendrils of ultimate flattery began to spread from each nerve like climbing vines. Gently, she reached out her hand and caressed the side of his face. With her thumb, she brushed the tear off of its course, and accosted a second that threatened to fall when the Phantom closed his eyes.

The magic of the moment lingered longer than Meg expected it to. Even after she retracted her hand, after her tutor opened his eyes. After her tutor stood, adjusted his coat, and cleared his throat. His arm bent and he offered it to her.

"Join me for some champagne."

***

Meg sat down, at his behest, in the languish peacock which made up the entire seating possibilities the room offered. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable in this situation. Whether it was because she was unused to being led into a luscious boudoir by a man, and seated on something rather bedlike, or just being with him at all, he could not quite tell...but he hoped it was the former.

"Wait here," he ordered, not unkindly, and slipped through into another room.

***

Meg absently smoothed the red satin beneath her bottom. She hoped this wasn't his bed. Partly because that would be entirely inappropriate, and partly because it was really rather...insensible. Sleeping in a peacock might be fine for white-clad, beautiful young maidens, for a couple of hours, but sleeping in it regularly, for a full night's rest, would definitely cause some problems. And back injury did not seem to be one of the many ailments the Phantom could complain of. Presumably he had some other bed, somewhere. No doubt he slept in this, occasionally, perhaps when too tired to crawl all the way from his pipe organ into his bed, or if he felt like a middarkness nap. But certainly this couldn't be his actual bed.

Meg's sleepiness had not quite faded away. She was not exhausted, anymore, but she was still tired. And her mind, freed of the leash full consciousness kept on it, began to wander. Why had she agreed to champagne? Well, it was a celebratory gesture, of course. She would not have said no, not after what had happened. But was that all it was? A celebration?

Perhaps he intends to seduce you, came the thought, unwarranted and uninvited, into her mind. She barely stopped the sharp intake of breath that was incited by her sudden and frightening thought. Surely this was innocent, she hoped fervently. Of course he knows that our relationship is that of pupil and mentor, and strictly that. He's a professional.

Christine was his pupil, though, too, wasn't she?

***

He had grabbed two glasses, a bottle of his finest (all his champagne was the finest, at that...), and a small, dusty bottle that had been kept in a box for years, along with many others. He wasn't sure it was the best idea, of even sure if it worked. His stomach roiled with the horrendous possible outcomes, but he seemed a man posessed. He blew the dust off of the bottle, uncapped it, and measured out the dictated amount. It was a fine white powder, almost invisible when he tipped the amount in his hand into the goblet he'd intended for young Meg. He paused for a moment, staring at the two glasses, one in either hand; one with the concoction, one free of it. Did he really have the...

"No, no second thoughts. Just go," he interrupted himself, aloud, then took both goblets and the bottle of champagne, and swooped back out of the doorway. Meg was looking about herself in wonder, endearingly innocent, yet ironically endowed with a Venus-like figure, her ample breasts shoving at the confines of her bodice, begging to be freed.

They were rather like the Phantom's own problem...even in the dim light, it was difficult to conceal the tightness of his trousers, and he placed himself at the mercy of Meg's demure eyes that she would simply not think to look. Christine had, he remembered, and when he noticed that, it only gave her more to look at...but then, he'd had nothing to hide from her. This was different.

Almost intended as a distraction, he brandished the bottle at her, and set the cups down. After uncorking and pouring the drinks - taking great care to give Meg the right cup - he offered her what he could manage of a smile, and took a drink. He might have proposed a toast, he thought to himself, but it was too late, now. And in any case, the only thing he could think of was 'to Music', and that simply went without saying. Every time he drank anything, he drank to Music. He also ate, breathed, and slept to Music. It was the closest thing in the world he had to Love. And now, perhaps, one was offering a chance at the other...

"Drink!" he suggested, gesturing at Meg's untasted champagne.

***

"Drink!" he'd said. "I haven't poisoned that, you know."

It had been all Meg could do to refrain from saying that no, if he'd wanted to kill her, she'd have seen the rope. She sat stiffly, like a mannequin, unwilling to meet the Phantom's steely gaze. She was increasingly aware of her surroundings. She was in a cave with a man whom she did not entirely trust, who had just offered her champagne, and who she was sharing a peacock with. She'd rather unsettled herself with her previous thoughts, and she took a sip of her champagne to sooth her nerves.

"Good?" came the deep and slightly nasal voice of the Phantom. Meg nodded, not daring even to look at him. She shut her eyes, momentarily, and took another small sip. It was very good, probably the best she had ever had. And working at the Opera house, she'd tasted a lot of champagnes.

"Yes," she replied, to emphasise her answer. She then fell back into silence. Some time passed, and then;

"If it's so good, why aren't you drinking it?"

Meg responded by hastily taking a larger drink, letting the fizzy liquid dance on her tongue for a moment before continuing to gambol down her throat. She smiled, and her eyes darted up just long enough to capture a quick look at her tutor's face before taking refuge again in the embarrassed confines of her eyelids.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, suddenly, leaning in toward her. She flinched only slightly, and shut her eyes.

"Yes," she replied, quietly. It was only true.

"Do you believe I will harm you?" he pressed. Meg swallowed. If she said yes, it would anger him, and if she said no, not only would she be lying, but she feared he might call her bluff. She remained wordless for a time.

"Will you?" she asked, at length.

This time it seemed to be the Phantom's turn to be thoughtful. Eventually, he said, "No."

There was another pause, for processing. Then: "Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," Meg answered, honestly.

blahblah

"I feel a bit dizzy," Meg commented. And it was true. Her eyes were having trouble focusing, and her head was swimming. She was rather surprised; though it was true that she didn't drink often, she thought of herself as being able to hold her liquor. Or at the very least, her champagne. It was almost embarrassing how drugged she felt. She blinked rapidly, and attempted not to sway.

"Perhaps you should lie down," the Phantom offered, and it took this phrase a moment to settle into Meg's brain.

She blinked again. She'd just been told to lie down by the infamous Opera Ghost. How many people could say that? Yet...this peacock was certainly too bedlike for that to be appropriate. The Phantom himself had assumed a jauntily reclining position, cradling the neck of the champagne bottle between his fingers, balancing it against his leg. However, as much as it may have sounded like a kind suggestion, Meg was hesitant to refuse anything the Phantom offered her.

Conflicting with every tiny movement, she began to lower herself down into a horizontal position, until she was completely prostrate. Also entirely too close to the Phantom for comfort, she noted.

"For a ballerina, you move awfully slowly," he commented, half-tauntingly.

There was a pause, as Meg's mind made the appropriate adjustments. "For a phantom," she replied, touching his shoulder lightly, "You're awfully solid."

That seemed to put him in his place...though precisely where that was, Meg could not specify.

Kindly do not read past this point. It is as yet unfinished.

*********************************************************

***

bnlahblah

**

The boat rocked against the shore, and the Phantom turned suddenly from his music. Meg was just deboarding, and he stood up to greet her. In his face he showed no trace of the excitement that pounded in his heart, the fear that raced through his veins like quicksilver. He loomed before her, an intimidating figure in the dark light, and placed a hand on his hip.

"You are late, Ma'am'selle," he stated, coldly.

"Yes," she said, enigmatically, and his heart gave a horrible lurch; he knew what young girls did when they stayed out late. No, that couldn't happen! He couldn't bear to have lost them both! He frowned.

"And what is so important to you that you show up so tardy? This thing that is better to you than advancing your musical career?"

At this, Meg seemed taken aback, and she said nothing. His heart dropped another few inches, the familiar strains of despair's dirge wafting into his head like so much noisome vapor. His eyes froze over, and he crossed his arms.

"Very well," he said, his tone absolutely glacial, "Perhaps you should return to it. I have more important things to do that to sow seeds in infertile ground. Go!"

"No!" Meg protested, and her tone was so hurt, so vehement, that it caught him off guard. "That is to say, please don't send me away. I apologise. I would have come earlier...my mother..."

She trailed off, eyes downcast. The dread in the Phantom's stomach did not dissapate, but his heart stopped its sinking.

blahblah

She was looking at him again, something she usually only did if she thought he was not looking at her. There was a bright light in her eyes that outshone the candles set into the walls. He did not know where this light came from, but where he usually found himself repulsed and blinded by light, he found himself deeply, and intrinsically attracted to this one.

"You're staring," she said, after a while.

"Yes, I know," he replied, and she said nothing more. "So are you," he added, after a moment. She laughed, rather surprising him. He'd been expecting her to turn away demurely, cheeks pinkening. Instead, her giggle echoed about the small room. He wondered what that meant. He did not ask, however, and soon the silence settled again, thick and heavy as the London fog that the Phantom had never known.

***

She was beside him, her bare flesh soft and smooth, glowing golden as her hair in the candlelight. Her arms, like willow fronds, draped about him affectionately, her young head lay on his shoulder. Her torso rose and fell rapidly with the deep breaths she was drawing, though they seemed to be evening out, now. She lifted her face to his and kissed him, sweetly and tenderly, causing a small shock of happy pleasure to run through him. His lips twitched upward into a smile, of their own accord, though he did not object to them being that way. He saw Meg's eyes smile, and her hand idly stroked the smooth plaster of his mask.

Too late he noticed her fingertips grasping the edges of his only shield against the cruelties of the world, pulling it upwards and exposing his deepest shame. He cried out in hurt, fear, and anger, and sat up quickly.

"Damn you!" he shouted, "Why must you always do that?" He was not, of course, yelling only at Meg...but he had been unmasked more times since the whole thing had begun than he cared to remember. "I wear the mask for a reason. Give it back to me, now." He held his hand out to his companion, expecting to feel his most used, but hated, posession pressed into his palm. But instead he felt hands on his face, turning him back to face Meg.

"No!" he cried, and jerked away from her gently insistent touch, "Don't look at me."

"Erik," Meg whispered, and he could feel her warmth directly beside him, "Please."

"What is it? What, you wish to see this?!" Irritated, he turned to face her, resplendent in his defiant defeat. "Does this please you? Do you like to know that you've lain with a man who is hardly a man at all? A man who is more a beast, posessed of a face that is so...so distorted that it is barely a face! Does that please you?!"

His legs swung angrily over the side of the bed ane he began to sit up, and would have, had Meg not seized hold of his bare arm and pulled him back down onto the cushions. She scooted closer to him, and he felt an arm wrap carefully, heartbreakingly around his overheated torso. Lips landed on his shoulder, and Meg's other arm enclosed him into a warmly soft embrace, her sweet breath tickling the hairs on his neck.

"Hardly a face at all," Meg repeated, distantly, "That is not true, even you know this. You sound like drunken Joseph. You are a man, not a beast. And your face is just that; a face. Look at me, Erik." Her soft words encouraged him to half-turn to her, and her tender caressing brought him even closer. His scarring was blatantly red in the dim light, grotesque and vaguely horrifying to Meg. But it would not deterr her. Her hand gently stroked his bad cheek, taking each strange ridge, each unnatural lump in stride. She smiled at him, looking into his eyes. Even his bad eye was beautiful, clear and blue like the stones in the ring he wore about his neck.

"I love you. Both sides," she whispered, and tilted his head down to plant a kiss on his deformed cheek.

are you a phantom, an angel, a ghost...or are you a man?

for a ballerina, you move rather slowly.
for a phantom, you're awfully solid.

champagne with potion to woo her, changes mind at last moment.
touch me

she sits still, he pulls champagne glass from her unresisting fingers. brushes hair away from her neck. kissy gropey chokey hot.

have you heard from her?
she's well.
i would hope so.
ponders telling him that she and rawl are married, decides against it. doesn't trust him. very awkward. slightly resentful that he's asking about christine.

it's cold.
blankets. makes meg very uncomfortable.

you know my name...?
christine didn't.

i love you.
her heart jumps, and it takes her a moment to recover. in the meantime, erik despairs - thinks she doesn't reciprocate. then:
i love you, too.
heart-breakingly happy. cries a lot. "just say it again..."
i love you. i love you, erik.
boo hoo hoo waaaah.
don't cry, shhh, comforting
i've wanted to hear that my whole life...

sex before or after i love you? if after, fit in "...erik." "gasp!" scene sometime before that. during kissing? i think maybe i love you goes after sex anyway. we'll see. discuss with j.

did you tell your mother?
no. but i think she knows.

i will come stay with you.
what? but...this is no place for you! *stutters, finally:* there's no light.
if you intend to stay here, then this is a place for me.

c asked if he was alive. he gets all hopeful.
christine told me not to come see you, no matter what.
i don't know if she was worried about your safety, or if she wanted me to be alone forever.
she said you were dangerous.
i guess i am dangerous.

new opera. something about it seems strangely familiar. finally figures it out when she sees christine's ring on erik's neck, he's fiddling with it.
"this opera! it's about christine! after everything...it's about her!" freaks out, tears necklace off of him, throws it into the water. shocked and angered, erik attacks her, then rushes out to find the ring. while he's looking, meg leaves.

does she come back? or do we do it the hollywood way [ie, in alleyway of some sort. about to be mugged/raped/murdered/solicited to buy a vacuum/whatever, he appears out of nowhere to save her]? perhaps she finds something out that indicates it was actually about HER, not christine...? maybe assumed it was about chris because of how passionate it was? then realises it's about her, and hates herself for hurting him for no reason, especially when he loved her the way she thought he only loved christine. sort of thing.

maybe eventually have to move because building is condemned. they stay until something important caves in?

talking to c doll thing in fit of loneliness. kissing it...not the same.

mort and angie.txt: Secret Window Fanfiction

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:35:41 GMT

Status: SUPER unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Secret Window
Pairing: Mort/Angie (OC)
Rating: PG
Summary: This is part of a longer fic. It won't make sense to you.

Angie knocked on the door. It had been agreed that she would be the one to go talk to Mort, after the incident. She was qualified for a number of reasons, partly being the most sensitive, the one of their group of friends who was closest to Mort, and also because she was female. She held a plastic bag in one hand, containing something she hoped would cheer her mourning friend up.

The door opened, and Mort's older sister looked disapprovingly at her. "Oh, it's you. Mort doesn't want to see any of you losers. Go away." The door shut again. Angie rolled her eyes. Mort's sister didn't like anybody, least of all her little brother's friends, or so it seemed to Angie's eyes. Somehow, she managed to like them less than she liked Mort, himself. Angie knocked again. There was some muffled shouting, and this time the door opened to reveal Mort's mother.

"Oh, Angela, hello. I'm so sorry about Joanne, she's having trouble with one of her projects...you know how she gets. Come in, won't you?"

"Joanne said that Mort didn't want to see anyone?" Angie asked, stepping into the living room. She spoke tentatively, because while Joanne was prone to exaggeration and overt cruelty, there may have been a grain of truth in her words. After all, it was likely he wanted to be alone, after what had happened.

"Well, he did say that, but I think it would do him good to talk to somebody. You just go on upstairs, dear."

"Thanks, Mrs. Rainey," Angie replied, and began trekking up the stairs.

***

The door opened to a dark room. Barely visible on the far side of the room was Mort, lying on his bed, curled up. The sight made Angie's heart twinge in that contrary manner it had. She shut the door behind her, and picked her way through the mess to Mort's bed. She sat down on it.

"Hey, there, tiger. You okay?"

"Mmmf. Not really."

"Sorry to barge in," she said, setting her bag on the floor and lying down behind Mort. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed him a little, "Your mom let me in."

"I told her I didn't want to see anyone."

"She said she thought you should."

kissing, but why?

braces off. wanna make out?

mort "loves" suzi. roleplaying. heartbroken.

i love you, ang.

do you think i look good with my glasses off?
actually, i think i like you better with them on.

i wish i hadn't lost my virginity to her. i wish i'd lost it to you. GUH

what happened here?
oh, er, she shaved me.
she shaved you? how did that work? oh, mort! *shaving motion*
haha, no. she was just like "you know what would make this perfect?" or something, and then she ran off, and got a razor. and she was like "two seconds every other day"
god, that is so shallow.
yeah. well, i'll remember that, anyway.
well, it's not a bad look. you look good with two eyebrows.
oh, shut up.

A Cymbal of His Affection: Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction (finished)

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 13:32:48 GMT

Title: A Cymbal of His Affection
Rating: NC-17, for pedophilia, molestation, and young boys in love with monkeys.
Other: Based on the 2004 film, which is wildly inaccurate to the books and mostly everything.
Summary: Young Erik, captive of the gypsy sideshow, becomes a momentary plaything for a bellydancer.

The cage was dank, the straw stale and fetid in various stages of decay. The boy in the burlap lay his head against the bars. Through the tiny holes in the sack that covered his visage, he could see little more than the dark red dye of the canopy ceiling. The sadness, the anger that occupied the space around him, suffused his heart again, and a sigh escaped his mouth, only to be caught by the foul burlap and thrown back at his olfactory senses. But he was used to that, it no longer bothered him.

It was a while, likely, before the next wave of jeering faces was ushered in to see his ultimate despair; his face. They didn't always beat him. At first it had only been when he refused to remove his makeshift mask. Then, when they had realised that the clientele enjoyed the violence at least as much as they did the gratuitious exposing of his marred countenance, they had come more and more often. Between showings was the only semblence of peace the boy ever knew.

The boy, who once upon a time was named Erik, had no friends to speak of. The closest thing that he had to a companion was Cherese, the monkey. She was a sweet creature, the only being to ever have shown him any semblence of kindness. He loved her dearly. Dressed as if she were a male, she would clamber up the bars of his cage and pass him roasted peanuts that she'd stolen from the vendor. Sometimes he would doff his sack, place a peanut between his lips, and press his face to the bars for her. Depending on whether or not she was in a playful mood, she would sometimes take it out with her fingers and eat it as if saying, "Don't be silly," in a lovingly chiding way. Otherwise, she would remove it with her mouth, indirectly kissing Erik. He liked it best when she did that.

And she was the only one who didn't call him "The Devil's Child," or, if they were particularly kind, "boy." He imagined her high whooping to be his name. "E-rik! E-rik!"

She was as lonely as he was. He could tell, and that was why he began to invent her a mate. Out of scraps of his clothing and his burlap bag, and using a needle and thread that Cherese had brought to him one day, as if anticipating his work, he had fashioned a passable form of a male monkey. He'd intended to dress it. It would be sophisticated, talented, perhaps play a musical instrument. But what, he didn't know.

"Hey, you, boy!" a voice, coy and sultry but somehow raucous, roused Erik from his thoughts. His cage was unbarred, the door opened, a woman entered. She was hugely tall, towering over his seated form, her dirty black hair hanging in cascades down her impressive bosom, down to her expansive hips in rings. One hand was on her hip, the other gesturing at him. "Take off the bag."

Erik did not react, merely sat still, staring up at the gypsy woman, who was positively leering at him. Her gold teeth twinkled in the lamplight, the dark hair adorning her upper lip hinting of a mustache. She did not bother to state her order again, merely reached down lazily and lifted the bag from Erik's chafed face. The night air was cool and alien on his raw skin, his bad eye threatening to dry out if he did not blink soon enough.

"That face," the woman said, reaching behind her back and fiddling with something behind her, "So gruesome. Disgusting. It is a wonder that anyone would dare to look, at all. These little opera girls who come, how can they bear the fright?"

He tried to let the words fall on deaf ears, on stony heart...but he was a boy, no older than ten. He could not be expected to be unphased by such cruelty, hardened though his life may have been. But he would not cry, would not give her the satisfaction that his tears would bring. She wasn't worth it, with her lined, unpleasant face, and mysterious task behind her.

Her ministrations behind her back were explained when her skirts suddenly fell to the floor with a whoomph and a rush of foul air. Her legs, fat and long, were bare before him, her hairy pubis staring him in the face. She took a step closer to him, and the smell of her unwashed sex, tart and warm, wafted toward him. But wafting has an almost positive connotation. It would be more accurate to say that it sidled toward him, flowing into his innocent nostrils and sickening him. Causing him to be afraid. For the first time, he showed a reaction - he backed away.

"Don't move," barked the gypsy woman, "Give me your hand." He did not, but again, rather than fruitlessly repeat herself, she took the initiative and snatched Erik's weak hand up. She raised it to her crotch and pressed it into the wet heat of it.

Erik shut his eyes, trying to separate himself from reality, trying to pretend that this cow of a woman was not soiling his all ready filthy hands with her stench; her tainted juices. He was at the seashore, sticking his hand into the warm sea. Petting the curly-haired head of a beautiful mermaid. Perhaps she would embrace him, take him to live with her in her grotto beneath the waves. It was her lovely red lips that kissed his fingertips, her vibrant tongue that caressed his palm, wetting it. Affectionately, she nipped and kissed and sucked at his fingers, and when the gypsy began to moan, it was the mermaid instead. It was almost exciting to him. He might almost have begun to feel a slight tingle in his loins...

"Thrill of your life, isn't it, boy? How does it feel to finally touch a woman?" The dream was suddenly distended, and the cruelly scrutinising eyes of his molestor bored into his sensitive face. He turned away. "Would you like to touch me closer? Yes, I see you do."

Erik shook his head sharply, and she laughed. "You nodded for me. Then closer it shall be. Come here, you ugly thing." Suddenly her ham-like hands were on the back of his head, pulling him inexorably closer to the odorous mass of pubic hair between her legs. A noise escaped Erik's throat, uncivilized, animal; the noise a rabbit makes when in the jaws of a fox. But he could not break free, and soon the hairy flesh was pressed up against his face.

The stink of body odor, of ill nourishment, of female arousal assaulted him, he could no longer breathe. He choked and gasped as the lips of her sex caressed his deformity, leaving a snail-like trail of juices across the flesh, stinging and acidic to his sensitive face. He cried out, and as he did so, she pressed herself into his mouth, the salty tang of her womanhood raping his tender tastebuds. He gagged, but she was insistent, humping his unwilling face faster and harder, until his jaw hurt. Her moans were coming quicker and quicker now, though her victim could hardly breathe enough to make noise. His nose was squashed against the bone in her pelvis, his mouth filled with the torrid hate of her vulva, crushing into his face until he felt his jaw might break.

Then, just as her moaning reached its peak of pitch, she came, and the sudden wetness of female ejaculate invaded Erik's ravished mouth; promising to get into corners that he could not clean, promising to taste of her for days. His head was finally released, and he fell forward immediately and retched onto the straw. Again and again his stomach heaved, upturning all its meagre contents onto the floor that he would later have to sleep on. Then he spit, and spit and spit, and all the while the gypsy woman laughed at him. How he wished he would have bitten her, would have filled his mouth with the comparitively sweet taste of her blood, of revenge. How he wished he could have just taken a chunk out of her pubic area and spat it back at her. That is what I think of you!

As she pulled up her skirt, Erik noticed that, on her ankles, there were a pair of tiny cymbals. He reached forward and deftly pulled them off. The elephantine gypsy woman seemed not to notice, for she left immediately afterward, still chuckling at Erik's misfortune. The bars on his cage were set back in place, and he dejectedly picked up the stuffed monkey by his feet. His traumatised mind attempted to distract itself by wondering how to attach the cymbals, and he wished desperately that Cherese were there to comfort him.

As if just remembering, he groped for his bag, and pulled it over his head. Its scent was familiar to him, though not less loathsome to his distressed nose. Now, in the safety of his mask, tears began to roll down his cheeks, cleansing them of the feminine mucus smeared across them.

re4.txt: Resident Evil 4 FanFiction

Mon, 04 Apr 2005 16:06:19 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Resident Evil 4
Pairing: Leon/Ashley, possibly Ashley/Luis later on
Rating: R for the 'fuck' word.
Summary: I can't think of a decent summary.

Ashley was sure she felt something brush against the tartan fabric of her skirt. She turned, to look at a doe-eyed innocent Leon. She frowned at him. He looked vaguely perplexed. She sent an inquisitive glance at Luis, but he only shrugged. She turned back.

She felt it again, and this time there was a definite hint of grope to it. She turned more sharply, hoping to catch Leon off guard, but both hands were firmly on his magnum (that is to say, his GUN), and he wasn't even looking at her. Luis seemed similarly occupied with staring at their surroundings, though Ashley thought she could almost detect a slight shaking of his shoulders, as of stifled laughter. Ashley shook her head and turned back around.

***

The third time, Leon's hand deftly snuck out of hiding and copped a rather intimate feel of Ashley's rear end. Her hand reached around in time to collide with his rapidly retracting one. But she knew, now. She scowled at him, and cried, "Leon!" indignantly. She made to slap him, but Leon made a surrendering gesture.

"It wasn't me! It was Luis!"

"Hey!" Luis objected.

"Leon," Ashley began, "Would you just - "

"I'm telling you, it wasn't me!"

"Oh? Then who was it?" Ashley frowned at her protector, hands on her hips.

"It was," Leon looked vaguely about himself, "That guy behind you, " he said, and suddenly his gun was cocked and aimed at Ashley's head, "Duck!"

Ashley did so with little more than a shriek of surprise. When the drooling Ganados behind her had been disposed of, Leon grabbed her hand and dragged her upwards.

"There will be more where that one came from. Come with me," he ordered, running a small distance down the hallway they had come up, and stopping at an alcove. "Wait," he commanded, simply, and then ran off. Gunfire could be heard, and Ashley kept her guard, her back pressed into the rough stone of the basement hallway.

***

Where had it come from? One moment, it was a stone wall, the next, it was a black-clad figure, striding purposefully toward Ashley's cornered form. She screamed, called out to Leon. She kicked at the creature, but it didn't seem to feel her blows. Within a moment, she was slung over its shoulder, struggling against superhuman strength, attempting to unclamp her legs.

"Help! Leon!"

***

"Leon! Help me, Leon!"

Leon's ears perked up, and he rolled his eyes. He couldn't leave that girl anywhere, could he? He turned away from the battle in front of him.

"Luis, I'll be right back!" he called, firing near-blindly behing him as he began to sprint the short distance down to Ashley's alcove.

"Fuck that, Americano, I'm coming with you!" Luis followed, occasionally turning to fire a shot at an encroaching zealot's head.

Leon turned the corner, and looked into the dark stone niche in the wall. It was empty, and he could no longer hear Ashley's shouting. His head lolled back in frustration, and he fought the urge to fall to his knees. "Oh, no," he moaned, leaning heavily against the wall.

"No time for that, Leon, if you don't help me soon, we'll both end up food for the Colmillos!"

With only a half-glance at the still-empty alcove, Leon sighed, reloaded quickly, and turned to face the onslaught. Hopefully they wouldn't take her far.

***

It was dark, and it smelled. Yes, it was a rather plush mansion. She was even in a room with a bed. The sheets had the audacity to be red satin. The four-poster bed was gilt with what Ashley suspected was actual, quality gold. The carpet was full and soft. The walls were hung with well-painted scenes of countryside. All the same, it had to be said, it was dark. And it smelled.

Ashley tugged at her collar. She'd never actually been all that fond of turtlenecks, but her mother had bought her the shirt, and Ashley had worn it out of respect. It looked good on her, she had to admit. But, she added vehemently, if she'd known she was going to have to wear it for more than a couple of hours, she would have picked something a little more comfortable.

Having been kidnapped a number of days ago, Ashley realised that there were probably more important things to worry about than her outfit. But she couldn't help her mind wandering. She'd been so tired, lately. They hardly ever let her sleep, between injecting her with strange serums and carrying her bodily about. But when she had the chance to, she rarely did, anyway. When she wasn't afraid of them coming in and ripping her to shreds, she was afraid of the nightmares.

She hated them. She didn't even know who they were. What 'they' consisted of. She'd immediately thought of zombies. They'd named themselves Los Illuminados, she thought distastefully. Who would have thought that the Enlightened Ones would be a bunch of dirty Spanish zombies?

But they weren't zombies. And, Ashley recalled with an unpleasant flinch, you'd do best not to call them that if they could hear you. And they could almost always hear you.

She shivered, sitting in the corner of the room, knees up against her chest. For the past - how many days was it, now? - Ashley had spent 10% of her time asleep (though sleep has a positive connotation, perhaps unconscious is more accurate), and the other 90% of it absolutely terrified.

She'd always considered herself a good Christian girl. Which is not to say that she considered herself a particularly good Christian, more that she considered herself a "good, Christian, girl." As in, a good girl who also just happened to be Christian. But her faith, such as it was, was wavering. She'd been praying since the instant she was captured that she would be let go, unharmed. That everything would be okay again. But thus far, there had not been so much as a sign from God saying, "Hold on a moment, I'll be right there," much less any actual sort of tangible answer.

Right now, the only thing that Ashley had faith in was Leon.

***

Leon didn't really have a faith. It wasn't that he didn't believe in God, because it's hard to have a job like Leon's and not have anyone to send a silent prayer to. It is even harder to have a job like Leon's without having a God to blaspheme against when you got shot, bitten, or cleaved somewhere sensitive. But what Leon really had faith in was himself, and his own abilities. And though he'd been told by a number of people (mostly elderly Catholic ladies at various funerals) that this was wrong, and egotistical, and that he should give himself up to God...Well, to be honest, he didn't trust God. Not with his life, anyway.

There were worse things than yourself to have faith in. Like creepy half-zombies named Saddler, for instance. To think, an entire damn cult of the pseudo-undead, all because they'd fallen for Saddler's recruiting speech. Well, they may have been forced into it. Leon couldn't really picture Saddler standing on a platform in front of a flag saying, "Countrymen! We must all become freakishly religious fascist zombies! Will you join me!"

Or he could. And that was the problem.

He really wasn't positive what the Los Illuminados were. They weren't zombies, that was for sure. The incident six years ago had given Leon the ultimate crash-course in zombie-recognition, and these were definitely not zombies. But they were just as definitely not humans. In the depths of his own mind, Leon called them the Dirty Mexicans. Yeah, it was a racist thing to think. And yeah, okay, so they were actually Spanish, not Mexican. But Leon rarely ever censored himself when speaking, and wasn't about to damn well do so in the safety of his own head.

"Hey, Americano, you going to sit there all day or are you going to save your girlfriend?"

And then there was Luis. Luis was a Slightly Less Dirty Mexican. Leon wasn't sure he trusted the man worth a damn, but he was proving useful so far, once you got past the constant teasing and innuendo.

"She's not my girlfriend, and I happen to be reloading. Once I'm finished, we can go," Leon said, a little testily.

"Not your girlfriend, eh?" Luis taunted, sing-song, completely ignoring the second half of Leon's sentence, "But I'm sure you wouldn't mind, would you?"

Leon didn't say anything. He couldn't, without incurring the verbal wrath of Luis's accent-coloured insinuations.

"Oh, yes, this is what you Americans call 'pleading the fifth'? Say no more, my friend. I understand completely. Perhaps we should ask the next merchant we see if they sell...how do you say, preventatives?" The smug grin on Luis's face was too much. Leon cocked his gun pointedly and stared at Luis, deadpan.

"That won't be necessary, unless you were planning on something."

Luis shrugged. "Ah, you have me there, Leon. I cannot say I would particularly object to such a thing. She is rather," Luis gestured rudely, "After all."

"Maybe I hadn't noticed," Leon's voice was gruff, as the two of them continued through the unpleasantly damp hallway. Of course, he had noticed. He wouldn't be a goddamn man if he hadn't noticed. But he was getting closer to wiping the smile off of Luis's face with every passing second, and was not about to give the man more fodder to tease him with.

"Oh, come on, Leon. I have seen you with the lady. You can't say you don't want to put your dick int - " Luis probably would have finished the sentence, but Leon's hand was suddenly over his mouth, and the barrel of his Broken Butterfly was nuzzling against Luis's adam's apple. Luis was sure Leon wouldn't fire, but he could take a hint. He was pretty sure, anyway. Almost sure. It was hard for Luis to be confident when he knew damn well that if Leon fired, he wouldn't have anything but a bloody pulp on top of his shoulders. Of course, if Leon did fire, he would probably also shoot his own hand off, but that was beside the point.

"Shh," Leon hissed, pushing his point home by means of near-asphyxiating Luis with his gun, "I think I can hear something. Or someone."

Sure enough, the strange chanting of the Los Illuminados could be heard, gradually getting louder. Leon let Luis go and aimed his gun at the joint where the hallway turned left. A black cowl appeared around the corner, and before the creature could shout "iQue paso aqui, Ajedrez!", Leon fired. The headless apparition took another couple of steps before the body got the news, and collapsed.

Another three came around the corner. As bullets ripped through undead flesh, Leon reaffirmed that the only thing he had faith in, right now, was Leon.

***

"She should be around here, somewhere," Luis stated, matter-of-factly.

"You know," Leon replied, "I'm not even going to ask how you know that, you dirty Spaniard."

Luis rolled his eyes, cocked his gun, and kicked a door open. He aimed his gun dramatically. A broom fell down into the hallway, hitting a bucket with a clanging noise on its descent. Leon stifled a laugh. Luis didn't, and laughed out loud.

"A fierce enemy," Luis said, uncocking his pistol and shrugging at Leon over his shoulder. He shut the door and chuckled, shaking his head good-naturedly at his own folly. They approached the next door. This time, Luis stood on one side of the door, weapon primed and ready, while Leon opened it. There was a shout, some rapid gunfire, and a quick search for any supplies left behind. As they exited the room, a black-robed figure spied them. Leon cocked his gun, but to his surprise, the man didn't even shout, much less run at him. Instead, it made a run for the opposite end of the hallway.

"He's getting backup!" Luis cried, "Okay, Leon, you find Ashley. I'll take care of our little birdie."

"Wait, Luis, hold - " Leon began to shout, but then cut himself off. Luis was all ready out of sight, and Leon didn't want to draw any more attention to himself. The man was probably right. Leon continued down the long hallway, checking doors.

***

Ashley couldn't sleep. She'd tried, God help her, she'd tried...but to no avail. She'd returned, eventually, to her corner, because she didn't feel the least bit safe without her back against something anymore. She tucked her knees up under her chin and cried, out of fatigue, fear, and frustration.

There were footsteps outside, startling the young girl right out of her tears. Her grip on her own legs redoubled and she found herself glancing in the near-pitch darkness for a weapon of some sort. She fought the impulse to scream. She heard a key in the lock of the door, clicking menacingly. What did they have in store for her now? The door opened, light streaming in, piercing and blinding. A blurry, backlit silhouette entered. Its head turned slowly, taking in the surroundings. Its gaze landed on the balled-up girl in the corner. A deep, gruff voice was suddenly heard. It said: "Ashley?!"

A lamp was lit, showing a concerned face, a pair of silvery-blue eyes, impossibly sassy blonde hair...

"Leon!" Ashley stood up immediately, and rushed towards him. Her arms instinctively enveloped his neck, and he made an exaggerated comical choking sound and patted Ashley lightly on the back. When she let him go, he made a show of coughing and thumping his chest.

"Whoa," he said, finally, "Better watch those things," he indicated her more-than-ample bosom, "Damn near knocked the wind right out of me."

"Leon, you're such a perv," Ashley scolded, and hit him sharply on the shoulder. Leon chuckled.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested, and took a step towards the door. However, he stumbled and nearly ran headlong into the doorframe. He clutched his side with a sharp gasp. Ashley reflexively reached out to catch him, grabbing hold of his chest awkwardly and helping to drag him back to his feet.

"Leon, you're hurt!" she said, and then mentally cursed herself for always being the one to state the obvious. She self-consciously let go of him, and he leaned against one of the glittery bedposts. "What happened?"

"Nothing all that bad," Leon said, attempting to sound nonchalant. This was made difficult due to the gritting of his teeth.

"Don't you have anything for it? Here, lie down," Ashley led him to the side of the bed and awkwardly fussed over him as he lay himself down.

"No, not at the moment," Leon said with a sigh, "I used everything I had in my first-aid kit. But it's fine. It's not serious at all, it just...hurts."

"You can't even walk properly, Leon!" Ashley retorted, with a bit of a hysterical undertone, "I'll go find something for you. There must be something out there. You just stay here, I'll be right back."

"Wait, Ashley, hold on!" Leon protested, and Ashley was so used to obeying everything Leon said, unthinkingly, that she stopped dead in her tracks. She turned to face the wounded agent with a look that obviously told the story of a girl who did not want her only protection to be out of comission for any longer than absolutely necessary. Leon sighed, and reached into his holster.

"At least don't go unarmed," he said. He tossed a handgun at Ashley, who screamed in surprise and dropped it. Leon was suddenly glad that he hadn't cocked it, or it would have fired. The preppy teenager bent immediately to pick it up, and rose again, face burning like a tomato in the sun.

"But, uh, er...I don't know how to use this," she admitted. Leon tactfully refrained from making any comments.

"Pull back the hammer, that's the pointy bit at the back, to cock it. Then aim, pull the trigger, and run like fuck, because you've probably only gone and pissed it off."

"Thanks. Now I'm really confident, Leon."

"I'm not making you go. I don't want you to go."

Ashley sighed. "I want you to be okay. Leave it to me, Leon, I'll be right back."

The door shut with a final sounding ka-doonk. Leon sighed, and cast his eyes to the ceiling. "I hope."

***

Just as Leon reached the conclusion that, injured or no, he should have gone with her, and had made his way to the door, Ashley appeared in front of him, holding a pistol, a couple of stems of herbs, and, oh sweet Jesus, yes, a can of First Aid Spray.

"Oh, Leon! What are you doing, standing?"

"Er...going after you."

"Oh. Well, I'm fine. I didn't run into anyone, though there are a couple of portraits of Saddler that don't look quite so creepy, now. I'm sorry about wasting your ammo, but when I turned the lights on and saw his face, it startled me, and...er...well, I found this." Ashley held out the sweater that had been loosely knotted around her neck. It was now tightly balled up, and heavy. As Leon took it, it unrolled itself and a great number of golden pesetas spilled across the floor.

"They were behind the portraits," Ashley explained, bending down to pick them up and putting them carefully into Leon's attache.

"Well. You do okay on your own," Leon said, smilingly sitting down on the bed again, and reclining carefully so as not to aggravate his wounds.

Ashley smiled and turned a pale salmon colour. A second later, though, she got down to business, and demanded to see Leon's wound. She exposed the affected area and surveyed it. It was pretty awful to look at, and she reeled back upon seeing it.

"Oh, Leon!" she cried, and Leon found that, despite everything, her squeamishness was almost endearing.

"Here, just give me the First Aid Spray. I can take care of this," Leon said, accepting the aerosol can and applying it liberally to the wound. "I need something to put over it." There was a short pause. "Hey, Ashley, isn't this the part where you tear part of your skirt off?" Leon sent a purposeful glance at his companion's garment, and before Ashley could say anything, he added, "All though with a skirt that short you'd probably just have to give me the whole thing."

Ashley threw her sweater at Leon's head. He sat there a moment, the ruddy sweater hanging over his face, and then removed it slowly, and pressed it onto his side. "Thanks," he said shortly.

"You're welcome."

***

Ashley rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shivered. "It's freezing."

"Do you want your sweater back?" Leon proffered the garment to her. Ashley glanced at the blood-stained accessory, and shook her head with a faintly repulsed face. Leon suppressed a laugh, and let his arm fall to his side. "There's a blanket. Here, come here."

Ashley scooted in a bit closer, and Leon lifted up the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was all ready warm from being in close proximity to Leon's body, and she cuddled into it, allowing its heat to seep into her chilly limbs. She smiled and sighed. "Thanks, Leon."

"Hey, no problem."

blahblah

***

"God, I can't sleep in this shirt," Ashley stated, rolling onto her back in irritation. Leon raised an eyebrow. There was absolutely no way she thought she was getting away with that comment.

"Well, you could take it off," he suggested, and her arm habitually threw itself at his torso and landed with a dull, unenthusiastic thud. The two of them lay there, silent, for a moment, while Leon stared at the red velvet bed canopy. "I guess not, huh," he said, at length.

"No," Ashley stated, in a no-nonsense tone of voice. It was the first time Leon had heard her sound that way, and it took him slightly by surprise.

There was a bit of a pause. Leon pondered playing the role of hero, or not. Eventually he decided that chivalry was not dead. "Do you want mine, instead?"

"But then you would be shirtless," Ashley replied, with some emotion. Leon was not, however, sure of what she was emoting. It could have been objection to lying beside a half-naked man, or it could have been excitement at the idea of seeing Leon without his top on. He hoped it was the latter, though he didn't hope it with much vigour, lest he get himself excited.

Leon shrugged. "I don't have anything to hide."

Ashley appeared to contemplate. Soon, comfort won out over modesty. "Okay."

Leon leaned forward, and peeled his shirt off. He tossed it onto Ashley's lap before allowing his bare torso to fall back into the smooth, slinky sheets. It felt nice. It made him think of expensive hotels, about suites he would never get the chance to rent out. Sigh.

"Don't look." Ashley's voice roused Leon from his melancholy musings. She'd turned his shirt the right side out, and was reaching for the hem of her own.

"You're going to change here? Not that I'm complaining..." he added hurriedly.

"If you can pee in front of me, I can change my shirt in front of you. But don't look!"

Leon nodded. "Okay."

"Promise?"

"Scout's honour."

Ashley pulled the turtleneck up over her head, and uncaringly flung it onto the floor beside the bed. Her pale skin began to gooseflesh in the chill air. Leon didn't even bother to sneak glances, just watched with a lazy air. After all, Ashley wasn't even facing him. However, all view of skin, of pink cotton bra, was suddenly obscured by the bruise-coloured shirt Leon had given her. Only now did he turn his head.

Ashley lay down. "You didn't look, did you?"

"No," Leon lied, easily.

"You promise?"

"Scout's honour."

"'Kay."

Leon had never been a Boy Scout.

***

The door opened, shocking the occupants into instant motion. Ashley rolled off of one side of the bed in a frenzied attempt to get to her cast-off clothing, while Leon stood, naked, and grabbed his gun, and tried to look collected.

"Freeze, you bastard!" Leon shouted, aiming with dead accuracy at the undiscernable face of the intruder. He did, indeed, freeze.

"Leon?"

Leon sighed, and uncocked his gun. "Luis, Jesus. I could have killed you."

His face became visible as he switched on the light, and Leon immediately wished that it hadn't.

"I think I speak for this entire Spanish community when I ask you what the hell it is you think you're doing," Luis said, his voice torn between amusement and slight horror. Leon bent down to grab his boxers, covering his dignity with his other hand.

Luis didn't press the question, presumably because he didn't want to know the answer. Which was a good thing, as Leon had no intention of telling Luis why he was naked in a bed in a cold Spanish mansion which did not belong to him. However, there was a quick intake of breath, unmistakeably feminine. It might have been ignored, but it was followed by a second, then a third. Then, a ridiculously adorable sneeze.

Luis's eyebrows threatened to raise up so high they would disappear into his hairline. He took a couple of steps around to the other side of the bed. Leon, whose bottom half at least was clothed, let his face fall into the palm of his hand, and let out a sigh that sounded a lot like "Great."

Luis's eyes fell on the still-naked but demure Ashley. She hadn't had room to get dressed, but she'd made the effort to cover up anything juicy with her crumpled clothing. "Hola, Miss Graham," Luis said, with a small wave. Her face turned up into a scowl, but she didn't say anything. Her cheeks were a deep crimson.

"Well. I see I came at the wrong time. I'll just...go stand watch, shall I?" Then, without further comment, Luis turned and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Well," Ashley said, rising at last from behind the bed, "That was a disaster."

"You're telling me," Leon said, avoiding her gaze. He was so embarrassed, in fact, that he did not add, "Now put some clothes on before another one happens."

blahblah

***

Leon leaned against the wall outside. He felt like such a heel. He shouldn't have done anything in the first place. What was it Hunnigan had said to him? Behave yourself? And he'd scoffed. He hadn't thought anything of it. It hadn't even occurred to him that she might be serious.

And he'd done anything but behave himself. Little comments here and there. The occasional feel copped when he thought he could get away with it. Flirting. Teasing. Nothing serious. But...it had become serious. And now he was in too deep. He couldn't let her get attached. He couldn't afford it. He had meant it when he said he didn't have time for a girlfriend. And he couldn't risk hurting her if anything ever happened to him. He couldn't risk her possibly doing something stupid on his behalf. It was better to dash her hopes now, when it would hurt the least.

blahblah

Ashley's crying was brought up short in the other room. Muffled voices were heard in their place. Leon's hand reached instinctively for his side and clasped around his pistol. But a second more of dropping eaves revealed that it was only Luis. Not that that was much of an improvement. Leon trusted Luis to a point. He trusted him not to betray them, trusted him to show up at completely random times and disappear again, seemingly also randomly. He did not, for half a second, trust Luis not to make any moves on Ashley. No one had told him to behave himself, and he didn't seem to have any intention of doing so.

Ashley giggled shrilly. Leon flinched. There wasn't really anything for him to do now, though, except remain on watch. He leaned back and tried not to listen in.

***

blahblah

***

Ashley pushed the door open cautiously, unsure of what would be behind it. But as it swung open, she almost sobbed in relief. She'd gotten through with a minimum of injury, and there was Leon. Suddenly, everything was okay again.

"Leon!" she cried, and ran forward into her makeshift guardian's warm and welcome embrace. Leon softly stroked her hair as she buried her face in his shoulder. She could hear his voice, reassuring and breathy as always, in her ear.

"You did so well," he whispered, clutching her into his chest. Ashley smiled to herself, and, after a moment, broke off the hug and stepped back. "Let's get out of here."

Ashley nodded, and suddenly spoke. "Oh, Leon, I heard that Luis was captured, or he escaped, or he found you, I'm not really sure. I don't understand much Spanish, but they mentioned Luis and said he was nearby. Have you seen him?"

At this, Leon balked, even to the point of ceasing perambulation. Ashley ran into his back, and cried out a little, but Leon didn't even attempt an apology.

He knew, of course, about what Ashley felt for Luis. He wasn't sure what had transpired between the two of them, but he felt, somehow, that there had been something. He...wasn't sure. But he was damn sure that he didn't want to tell Ashley what he'd just seen a couple of minutes ago.

"Leon? Is something wrong?"

Leon scratched the back of his neck. An internal battle went on within him.

"No, nothing's wrong. I haven't heard anything about Luis, sorry."

leonada.txt: Resident Evil 4 FanFiction

Mon, 04 Apr 2005 16:04:43 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Resident Evil 4
Pairing: Leon/Ada, implied Leon/Ashley
Rating: NC-17 for eventual sexxins.
Summary: Set in post-game. Leon recovers the sample, and Ada is sent to go get it. Again.

Thud. Two steel-toed boots hit the floor with a dull sound, and the crouching agent to whom they belonged slowly straightened, holding his pistol warily, as if expecting someone to jump out at him at any moment. And someone likely would have, normally. As a matter of fact, the rather brash agent wouldn't have even gotten as far as he had now if things hadn't been taken care of beforehand. A fair few guards lay bound together in a closet, blissfully drunk and slightly poisoned. A couple had been left for Leon to deal with, because it wouldn't do to make things too easy for the man. He'd get suspicious, then. He might anyway.

The light was dim, and stark shadows fell where Leon walked, not particularly stealthily, but cautiously. That was the thing about Leon. He never really snuck about. He preferred to just jump into the fray and start firing. It was so over-confident, so cocky, so...American.

"Aha," Leon announced to the empty room, spying a specimen cooling case. Through the frosted glass, he'd obviously spied what he was looking for. With hardly a moment's hesitation, he deactivated the coolant, opened the case, and relocated the small, violet-coloured tube into his own attache.

As he made his way back out to the fire escape he'd climbed up, Ada, watching from the wings, chuckled slightly and shook her head.

***

"Wong," came the sneering voice of her employer, "I have been informed that the sample has been removed from our facilities."

"Well, you do hire incompentants to guard it, don't you?" Ada asked, not quite standing to attention in the face of the speakerbox. She shined her nails on her shirt. "One would think you enjoy playing this capture-the-flag game."

"I won't tolerate your shit, Ada. I want that sample back in our custody, and I want it now."

"Whatever Wesker wants, Wesker gets?" Ada said. Her tone attempted the double back-flip of mockery on the trapeze of vocality, but changed its mind at the last minute, and fell into the safety nets of dry sarcasm.

"I'm informed it was Kennedy who took it," Albert said, appearing not to have heard Ada's comment.

"Most likely. You know his type."

"That's why I'm assigning this to you. You've gotten it from him once, you can get it again."

"Yes. I can," Ada intoned, as if stating a simple fact, rather than bragging, "When do you want it?"

"Yesterday, Ada."

"Well, give me a couple of hours, Albert, I'm not a miracle worker," Ada pushed the clip into her pistol and stuffed it into her thigh-holster. She looked up, and surveyed herself in her full-length mirror. "What do you think...red or black?"

"Picking out an evening dress, Wong?" the speakerbox taunted.

"No, lingerie. The dress is red. Should I match it, or off-set it?"

There was a dangerous pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment Ada almost feared she'd gone too far. Eventually, Wesker's voice, sounding supremely controlled, said: "Ada."

"Yes?"

"No more of that."

"Yes, sir."

"And if you call me Albert again, I'll see to it that you don't live to wear that stupid dress ever again."

There was a fizzle and a clicking noise as Wesker hung up in irritation. Ada chuckled to herself, took a moment to run her hands down her naked form, and then reached for the pair of black panties lying in wait on her hotel room bed.

***

Leon chuckled to himself, and reached out to grab the black pair of boxers laying on the edge of his hotel room bed. His hair, wet and unbrushed, hung irritatingly in his face, despite his multitudinous efforts to keep it behind his ear. One foot, then the second, entered each leg of the undergarments, and Leon gave his nether regions one last fondle with the towel before pulling some bifurcated modesty over them.

His silver attache case lay, open, on his bed. He watched the purple test tube glisten in the artificial light as his cargo pants slid up his legs and fastened easily at the waist. Leon reached out for it, took it, held it up to the light. Inside, a tiny round thing, like a giant amoeba, twitched and quivered. It nearly made Leon ill, imagining what that tiny, innocent-seeming little egg could do to someone. What it had almost done to him. He looked down at his attache case, then at the sample, and seemed to reach a conclusion. He slipped the tube into his pants pocket.

His watch beeped, and he retrieved it from the mess of dirty clothing on the floor.

"Okay," he said to himself, "Excellent. Should be here soon."

"Who should be?"

The sudden voice caused Leon to turn around, grabbing immediately for his gun, which was not at his hip. He barely faltered, and immediately straightened up to greet his unexpected guest.

"Ada," he stated, as if either of them were in any doubt as to who she was, "Don't you ever use the front door?"

"Not if I can help it. Anyway, I thought you men were into that alternate entrance thing."

"Save it, Ada. And do you always dress like you're ready for a night on the town?"

"Always be prepared, I say. Now, I think there's something you want to ask me."

"What are you doing here?" Leon had begun to say it before the second half of Ada's sentence had registered. He suddenly felt predictable. Ada usually made him feel that way.

"You have something of mine," Ada said, stepping forward and indicating the bulge in Leon's pocket, "Give it to me."

"The sample - no way," Leon replied, in what Ada would have called his deliciously naive way. She took another step closer to him.

"The sample," Ada breathed, with a smile. She fetched up to Leon, her face barely an inch from his, and licked her lips, "Who says that's what I'm after? Maybe I just thought you were happy to see me."

Impetuously, he moved forward to claim her mouth with his, but his lips instead met the cool muzzle of Ada's gun. "No, I actually do just want the sample, Leon."

Leon made an exasperated noise, and broke away from Ada like a spoiled child about to throw a fit. He stared dejectedly at his bed for a moment, and then seemed to remember himself. "No. I don't know why Wesker wants it, but he's not getting it. I'm not letting what happened over there happen in my country."

"Sweet land of liberty?" Ada inquired, toying with her gun, drawing small figure eights on Leon's bare chest with the laser, "So patriotic. Is that really necessary?"

"I work for the president," Leon retorted, deadpan.

"You could always join the other team," Ada said, "We have a great benefits package."

"Never."

"Oh, right, I suppose you couldn't stand to be away from your sweet little Ashley."

"Leave her out of this!" Leon commanded. Ada cocked her head and smirked at him.

"Isn't that your job?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you turned her down, didn't you?"

For the first time in years, Leon felt at a loss. Normally he could come up with something scathing to say to anyone, even Ada...but that was a soft spot. Ashley's crying face swam into his imagination, the way her shoulders shook as she clung to his chest. He hadn't hugged her. He'd always avoided doing so, if he could. He'd done little more than pat her on the head and tell her to stop. He'd taken the girls' virginity, and then snubbed her off for a supposedly dead woman that he hadn't seen in six years. It really didn't seem to make much sense, now that he thought about it.

"It's a good thing I like you, Leon, or you'd be even more a prize idiot. A dead one."

"How could you be sure I was dead? No one in this business seems to stay dead long," Leon snapped, irritated at how true the phrase was. Krauser and Ada seemed about as likely to remain dead as the zombies they'd worked together to fight. Leon hoped, but without conviction, that Luis posessed the same supernatural power to return to life.

Ada merely laughed, a sound that Leon might have found pleasant if he didn't always feel like she was laughing at him. She began to approach him again, her hips slipping this way and that in her satin dress, and something about her movement was serpentine. Her heavily-lidded eyes were looking directly into Leon's, scoring them with their sharp scrutinisation. Her free hand, smooth and cool, like the night air reached out to stroke his jawline. Leon was incredibly aroused.

"Your hands are cold," Leon stated, jerking himself from Ada's touch. She chuckled, and again Leon felt as though it were at his expense.

"I'm dead, remember?" Ignoring Leon's supposed objection to her touch, she reached out for him again, turning his face to hers. Her head tilted slightly to the side, a bemused smile on her lips. Leon thought perhaps of moving away again, but before he could act on any of his impulses, Ada kissed him. His heart, his stomach, and one or two other, lower, organs jumped as adrenaline suddenly charged through his veins. His hands went immediately to Ada's diminuitive form, stroking and pulling her in close to him.

Ada had one hand clamped firmly on the back of Leon's neck, holding him into the kiss. Leon was just about to wonder where her other hand was, when he felt the fly on his pants come undone. He moaned, and pressed into Ada with more urgency. Six goddamn years he'd waited for this. Certainly, he'd fucked people in that time. Even made love once or twice (the image of Ashley again rose, and again, Leon shoved her into his subconscious). But none of them had compared to Ada, with her dulcet voice and ice princess persona. She'd teased him like this from the moment they'd met...but Leon was older now, and was not about to let her get away without giving a little back, this time.

Something even colder, and much harder, than Ada's hand slid across the outside of Leon's boxers. The gun. She hadn't dropped it, or even sheathed it. But she was still kissing him, not demanding the sample from him, smiling coyly at his incautiousness in the face of arousal. The gun slipped back upwards, and then back down, along Leon's excitement, causing it to threaten to ebb. Leon wasn't precisely a masochist, and there was something about the idea of being one trigger pull away from a lifetime of misery that brought things into sharp perspective.

He carefully, very carefully, let his hands slide down Ada's hips. One hand sunk lower than the other, questing for the slit in the side of her dress. It found it momentarily, and she sighed contentedly as he ran his hand up and down her smooth inner thigh. As his hand travelled further upward, Leon's erection decided it didn't give a damn about the gun, and even lavished in the attention, twitching with pleasure.

Leon had expected panties of some sort. Even a thong. But as his hand collided with soft, smooth, and above all, moist flesh, he realised that she really did always come prepared to go to town.

emo ashley.txt [Resident Eviil 4 FanFiction]

Mon, 04 Apr 2005 16:02:37 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Resident Evil 4
Pairing: Ashley/Luis, implied Leon/Ashley
Rating: PG-13, for now...
Summary: Ever since Ashley had given her virginity to Leon, he suddenly seemed unwilling to even look at her. Luckily, Luis is good at comforting the ladies.

Ashley's head hit the wall with a loud thunk, and she immediately sat back up and rubbed it, mouthing "ow, ow" as she did so. She hadn't expected it to hurt that much. She lay down, more carefully this time, on the makeshift bed and shut her eyes, allowing the pit of sadness in her heart to gape and fill her with the anguish of unrequited love. She was alone for the moment, as Leon had decided to relieve Luis of his watch in light of recent events, and Luis had not yet come in.

She shouldn't have said anything. She and her friends were always talking about how a boy will run away if you tell him you love him...but Leon was a man, or he was supposed to be. Ashley wasn't so sure, now...But he was so strong, and so brave, and God help her if he didn't make love to her like a man...

A single tear began the lonely trek down the pale peach skin on Ashley's cheek, followed by a number of others in a salty liquid caravan. The depression that clutched at her was so intense that when one such tear ran over her pouting lips, her tongue didn't even dart out to catch it. It merely fell, untasted, to her sweater. She wished she didn't love him.

"Hey, Ashley, you okay?"

Ashley sat up quickly, barely avoiding hitting her head on the shelf above her, and hastily wiped her face. She sniffled involuntarily, and heard Luis coo concernedly at her. He sat beside her and reached a hand out to place on her shoulder.

"Don't cry, chica, come here," he urged, nudging her forward, into his arms. Unthinkingly, Ashley leaned immediately forward into the welcome embrace of the Spaniard, and found that her shoulders were shaking, against her will. Luis made another small noise in his throat, and petted her lightly, kissing her forehead. "Pobrecita, poor little Ashley. Don't cry. Come on, stop crying, for me. It's okay."

Ashley made a couple of one-word attempts to explain to Luis what had happened, but he only shushed her again and held her more tightly. "I know," he said, "These walls, they are not so thick, si? I was only just outside."

Eventually the tears subsided. Ashley found that, despite the aching that was still in her heart, it was much easier to forget, and be cheered, when she was enveloped in the scented folds of Luis's sleeves. She'd expected him to smell a bit more exotic, perhaps...like foreign spices and fragrances, as charmingly romantic as his accent. She'd found, however, that he smelled mostly like an unwashed human, and clove cigarettes. At first, she'd been repusled by it, but now she found it pleasant, almost soothing. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder, and he let out a quick, mirthful breath, and gave her a small squeeze.

"There," he said, at length, "No more tears." He absently nudged the remaining droplets of angst off of Ashley's eyelashes with a gentle thumb. She laughed a little, and shook her head, mostly at herself. She rested against Luis' chest.

"Luis," she began, quietly, "Why are you here?"

"I live here."

"No, I mean why are you here, with us?"

Ashley's head rose and fell with the man's sigh. "Well, I suppose it's because I like you. I don't have any particular desire to see you and Leon turn into drivelling, mindless zombies."

go to hell.txt: Willy Wonka Fanfiction

Tue, 08 Feb 2005 19:15:16 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: Untitled
Fandom: Willy Wonka
Pairing: Charlie/Charlene (OC)
Rating: PG
Summary: Wonka knew he shouldn't object...but Charlie was allowing his every decision, even concerning the factory, to be made by his less-than-savoury new girlfriend.

There shouldn't have been a problem. It was Charlie's factory, now, and Wonka should not have had any complaints. After thoroughly training the young boy, Wonka had considered himself stepped down, though Charlie had insisted that he remain in the factory, and often asked him for help. They were as close as two friends could be...agreeing in nearly everything.

Nearly. Charlie, whose trust in the human race was untarnished and pure, even despite being exposed to the other four ticket winners, believed that the factory should be opened again. Not for employment, of course, for then where would the Oompa Loompas go? But for visitation. Tours would be given, often led by Charlie and occasionally led by Wonka. However, since Wonka indirectly caused an allegedly inadvertant chocolateering incident, involving a vat of fudge and a number of greedy children, Charlie had insisted that Wonka perhaps do the paperwork, while Charlie gave tours.

But he couldn't do it himself. That was where the trouble began. Charlie had to hire someone else to give tours. Not an Oompa Loompa...A human, someone the assorted mass would listen to. Someone who they would believe existed. They'd tried Oompa Loompas before, but everyone insisted on picking them up or petting them, and they kept forgetting their lines. A human was needed.

Charlie had interviewed a number of people, with Wonka sitting in the background with a vaguely disapproving air about him. Eventually they'd hired someone promising - a strong-minded young woman named Charlene. Wonka knew, from the moment he'd heard her name, that she was going to be trouble, eventually. But Charlie had taken a shining to her, and she was the least of all the evils.

It was the shining that Charlie had taken that worried Wonka the most. It followed, of course. It was the way things worked. Grandpa Joe, Grandma Josephine. Grandpa George, Grandma Georgina. Young Veruca's father had been named Harry; her mother, Harriet. He'd heard that Mike Teavee, who had used his fame to win sway at a major television company, was now seeing someone named Michelle. It was a bit of a custom, though no one knew quite why. Wonka himself had remained unmarried for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he hated the name Willhemina. Of course it was going to happen.

A Clockwork Orgy: OUaTiM Fanfiction

Wed, 26 Jan 2005 17:30:51 GMT

Status: Unfinished

Title: A Clockwork Orgy
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico, kind of
Pairing: Sheldon/Kate (his half-sister)
Rating: NC-17ish
Summary: Set in their teenage years.

He was only a few feet away from her. She wouldn't allow herself to look at him, but she knew he was there. Just...sitting. There. On her bed. With her. Just a few feet away. Just...there.

They'd decided to watch a movie, rather than sit in an uncomfortable silence or play Scrabble. Since they'd gotten home from their brief shopping excursion, there hadn't seemed to be much to talk about, much less do. So it was that they popped the nearest video cassette into the aging VCR, and flopped down onto the springy mattress.

As the movie droned on and on about ultraviolence, o my brothers, Kate found that really all she could think about was, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit of the old in-out, in-out. It was disgusting, really it was, and Kate was beginning almost to feel sick about it.

But Jesus, he was hot. Greasy dark brown stringy locks of hair hanging sexily in front of his rebellious teenage face, with two almost black pools of optical nerves fixed determinedly on the flickering TV screen, making them glow blue and eerie. T-shirt wrinkled loosely and uncaringly across the taut, pale flesh beneath it, chest and stomach. His left leg was bent, effectively obscuring her view of the erection she was sure was there. But as tempted as she was...she couldn't bear herself to find out.

"I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain..."

***

Somehow his head was on her shoulder. As the movie had worn on and on, the two of them had gotten more and more settled into the cushy bed. Somehow, in all their fidgeting, Sheldon had managed to steal up right next to her and lay his head on her shoulder. It was pleasant, almost sweet, though Kate was not convinced he was not vying for a chance to have a peek down her cleavage.

She put her arm around her brother's shoulders, trying like hell to make it seem nonchalant and big-sisterly.

This is okay... Kate thought, settling into the surprisingly comfortable position and massaging Sheldon's upper arm a little, After all...siblings cuddle all the time, right? It's not necessarily sexual to lie down with your little brother in your arms and watch a movie, right?

Yeah, okay, but is it smart to do so with a little brother that you know damn well would fuck you in half a second, should you present the opportunity?

That's not the case, though, really...is it?

Kate was confused. Sheldon, on the other hand, was absolutely certain of everything he felt, something that may or may not have comforted Kate to know, at that point.

***

His hand was on her side. And it was creeping slowly across her stomach, to the other side. Every tiny inch it moved, Kate felt it, like it were a knife instead of a hand. She was painfully aware of every miniscule move her brother made, to the point where she no longer had any idea what was going on with poor Alex, who at this moment was being teased by one of his fellow inmates. But as aware as she was of his advances, she had absolutely no idea as to what to do about it. She'd thought about smacking his hand away...but he wasn't really doing anything wrong...yet.

And anyway, it felt quite good. It wasn't often anyone touched her sides or stomach or hips, really...Her breasts, fine, they got plenty of attention. And her girly bits, sure...but nothing else, really. Her boyfriends tended to be pretty straightforward in their sexual habits...none of that beating around the bush. Hell, sometimes not even beating the bush itself. Gods knew she hadn't had a decent orgasm in who knew how long. Well, except for from her trusty vibrator, which was becoming thoroughly unexciting due to overuse.

Kate redirected her thoughts to a plan of action. It was a marvelous plan, this concotion Kate thought up. Ignore him. Let him put his arm around her, see if she cared! Until he reached for above or below the belt, he was fine, in her book.

His hand arrived at its destination, Kate's opposite side, where it proceeded to make itself comfortable between the bedspread and her back, squeezing her just a little into his embrace. He nuzzled his head into Kate's shoulder, and she couldn't help herself when a noise that was half surprise, and half oh-goodness-that's-adorable escaped her mouth. Her raging libido nearly subsided at the intense sweetness and seeming innocence of the gesture, though not quite as much as she'd hoped. She wrapped her other arm around the young man in her arms, and she kissed the top of his head. Which smelled rather good, considering how dirty it looked. The hair gel Sheldon used was quite aromatic in a masculine way. Unfortunately, this counted against her in the vicious battle with her overwhelming hormones.

They lay there for some time, with Sheldon occasionally adjusting his head to see better or to be more comfortable. Kate refused to turn and look at him, now, because that would put her face right next to his. Something she couldn't trust either of them not to take advantage of.

Jesus, her loins were aching. She tried crossing her legs to try and alleviate some of the infernal arousal, but all she succeeded in doing was to whet her appetite. This really was all a horrible, horrible idea on her part. She knew what would happen. She knew it. And yet, she almost wished it would.

***

He'd succeeded so far. He'd managed to worm his way into Kate's arms, with his head on her shoulder, without arousing bare a suspicion from his allegedly reticent older sister. She seemed to be very, very absorbed in the movie, though Sheldon was certain he hadn't paid attention for what seemed like the last hour. She was right next to him, the very object of his lust, a dulcet creature of curves and plush bounce and so very, very hard to win. She was right there, her smooth, flat stomach beneath his intruding arm; her lovely soft thigh resting ever-so-gently against his long-time erection, affording him only the slightest bit of relief.

She moved, slightly, as if uncomfortable, but soon heaved a tiny sigh of frustration and seemed to give up. Since it had been her legs she was moving, Sheldon took the opportunity to shift his hips forward, and when she rested her leg back down, it was slightly more firmly touching his longing groin.

Oh, he wanted her. And he would have her, if he could. He'd come this far, after all. He adjusted his head and looked up at her, watching the TV flickering in her eyes, watching her left canine gnaw restlessly at the side of her lip, with a look of concentration upon her brow. He couldn't imagine finding a movie more interesting that lying in bed with him, honestly...but that was part of Kate's appeal. Challenge makes life interesting...and Kate was almost more of a challenge than Sheldon felt he could deal with, sometimes. But he was determined.

He craned his neck forward so that he might nuzzle his face into her neck. He did, and her flesh was warm and redolant with the scent of patchouli oil, a smell that always caused Sheldon's stomach to do a little flip, because she'd been wearing it for so long. He brushed his nose and lips across her tender neck, and heard her breath catch in her throat. And as he breathed - supposedly accidentally - across her ear, he could feel her shudder, slightly.

She couldn't possibly be watching the movie, now. But still she stared at the screen, seeming to be as set on ignoring Sheldon as he was on sleeping with her. However, he could see that her eyes were slightly unfocused, and as he exhaled again, down her neck, he saw them flicker shut for a moment.

He smiled half a crooked smile and nuzzled into her again. He could feel her heart beating quickly, her pulse pounding against his face. It was time to make a move. He pursed his lips and kissed the soft, warm skin of Kate's neck. Her intake of breath was sharp enough to be considered a gasp, Sheldon's cock throbbed in answer. He held Kate tightly, hoping to keep his hard-earned place at her side without being pushed off. He kissed her again, slightly harder this time, and she squeezed his shoulder. He was unsure of whether this was a sign for him to stop or to go on, but he had no intention of stopping until the both of them were completely satisfied. Whether Kate liked it or not...but he knew she would.

***

Oh, god.

He was kissing her neck. He was kissing her neck...and she knew damn well that she didn't have the strength of will to push him away, even if she had had the physical strength to do so. She squeezed his shoulder, though she wasn't quite sure whether that was intended to deter or encourage him. But she was sure he would take it as a sign of compliance on her part.

He opened his mouth and closed it on her neck, licking and sucking on her sensitive throat, and it was all she could do not to moan.

Please, God...fuck me...

***

Oh, please let me fuck you, Sheldon pleaded mentally, as he preyed on his sister's inaction thus far. He took her chin in his hand and pulled her down to face him. There was fear in her eyes. Fear, disgust, and an overwhelming, smouldering lust. He pulled himself quickly up and propped himself on his left arm before leaning immediately back down and claiming Kate's mouth with his own.

She tried to cry out in shock, but it came out little more than a muffled squeak. He slipped his tongue past her unresisting lips, and ravaged her mouth like a fire in a barrel of leaves. She tasted like pizza, like beer, like a girl, and like everything that he was not allowed to do. It was wrong, so wrong he could taste it, and every round his tongue made around his sister's brought him that much closer to orgasm. It was like sex in itself, with the salty-sweet taste of taboo overpowering it, pulling away the last remaining shreds of Sheldon's self-control. Nothing is sweeter than that which is forbidden, and nobody loved the forbidden like Sheldon.

He rolled over immediately atop his sister, causing her to cry out into his mouth and begin her first real attempts at pushing him away. But he would have none of it. Her pushing on his shoulders served as little more than holding him up so that he could freely use his hands to reach up her shirt and begin to massage her braless, supple breasts.

This time she did moan, flat-out and almost shamelessly, and her eyes shut as she threw her head to the side in a vain pseudo-attempt at escape.

"Come on, Kate," he whispered to her, "You know you want me as much as I want you."

"Get off of me, Sheldon."

"I will. But first I'm going to get you off."

"Sheldon Jeffr - " He silenced her with a swift kiss. She reached to push him away again, but he was really just too strong for her. Those days spent working out, though they didn't change his scrawny appearance, had apparently not counted for nothing. He set to work, quickly and expertly, at Kate's jeans, which were mercifully loose. It took him a minute or so, but eventualy he was able to work them down her legs, and was pleased to note that Kate had apparently decided to go commando. Some habits never die.

"Sheldon, for God's sake, please," Kate cried out, as he began to work on his own trousers. He noted, however, that despite the protesting tone in his sister's voice, she did not specify please stop...and it was just as likely that she meant, please fuck me, but was too shy to say so.

He loosed himself and wrestled his slightly tighter jeans down far enough to be able to kick them off. He couldn't afford to have them get in the way. Every moment was precious, and at any second Kate could struggle free and then all of Sheldon's hard work would be ruined. All of his careful time-biding, trust-building, could be gone in the blink of an eye. But he wasn't thinking of that. At this point, the only thought occupying his mind was indulging himself in the warm, wet depths of his sultry sister.

***

Kate knew, deep down, that she could fight harder. That her arms had more strength than they were using, that her legs needn't just lay stiff and still. She could force Sheldon off of her if she really tried...but her body betrayed her mind by just barely objecting. Of course, she couldn't blame it. Her body wanted it, ached to press itself against that of her younger brother, to welcome him in and wrap itself around him. It was her mind that was objecting, and she was, frankly, lucky that her body was responding at all, instead of just leaving it to fend for itself.

"Sheldon, for God's sake, please," she moaned, adding a silent but vehement fuck me! to the end of her outburst. Suddenly his pants were off, and there it was; the focus of her recent obsession, all nine inches of it, threatening to dissolve her remaining will. She moaned audibly at the sight of it, and her arms seemed to be persuaded to push just a little harder. But Sheldon was all ready spreading her legs - why hadn't she worn underwear? Damn her hippie tendencies! - and running his lustful fingers against her slick opening.

***

Oh, gods, was she ever wet. Sheldon let out a husky, breathy moan. Well, truth be told, it was more of a moany breath than a breathy moan, but don't let's get picky just as the story gets good. He wiped his fingers off on his cock, lubricating the head with Kate's generous natural Astroglide, and gripped his shaft to aim himself in.

"Sheldon, you can't do this," she protested as she felt the thick tip of Sheldon's pride and joy pressing against her opening, "Oh, god!"

Sheldon thrust himself inside her, every inch of him surrounded by her tight, hungry cunt, right down to his pubis. Kate's back arched involuntarily, throwing herself further into Sheldon's embrace. He moaned, simply savouring the feeling of being where he knew he belonged.

"Oh, fuck," he sighed, and began to pull himself out, before sliding back in again. Slowly but lustfully, determined to draw it out and enjoy it. There was no longer any resistance from the sweet creature writhing and moaning beneath him, something that

Porn!: OUaTiM Fanfiction (highly unfinished)

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:48:00 GMT

Title: Porn
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Young Kate/Sheldon
Rating: R for penises.

They were watching porn, by gods. They hadn't meant to...it had been in the VCR, even though it was SUPPOSED to be Dracula. Sheldon had insisted, however. And so porn it was.

It wasn't even Kate's video. It was her boyfriend's. And as it continued, a mishmash of different kinds of sex in different shades of kink and sexuality, Kate felt she was learning a lot about the man she shared her apartment with.

The gay threesome had been particularly piquant, she felt. Actually, there was a surprising amount of gay or bisexual porn on the tape. Not as much, of course, as there were lesbians or blowjobs, but a lot nonetheless.

"My cock is totally bigger than that," Sheldon stated, in reference to the five-inch pecker onscreen. Kate raised an eyebrow at him.

"You going to say that for every goddamn penis in here?"

"Well, it's bigger than all of them. I'm sorry."

"Can we just leave your penis out of the conversation for, oh, five minutes? Please?"

Sheldon laughed, and Kate sighed. Okay, granted, she did consent to watching pornography with her younger brother...but he was treating her much more like some bimbo he wanted to seduce than his older sister. It was making her slightly uncomfortable. What didn't help was that Kate was beginning to be aroused, as one would logically be, after watching a half hour or so of what they were watching.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him lying there, beside her. He was good-looking, of course he was...young and virile, you could practically see the hormones exuding from his pores. He was like a walking, talking pillar of sexual energy, and despite all her efforts to the contrary, even Kate had to notice. She noticed a lot more than she would have cared to...his hair brushing the outside curve of his high cheekbones, the slight pout to his lips, the crest of his stomach as it sloped downward, the tiny bit of skin between shirt hem and pants waist, the gigantic bulge of erection going halfway down his thigh...Oh yes, she noticed all right.

"My cock is bigger than that one, too."

Kate's attention was brought back to the television, where a small asian girl in a bathtub was giving a rather unenthusiastic blowjob to a less-than-four-inch cock.

"Well, duh," she stated, "My cock is bigger than that."

Nighttime Lust: OUaTiM Fanfiction

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:46:31 GMT

Title: Nighttime Lust
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Young Kate/Sheldon
Rating: R

In the darkness, the outline of Kate's bare legs and half-exposed ass were more appealing than ever. Sheldon had always been a cover-hog, and for once he was very grateful to the fact. Kate rarely slept in more than an overlarge t-shirt, and this was another blessing Sheldon was quick to count.

Her dark hair spread out across the pillow, leaving her pale, aquiline neck exposed to the stuffy air of the bedroom. Sheldon removed the blankets from himself and scooted closer to his recumbent sister. He reached out to stroke her thigh, but stopped short, and shook his head. Kate would kill him. She'd been letting him stay in bed with her, true, because the couch was damned uncomfortable. He'd earned her trust by not touching her at all the first two nights...but he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay. Would he ever have another chance like this one?

He didn't think so. Not to mention, when they'd gone to sleep, Kate was slightly drunk, which would make her slumber even heavier than it usually was. Yes, the more Sheldon thought about it, the more he felt like Kate's wrath was a risk worth taking. This was God smiling on him, holding out Kate on a silver platter in the form of satin sheets and comfortable cushion. And who was Sheldon to say no to that?

He slipped his hand around Kate's stomach, which was soft and, though usually flat, in her reclining position was slightly rounded, just enough to make it pleasant to touch. He lay behind her, her back touching his chest, and his groin not quite in contact with her pert ass. He rubbed her stomach gently, lovingly, and Kate smiled widely in her sleep and cuddled into the warm concave of her brother's torso.

Sheldon felt his stomach do a little flip, and not just because she'd just pressed herself firmly onto his erection. He couldn't help but smile as one thin hand wrapped itself around his elbow and held it lightly.

She probably thinks it's Jim, Sheldon thought with slight distaste, but eventually decided that he didn't care. The feeling was nice enough, even if it wasn't intended for him. He lay his head in the small cradled nook between Kate's shoulder and neck, and this, too, she responded to. She shrugged her shoulder softly in an affectionate manner, though she still seemed to be asleep. Another small rush of happiness left Sheldon's stomach feeling quite airy indeed.

Well, so far so good. He turned his head to nuzzle into her neck, and left a small kiss there. Kate gave a small hum of satisfaction, and pressed in further against her brother, and this time he dared to press back into her, nestling the bulge of his erection in the sloping cavern between Kate's ass cheeks. He then slipped his other arm underneath her neck and held her close to him.

His oral administrations to her throat did not cease, though the hand that had been caressing her stomach softly strayed further lower. Almost unnoticably, he twitched the hem of her shirt upward, to allow him full access to the warm haven he sought. He let his fingers explore lower, lower, to her mons pubis. He moaned slightly as he encountered its hairless surface - he'd not counted Kate for the shaving type, and the idea excited him more than he'd cared to admit.

Kate's mouth parted slowly and a slight, vocal breath escaped her lips as Sheldon's fingers ventured lower, delved deeper. Another moan mingled with Kate's in the air, this time from her younger brother, who had suddenly discovered that his attentions had not gone unnoticed - Kate was positively dripping.

Leaving Jack: PotC Fanfiction

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:44:58 GMT

Title: Leaving Jack
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/Will, implied Jack/OC
Rating: PG

Katu wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, took a look at her room, and sighed. Everything that was actually hers was packed in a very small bag at her feet. And everything that wasn't was dusted and tidy, left just the way it had been when she'd first moved in.

She picked up the bag and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Jack's door was shut, which was fortunate, because Katu did not think she had the strength to say goodbye. Or to hear Jack let her go. She began walking, briskly, toward the hatch, eyes fogging with the quiet threats of tears.

She was no longer wanted, aboard. She had lost Jack to Will. She had tried to win him back, and failed. And then even Harry had not succumb to her advances. So she was alone, and that was never something she wanted to be. She had lost her long battle, and she was tired. And it was time to go.

A tear or two did form and fall as Katu began her descent down the gangplank. It was back to Tortuga with her, back to her job as a barmaid, or, failing that, a prostitute. Perhaps she could even find another ship, all though who would take her, she didn't know. She was decently proficient, but she was female. And unlike some others, she was not able to hide it, hard as she may try.

Damn it all, this was not fair! She had given so much to Jack, had understood his promiscuity, had done everything for him, and this was her payment. He'd left her. For Will! He'd -

"Oof!" Katu ran headfirst into someone's chest, and would have tumbled backward into the water, had the person not grabbed her suddenly and steadied her. "'M sorry," she mumbled, "I wasn't lookin'...oh, Will."

"Where are you going in such a hurry? If I may ask," Will added, not forgetting his manners. The small woman in front of him flashed him a broad, fake smile.

"Inte town. I 'ave some business te attend te," she lied. Will eyed her suspiciously.

"Dressed like that?"

Katu looked down at herself. Will was right. She was wearing a rather large dress, much larger than usual. It had a full petticoat and a proper cover and wasn't even stained...she kept it mostly because Jack gave it to her, but she revelled in wearing it when she thought no one would see. But there had not been enough room in her bag for it, so she'd merely worn it, and carried her normal clothing. She adjusted the cotton shawl about her shoulders.

"Will, luv...this isn't th' time. I've got te go!"

"Katu..." Will had not let go of her shoulders. Katu's heart gave a little skip and she found herself thinking Oh dear gods, please don't say that you love me</i>, too...</i> "I'm not stupid. I know what you're up to."

Katu sighed. "All right. Fine. But would ye please let me past? I don' really want te knock ye into th' water with me skirt."

"You haven't spoken to Jack, have you."

Katu cried out in frustration and threw her arms down in a bit of a tantrum. "Dammit, Will! Let me pass this instant!"

"He wouldn't want you to go."

blahblah

***

Katu knocked on the door to her captain's cabin, hoping desperately that she would still be able to do this.

"Come in, William."

"Guess again," Katu said, pushing the door open and stepping in, travel bag still in hand.

"Oh, Katu. Wha' th' hell are ye dressed like tha' for?"

She gave Jack the tiniest of sad smiles. "Jack...m'leavin'."

Untitled (katusick.txt): PotC Fanfiction

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:41:14 GMT

Title: Untitled (or, as I call it, katusick.txt)
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Jack/OC
Rating: PG-13, I think. R at worst.

The two of them lay together, half-asleep, tangled into each other, on Jack's bed. How often, Jack mused to himself, had he lay there, comforted to sleep by the sound of Katu's heavy breathing. Occasionally she would hold her breath, unconsiously, and until she breathed again, Jack was sure his heart had stopped.

But now, her breathing scared him nearly as much as when she did not breathe. Her breaths were shallow and rattling, and he could feel something in her chest vibrate with every breath. She gave little coughs quite often, and every hour or so, she would -

Katu's mouth opened suddenly, her eyes shut tightly, and she just barely managed to turn her head from her Captain's as she fell into a violent coughing spasm, coughing so that she retched, and so persistently that she had to force herself to take in air again, in a wheezing, desperate gasp. Then she was off again.

She calmed down, after a moment, and sat up laboriously, craned her neck, and spit over the side of the bed. It landed with a splat that caused even Jack to flinch. She peered at it in the evening twilight.

"Gods be damned," she cursed, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. Jack's eyes travelled to where his first mate's just were, and saw, to his confirmed horror, that the small puddle of mucus was primarily red.

That was what worried Jack the most. He'd never liked the idea of blood coming from a wound you can't see, and [i've written no more]

Violent: OUaTiM Fanfiction

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:38:59 GMT

Title: Violent (it was late and I am lazy.)
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Kate/Sheldon
Rating: NC-17 (duh)

The sex was violent. The sex was always violent; thrusting, pounding, pulsing desire running through them both as nine full inches of cock was forced into a hole far too small for it.

Things were better now than they were. No more petty resistance, no more snippy remarks...Kate had finally come to, and Sheldon was not entirely convinced that he hadn't gone mad and started dreaming shit up. Kate's moans in his ear, her whispered words, gave Sheldon all the motivation he needed to fill her with every ounce of come he could produce before collapsing on her chest.

They panted together, for a moment, Kate's fingers drawing little circles on his shoulders, and occasionally trying to move his hair out of both their faces. She kissed his cheek gently - a far cry from the vicious bite she'd given his shoulder when she'd come - and sighed.

"I'm fucking dreaming. I've just gone insane, and I am actually in some padded cell somewhere, humping the floor and making a mess in my hospital gown, aren't I?" he breathed, trying to calm his racing heart. His sister chuckled beneath him and ran her tongue along his neck and nipped him gently. Sheldon sighed, smiling.

"Hey, hey there," he said, softly, pulling away to look at the woman beneath him, "Don't. You'll get me all excited again, and god dammit my cock is exhausted."

Kate smiled and apologised sorrowlessly, kissing Sheldon firmly on the mouth before letting him pull out of her and lie beside her on the bed. She turned on her side to press her naked body against his, her breasts brushing distractingly against his shoulder as she made to kiss his cheek.

"I love you."

That was the only bothersome part. It wasn't that Sheldon particularly minded hearing it, anymore. He actually enjoyed it, truthfully, and not just for egotistical reasons. It was the closest thing to feeling he got, really. What bothered him was feeling obligated to say it back. Society says that in a healthy relationship, one person does not say "I love you" and have it go unreturned. It was required.

Of course...society also said that in a healthy relationship, a brother and sister do not willingly fuck like rabbits in a Viagra testing laboratory. And Kate insisted that she didn't need, or even necessarily want him to say it. She just needed to say it, herself. So, all right. So long as nothing was expected of him (except, perhaps, a constant erection), he could deal.

She was stroking his stomach, he realised when he'd resurfaced from his deeper thoughts, and getting dangerously close to what teenage girls liked to refer to as his "treasure trail;" the line of dark, thick hair leading down to his pubis. He smacked her hand away, flattered but tired.

"I mean it, Kate. I'm fucking wiped out," he said with regret. He couldn't help but be amused, however...he hardly thought that one day, he would be pushing his reluctant, prudish sister's hand away from his crotch because he'd come too many times that night.

"All right, all right," she conceding with half a resigned smile. She kissed his shoulder in a disgustingly endearing way, draped her arm over Sheldon's chest, and relaxed, eyes shut. Shel allowed himself a vague smile as he, too, allowed sleep to creep up on him.

***

Suddenly he was awake again. He couldn't have been asleep long...only an hour, it felt like. But here he was, awake. The reason for this, he realised suddenly, was planting kisses down his chest and stomach, and licking along his inner thighs.

Well, he'd be damned if that wasn't the most pleasant wake-up call in the world, even if it was unwarranted. He felt himself rising to the occasion, no matter how tired he had protested to be before falling asleep. He supposed he could probably handle it. After all, she was down there and everything, and it would be mean of him to -

Kate ran her tongue from the thick base of his shaft to the slightly tapered end, leaving a slippery trail of saliva, before taking the head into her mouth and teasing it tortuously with her suckling and licking.

Sheldon moaned quietly, stroking his sister's dark brown hair absently with one hand. "Not that I want to discourage you," he said breathily, "But this might take a while..."

There was a smacking sound as Kate removed her mouth from his cock, to flash him a smile that he could not see. "It might not take so long if you remember that it's your older sister's lips wrapped around your cock..."

A little wave of pleasure coursed through Sheldon's body, causing his stomach to do a little flip and a smirk to magically appear on his mouth. "God, you're dirty."

Kate nodded and smiled, both interesting effects, considering that her mouth was currently occupied by Sheldon's sizeable member. She bobbed her head up and down a few inches of it, goaded father along its length by Sheldon's gentle insistence with his hand.

Kate gave great blowjobs. There was none of that fancy-schmancy butterly tickling or whatever the fuck the girls were calling it nowadays. She didn't distract herself by trying to use her tongue and her lips at the same time, when it really didn't make a goddamn difference at all. She just did what he wanted her to do - just fucking sucked on it.

Like a goddamned Hoover, he might add.

His hand moved automatically to encompass more of the back of Kate's head, pressing her down, farther. Normally, she didn't go past four inches on her own...but with Sheldon's "encouragement", she could go nearly the whole damn thing. He began to thrust into her mouth, gently at first, and then more firmly, trying to fit every goddamn inch of his aroused cock into his sister's throat.

"Oh, yeah," he groaned, "Oh fuck yeah. Make me come, bitch."

He could feel Kate shiver with pleasure at his reaction. She tried to moan, but it came out little more than a squeak, distorted around the dick being forced past her gag reflex. Sheldon grunted gutterally and groaned, thrusting upwards into Kate's mouth, while holding her head still with a powerful hand.

"Oh god," he moaned, "Oh yeah, suck my dick. Fuck yes."

Kate tried to moan again, and the vibrations against Sheldon's cock were highly pleasurable, pushing him all the more close to his imminent orgasm. He knew that Kate loved it when he said things like that to her, especially in her ear, though he wasn't so flexible to be able to do that, now.

Kate was right, Sheldon realised as he pressed himself farther and farther into her warm, fleshy mouth. Knowing that he was, at that moment, choking his own goddamned older sister with his cock was driving him to orgasm much faster than he thought possible.

"Oh god...Kate," he cried, suddenly thrusting himself completely into her face as he felt his balls tighten. His cock began to pulse and spasm, and he sent each fiery hot blast of come straight down his sister's throat, pressing hard into her as he did so, until he was spent. He then let go immediately, and let Kate breathe. She wiped her mouth, more out of habit than necessity, and kissed his thigh, leaning her head against it.

She left it soon enough, however, and climbed up to lay next to her naked, panting brother. She kissed his shoulder and nipped at it as if she were some cute little sex kitten and not a goddamned tigress.

"Goddamn that was hot," she sighed in his ear, "I never thought I'd be so happy to have you come down my throat."

The familiar wave of arousal rushed through Sheldon's nerves, and he smacked Kate playfully upside the head. "You have the dirtiest goddamn mouth..."

"And you love fucking it."

"Jesus Christ, Kate!"

She laughed, and pulled the sheets up around herself, making herself look like some sort of Roman goddess. Sheldon couldn't see, but he didn't need to. He knew just what she looked like. And if he didn't, he was happy enough with his imagined version. He smirked smugly and adjusted himself to put his arm around his sister. She cuddled in close under his chin, and lay there, soft and warm, breathing on his chest.

"Good night, Sheldon."

"'Night, Kate."

"I love you."

Ach, what the hell.

"I love you, too."

Lost Pages: OUaTiM Fanfiction

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 04:36:39 GMT

An excerpt from Sheldon's sister's journal during his visit to her apartment in summer of '86.

Title: Lost Pages
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Implied Kate/Sheldon
Rating: Let's go NC-17 on this one.

Dear Diary,

Okay. It's been a while since I've updated you, I know. I'm sorry, but I don't have time for pleasantries. I need to talk to you.

Okay. Well...ever since prom night, I've been having these...dreams. About Sheldon. You probably know what I'm getting at. I know, it's sick, it's disgusting, it's totally wrong...but it's so...guh. I know that he's my *shudder* brother, and he's three years younger than me...but he LOOKS my age, and he's only my half-brother, does that make it any better?

God. Okay. Well, anyway, it's been a long time since I've seen him, kind of. A month or so, anyway...And I think I've just forgotten what he's like. On prom night he seemed to sweet and sensitive, and that's not really the Sheldon I remember from my childhood. And...I don't know, I think maybe prom night was all just a dream or something. I was pretty tipsy, maybe he didn't try to come on to me at all. Maybe it was just a weird hallucination. I don't know.

So...I'm inviting him over. Just for a few days, to sort of remind me how much I don't like him, you know? Sort of prove to myself that he's actually a little dickhead and not at all as handsome and tall and somehow suave and mature as I seem to remember. Then maybe these dreams will go away. So I'm preparing for a couple days of pizza, beer, and Sheldon annoying the everloving crap out of me. I'm probably masochistic, hell, I know I am...but I think this is something that needs to be done.

Well, wish me luck. I'm off to go pick the little bastard up from mom's house.

***

Oh god this was a mistake. So. Right. Of course something would go wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. So we sat down to watch Dracula. It's my boyfriend's video, it's labelled "Dracula," so I'm hoping it's the good version and not some cheap ripoff. Well. I will give you one guess which it was. If you guessed C) Porn, you were right! I go to turn it off, but no, Sheldon would insist on watching porn with me.

I think my boyfriend is a fag.

Anyway, watching porn with Sheldon. Right. Not a very pleasant experience. Well, I mean, it's fun enough, I suppose. Making fun of porn together, nice sibling ~~bondage~~ BONDING experience. Except Sheldon kept updating me on how his penis compared to whatever was onscreen.

"My cock is bigger than his cock," and "My cock is WAY bigger than his cock." And, in some cases, "My cock is bigger than her cock."

Not to mention the classic, "Kate, what's the biggest dick you've ever had sex with? The smallest? Who was your best shag? Ever had sex hanging upside down from the refrigerator door handle while covered in butter and surrounded by bald monkeys?"

I felt like I was on a dating show or something. It was making me really uncomfortable. Yet somehow aroused. So, while Sheldon HAS proved to me that he is still a bit of an ass, and not terribly mature...he has not yet completely repulsed me.

Or hadn't. But then, oh, you'll love this part, he WHIPS IT OUT. In FRONT OF ME. And just starts whacking it, right there on my fold-out couch, right next to me. Like I wasn't there. Or like I was his girlfriend or something.

And...well...honestly, it WAS bigger than most of the cocks on the tape. Like, frigging huge. Not that I really want to go on and on about my (DEFINITELY not-so) little brother's cock...but I really wish it were attached to someone other than my little brother. Cuz...damn.

Okay. Bad train of thought. Bad Kate! Ugh, what is wrong with me?

He's actually still in the living room jerking off. I have to go, NOW, and masturbate before I die.

***

Okay. Let's start anew, here. You are my diary. No one is ever going to read this except me. So, I am going to start treating it like a diary and not like a publication. So, no more inhibitions, no more justification, no more lies. Just the shit that I need to get out of my head lest it drive me crazy.

That being said, I am going to fucking hell. Yes I am.

Sheldon is hot. I have long known this, known that he is tall and thin and slightly muscular, with longish dark hair and the most amazingly intense eyes I've ever seen. He just...looks at me sometimes. It kind of creeps me out, but frankly, it really turns me on. It's just like...I don't know. It seems like he's really seeing me. Not seeing what I'm showing him, just seeing what I AM. I can't explain it. It's really intense, and there's this strange burning emotion behind it, but I don't know what it is. But it just...oooh.

We went to the mall. It was fun, we made fun of stereotypes and played around with hats and tried on clothes (well, I tried on clothes. He didn't fit into the skirts I picked out for him) and got food. It was really nice.

He kept flirting with me. Like, really, serious flirting. Like, almost to the point of hitting on me. And fuck all if I wasn't flirting back. God. I know, it is so wrong...but god, did I ever just want to grab him and stick my fucking tongue down his unsuspecting throat.

Oh god oh god I'd almost forgotten. He kissed me. He goddamn kissed me. Yes, on my naughty little sinner lips. Nothing noteworthy, just a simple peck because I was teasing him for standing too closely to me. So I got up in his face and was like "Rar I'm Sheldon I have no social skills I am going to stand too closely!"

And he kissed me. And god. I almost died. I seriously almost just fell over and died. Or, alternatively, snatched him up and snogged him like he was River Phoenix and I was sixteen. But I didn't. I might be a horrible, dirty little vixen, but I was strong, and I raised my eyebrow at him and frowned and called him a freak. But UGH I wanted him so badly.

Still do. If I were a boy, my erection would need its own area code.

Okay, this no justification thing is really hard. Hard like Sheldon's cock after all that porn. Mmm.

AGH MY BRAIN.

***

Oh, and when we were smelling incense, the following happened:

Me: Oh, patchouli, I love patchouli!
Sheldon: *in ridiculously sexy and deep voice* I know.
Me: I would buy it...but I don't really burn incest anymore.
Sheldon: *gives me a look*
Me: *REALISES WHAT SHE HAS SAID AND FUCKING DIES* INCENSE! GOD! I MEANT INCENSE!!
Sheldon: *laughing his hot ass off* Freudian slip?
Me: No. No. Not Freudian slip. Just a regular slip! Leave Freud out of this!

I want to have sex with my brother. I am a filthy, dirty, evil little girl.

***

Situation NOT improved. Boyfriend also not home. I am beginning to worry. I called his work, they said he left work at the normal time last night, but he hasn't shown up yet this morning. I haven't seen him here, so he is either dead or cheating on me. Either way, he will be dead the next time I see him. Asshole.

So. Yes. Had hoped to vent sexual frustrations on boyfriend in form of surprise sex kitteny attack, but as he has not shown up, I have not done so. Also have not had the guts to masturbate since Sheldon walked in on me yesterday. I'd kind of known he was there, or at least suspected that he would be, and believe me, that is a good thing...cuz I swear to god, I almost said his name. Almost.

Did I mention I'm going to hell?

But yes, so I am essentially DEAD as we know it, and can think of basically nothing but taking my poor, innocent (haha) little (haha again) brother, stripping off all his clothes with my teeth, throwing him down onto my bed and impaling myself on his abnormally large cock.

Oh, god, did I just write that?

Yes, I did. And here, I will write more:

I dream about him lying next to me in bed, as he tends to do, and then just reaching over and putting his arm around my waist, and pulling me into his arms, holding me there. He's breathing into my ear and down the side of my neck, stroking my waist and hips, and I can feel his erection digging into my ass and back. He starts to kiss my neck, licking it and nipping, moving upwards toward my ear, and running his tongue along my earlobe.

He knows I can't resist that, and as I melt under his advances, he's massaging my breasts and reaching between my legs and I am so fucking ridiculously wet, like I have been for the past few days. He can't stand the wait anymore, and kisses me deeply and passionately, the way he's about to fuck me. I reach down and do the honour of unbuckling his belt and undoing his fly, while he's getting rid of my soaked, useless panties. I reach in and grab his cock - his huge, hard, throbbing cock - and he moans. Suddenly he's between my legs, holding the backs of my knees in either hand, spreading them wide enough to fit him inside me (which will take some effort, let me tell you). He leans down into me, and suddenly he's thrusting himself inside me...and it hurts so much but god, god, nothing could be sweeter.

Nothing could be sweeter than my brother shoving all nine inches of his cock deep, deep into my pussy. Oh god, and when he finally comes, pounding me into the bed as he blows his load inside of me...guh. Uhh.

Whee! Sin is fun!

My brain is broken. I think I am posessed, because this is not me speaking. I don't write smut. Heh, maybe I will. Maybe I shall become a writer of kinky incestuous romance novels.

No. No. No.

Ow. My inner turmoil is beginning to wear on me. Because there is Shameless Kate, who wants nothing more than to feel Sheldon's beautiful fucking cock pumping into her wet, slippery cunt...and then there is me. Who is sensible and is horrified at this page in my journal. Hell, for the past couple of pages in my journal. Who cannot believe that she is so much as THINKING this shit, much less writing it down.

I suppose it doesn't really help that I think I love him. Like, I love him like a brother. I have to love him, you know? But what is romantic love? Platonic love + sex, right? Well, I think I've made it obvious that there is a definite element of ~~me wanting to fuck Sheldon's brains out~~ sexual interest, added to the platonic love that I have for him. So...put the two together, and you have Sick, Sick Kate, who is possibly in love with her own brother.

I think I am going to rip these pages out and burn them. If anyone ever reads this, I shall commit Hari-Kari, because I cannot live with the shame.

Oh god.

for jacquie

Tue, 04 Jan 2005 07:18:22 GMT

Chapter 2.5 of the Wonka/MS fic I'm writing.

"Mr. Wonka," Nicole began, with half a nervous smile, "Er...might I have some more? I'm sorry if it's too much to ask, but it was so good, and - "

"More? Of the hot chocolate? Oh, certainly. Certainly, my puppet. There, now, don't look so worried. Smile, do. There we are. You seem to have some misconception that I am an unkind man, and - "

"Oh, no, sir, I - "

Wonka held up a finger and gave Nicole a fixed look down his nose. "Now, don't interrupt."

"Sorry, sir."

"You are forgiven. Now, as I was saying...Er...Oh, goodness, what was I saying? Do you recall? Oh, yes, of course. Hot chocolate. It's quite efficient to make, you know, and I've no objection at all to sharing it. As a matter of fact, it's rather pleasant to have someone to share it with. I've been rather hoping to expose it to someone other than the Oompa Loompas," he smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling in the lamplight.

"Er, glad to be of service," Nicole stated with a shy smile, and meant it. But Wonka's eyes were now focused just above Nicole's left ear, and it was apparent he was thinking. She watched him stare, watched his tongue instinctively dart out to wet his lips as he did so. She watched him shift to the left and to the right, and finally, when she'd decided he'd thought enough, and was about to speak, Wonka seemed to reach a conclusion, and sat up.

"Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?" he inquired.

"Oh. Yes, that would be lovely."

"All right." Wonka began to stand, but then turned and gave a small moue. "But you mustn't poke about, you understand. You follow me, and don't touch anything!"

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of it," Nicole assured him earnestly.

"All right, then. Up you get, young lady. Up! Good. On we go."

***

"Right this way, my duckling," Wonka instructed, turning to face his young guest as the two of them continued down the featureless hallway. He'd brought his cane with, and was twirling it jovially, whistling to himself a bit and taking a step back for every few steps forward, causing their progress to be rather stunted. Nicole had to walk a number of paces behind him just to keep from bumping into him every time he did that, "Don't dawdle, my dear, don't fall behind. Don't touch anything. Don't look about. Don't breathe too loudly. Don't make that face or it'll stay like that."

Nicole giggled quietly at Wonka's seemingly unconscious ranting. She doubted he was even aware of himself doing it.

The hallway abruptly became a labyrinth, catching Nicole completely by surprise. One second, it had appeared to stretch to infinity in front of them, the next it curved off to the left. And the right. And there was a ladder leading upward. First they went left, then right, right, left, forward, left, left, left, left, left...that soon caused Nicole to frown and point out that they were going in circles ("So we are! I suppose we'd better stop!"). Right, forward, left...Nicole soon lost track of which turns they'd taken, and walked a bit closer to her guide.

The walls were changing, now. They were slowly fading to transparency, or so Nicole thought. But after another couple of turns, she realised that they were, in fact, mirrors. A quick appraisal of her physical appearance found her wanting, and in a fit of self-consciousness, she tried to attractively dishevel her hair so it wouldn't look quite so limp. She also wished she wouldn't look quite so round, from the sides, but no amount of fluffing or mussing would make her look thinner, so she didn't even try.

It was also beginning to get colder. Nicole pulled her sweater close around herself and shivered slightly. She paused for a moment, to watch herself in the mirror as she repeated the action. She smiled. She rather thought she looked like a sad, hungry kitten when she did that. Self-esteem slightly raised, she continued on at the heels of Mr. Wonka. Or she did so until she ran headlong into the mirror in front of her. The feet she'd been following so diligently disappeared in a flash of black.

"Oh!" Nicole cried suddenly, "Mr. Wonka! Wait!"

There was no response.

"Mr. Wonka!"

She was alone.

don't read this!

Mon, 13 Dec 2004 19:31:42 GMT

This is the second, and crappity, part of a fic I began on my computer at home. However, since I am, in fact, at Jacq's house at the moment, I must post it here so I do not lose it. Even if it is sucky.

Nicole's face turned slightly pink, like a pig in the sunshine. She'd barely been in Mr. Wonka's room for ten minutes and all ready she'd disobeyed a direct order. Her downcast eyes traversed the black pants, purple silk, and landed on the candyman's pensive face. She bit her lip, waiting for the admonishment that she knew was coming.

"No," Wonka said, finally, "No, I don't suppose a candy that eats itself would sell very well. Wouldn't make too many children happy, to find that the candy they'd just purchased was all ready gone. Still, an amusing thought, nonetheless. Now, Miss Nicole, it appears that I can't really let you out of my sight, but I can't work with you here. So I suppose I shall be forced to simply sit still and suffer sociality."

He took a seat on the bed, and gestured for Nicole to sit down, as well. "You'll have to pardon my lack of social graces, I don't often have anyone - as a matter of fact, I never have any guests, save for the Oompa Loompas."

"Don't you get lonely?"

"No, the Oompas are more than enough company. Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"Oh, um...yes, please," Nicole stammered.

Wonka snapped his fingers, and a moment later, a short man, strangely garbed, appeared. Wonka smiled at him. "Do run to the nearest chocolate and fetch two mugs of hot kitchen, would you please?" He noticed Nicole's giggling, and looked to the elflike man standing beside the bed. "Did I say something wrong?" Before the Oompa could answer, though, Wonka slapped his forehead and let out a hearty laugh. "Strike that, reverse it. Thank you, my good sir, and do be quick, fast, speedy, rapid, and with alacrity about it."

Wonka then turned to Nicole, "Now, you never did tell me quite how you got into my factory. No one, to my knowledge, has ever gotten in, before, yet here you stand, all though, I tell a lie, you are, in fact, sitting, plain as day, on my mattress. How ever did you get past the rabid Hobblerabbits?"

"I...I didn't see any, Mr. Wonka."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? They're invisible. I thought every child knew at least that much. What are they teaching nowadays in those fancy-pants schools of yours?"

"Reading, writing, maths - "

"Fiddle-faddle! Absolute codswallop! Not to mention a great deal of flimflam and tomfoolery, with just a pinch of flapdoodle, as well. Writing! Arithmatic! Tell me, young Nicole, what is your arithmatic and writing going to do for you when you're attacked by a Vermicious knid? Will you write down a description of it's gnashing, slavering, giant teeth? Will you multiply your artillery and divide the beast's wits so that you might subtract from the Knid population? Ridiculous, my dear girl, completely ridiculous what they teach these days. All that logic and not an ounce of sense. Ah! Our hot chocolate. Here you go, do sip it carefully, it's quite hot."

"Er, thank you, Mr. Wonka."

"Oh, do call me - " Wonka began, but stopped short, "Actually, to save time, nevermind. Mr. Wonka will do. Drink up!"

After Nicole had taken a few tiny sips of the steaming beverage in front of her, she became slightly more adventurous and took larger tastes. It was without doubt the absolute best hot chocolate she had ever had the priviledge of injesting. She said as much, and Wonka smiled at her and winked.

"Secret recipe, you know. So terribly secret, in fact, that I myself have forgotten it. Only a few priviledged Oompa Loompas in charge of the Hot Chocolate remember it, now. May God forgive them if they forget it, and the recipe is lost forever. Perhaps I should write it down, sometime. I keep meaning to, but I always forget. My memory can be terribly addled at times. It's the Framble, you know. Sometimes I forget my own head, and that's always awkward. Why, once I -" There was a pause, and Wonka stopped in mid-flourish, his mug-free hand paused haltingly over his head, "Oh, now what was I saying? Oh, yes. What, precisely, caused you to come to my factory, anyway?"

"Well, I - " Nicole began, timidly, "I...er...I...I ran away from home."

"Speak up, dear girl! I can barely hear you!"

"I ran away from home!" Nicole said, much louder.

"Now, why ever would you do that? Home is a lovely place, or at least mine is. Home is where the hat is. Home is where you hang your heart. Why would you leave?"

"Er...My...My father. He...er...he...beat me," she lied, and inwardly winced at the bold-faced lie she'd told about her dear, gentle father.

"Did he, now." It was clear from Wonka's eyes that he knew Nicole was lying. She'd never been very good at it, because she rarely felt the need to do so. Nicole cast her eyes into her half-full mug of chocolate, and she shook her head slowly, willing tears not to form behind her shut eyelids.

"My...My friends dared me to," she admitted quietly.

"I see. And these," Wonka continued, extracting the gloves from her sweater pocket, "Were these part of that dare?"

Why Yes, I Have Been Reading Tom Robbins, Why Do You Ask? [OUaTiM Fanfiction]

Wed, 08 Dec 2004 23:13:32 GMT

Random wordy Kate/Sheldon stuffus. Not sure if I'm going to go anywhere with it. Nonetheless, here it is:

It was a Wednesday in May, 4:15pm and twenty-seven seconds. It was a balmy, non-humid 70 degrees farenheit outside. The windows were open, and the California sun was streaming in through them, littering the carpet with little spots of sun like garbage in Central Park. There were a number of birds outside, playing an avine game of musical chairs on the power lines outside. Children were playing hopscotch to rules they'd made up themselves because, really, how DO you play hopscotch? A car was pulling out of the driveway three houses down, never to return its battered occupant to her abusive husband again.

Absolutely all of this was lost on Sheldon Sands. The only thing that was currently running through his mind was the slick, pounding, thrusting ecstasy of the activity he was undertaking. Kate, the recipient or perhaps the distributor of this immense pleasure, was shunting her hips back and forth with greater alacrity than a professional bellydancer in fast forward, and her moans were getting more urgent with every passing second.

He could feel her tighten around his cock and shudder in orgasm as her motions peaked, and then heard the sultry moan of denoument as she momentarily slowed to more steady, long strokes, lifting herself up, nearly off of him, and then sliding back down like some obscene merry-go-round horse.

Sheldon hadn't come yet, but he was close. His hands blindly slid up his half-sister's waist and landed like gossamer on her enthusiastically jiggling breasts. Each squeeze, fondle, pinch, and palpitation he administered coaxed a moan from Kate's throat, and a few mumbled words tailored precisely to send shivers down his spine and straight to his groin. He could feel himself getting ever closer to the orgasmic edge, ready to throw himself over with reckless abandon and fill his female vessel of ecstasy with every ounce of come he could produce. He squeezed Kate's breasts again, hard, and moved his hands to her hips for the big finale.

The phone rang. Had it been five seconds later, it would have been too late, but as it was, it startled him straight out of his impending orgasm. He groaned in utter frustration, and allowed his raised head to hit the pillow like a ton of bricks. From his sister's throat came the breathy moan of disappointment, followed by a nervous giggle. She leaned over him, brushing her delectably soft breasts over his t-shirt, and kissed him gently. Her breath still tasted like his come, flattering and strangely erotic. She removed Sheldon's aching erection from her honey-dripping metaphorical beehive, causing him to moan. The phone rang again.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's probably Caedmon calling from school. Probably missed his bus. I'm just going to go get that, and I'll be right back." Noting the exaggerated pout on Sheldon's face, she gave his cock a quick tug and licked his ear, "I promise I won't leave before you're satisfied."

"Be careful with your promises, you could be on this couch with me all day, bitch," he retorted with a smirk. Kate was all ready bounding nakedly to the phone, but he could hear her laughter travelling back to him.

He shifted his shoulders into the couch. His t-shirt was sticking to him like a fifteen-year-old girl, thanks to the sweat. He managed to throw himself up off the couch long enough to pull it over his head and drop it on a vase with a single wilted dandilion in it. He sighed, listening to Kate's muffled voice in the other room. His hand traveled almost automatically to the throbbing phallus between his legs. He stroked it, up and down, not enough to get off, just enough to ensure that Kate wouldn't come back to find him anything less than eager. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

"WHAT?" It was Kate, shouting shrilly. Sheldon raised an eyebrow, but the rest of the conversation was, though louder than before, still incoherent. After what seemed like an hour, Sheldon was getting damn sick of fantasizing about what should certainly be -happening-. He gave in, and pressed his foot to the gas, speeding forward to his destination. But just as he passed the sign reading "Orgasm, pop: millions, 10 seconds," he heard the click of the phone, and Kate's padding footsteps against the carpet as she re-entered the room.

"You waited for me?"

"Yeah. All though I was just about to give up on you."

"Yeah, I kind of expected you to have gotten impatient about fifteen minutes ago and just finish yourself off."

"You know I never pass up the opportunity to come in you."

"How sweet," Kate replied, and though her tone was strict, her smile was obvious. He felt her climb onto the couch atop him.

"It won't take long," he announced, feeling her hand on him, "Just a couple of strokes and I - Ohhh...!"

His cock collided with the back of her throat and kept going. Her saliva-lubricated lips pressed an o-shaped kiss onto his dark pubic hair, then raised up again. She kissed his head, licked it, then enveloped it again, sinking herself down to his crotch. He grabbed two large handfuls of hair and began enthusiastically fucking her face, bringing her down to the hilt each time. She hadn't been prepared for the quickness, and gagged, but Sheldon was past caring. His balls flattened themselves against his cock like two unbelted crash dummies in a head-on collision with a brick wall, and he sent the first white-hot spurts of tangy male product directly to Kate's stomach, rush postage, with love. He let her pull away and recover her spastic gag reflex, while the second half of his come spread itself like jet trails across her face; at first white, bold, and narrow, but soon widening, fading to a semi-transparent ghost of itself, clinging desperately to the pale skin it landed on, promising to resist the sweeping brush of washcloth that they were soon to encounter.

Sheldon's fingers laboriously disentangled themselves from the mess of black hair that enclosed Kate's scalp, and he sighed, letting his ass muscles relax, and begging them not to cramp.

"You've been practising."

Kate swallowed, cleared her throat, and gave a small 'mhm'. Her warm hands ran up and down Sheldon's nicely toned thighs (really the only bit of him that got any excersize, anymore), up to his crotch and over it, threatening to milk his tired manhood like the coke addict desperately licking his unrolled twenty-dollar bill. Thankfully, it seemed that Kate was no more ambitious than gently rubbing his tummy.

"I would purr, but I can't."

"Happy, then, are you?"

"Exquisitely."

"Well, then I hate to ruin that for you."

"Please don't say that with your hands so near my groin."

Kate laughed infectiously, and Sheldon found his lips curling into a genuine smile. Dammit, he hadn't told them to do that. She sighed, her hot breath (which probably tasted like dick anew) brushing through his short-and-curlies like wind through a wheat field. Trying to rid his mind of the sudden image of young lovers running toward each other in the waving tendrils of his pubic hair, Sheldon decided to speak.

"What was that phone call all about, anyway? It sounded like the Care Bears called and said they were holding your son for ransom."

"Well...Something about that level of unexpectedness."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Well? Spill it!"

"Mom's getting married."