{crimson and clover}

Trick or Treat?

2009-10-30T19:56:53Z

1- Create a graphic (200 x 200 max size) to represent your personal "candy". It should have your username on it, but otherwise can feature whatever you want. Make it something special since it's self-representative.

2- Make a post with the subject "trick or treat?". Put your "candy" somewhere in it, and be sure to repost these instructions.

3- Then, go around other people's LJs and reply to them with either "trick" or "treat". If you reply with "trick", they will give you an LJ dare that you have to perform before taking their candy. If you're too wimpy for that, simply say "treat" and take their candy.

4- List all your collected candies in your original "trick or treat?" post to show off your collection!

For those with Twitter accounts...

2009-10-10T14:21:55Z

This is a twitition to save the critically praised and loved show, "Southland" This show has been good from the start, and NBC cancels it just 2 weeks before the premiere, if we continue this campaign, we can at least hopefully help @nbcsouthland go to a different network! Please help!!!

http://twitition.com/n3tvb

We're picspamming 'til the wheels fall off...

2009-09-27T01:19:40Z

Come on over and take a peek!

SUDSERS_INC

BBTP FIC: I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me.

2009-09-01T18:04:37Z

Title: I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me
Author: omarandjohnny
Fandom/Pairing: Being Human, George/Mitchell
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,877
Summary: "And then, what?" Takes place the night George and Mitchell first met. Wounds are licked, and bonds are formed. Title taken from The Stone Roses.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing.
Highlight for Warnings: * some violence (nonsexual), blood *
Beta: andreth_47

"And then, what?
I can't keep...I've lost everything.
I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires?
And they want to kill me, so I have to leave...again.
And then, what!"

---

"Can I em, go through...man?" Mitchell halted at the threshold, unsure of what to call the werewolf.

"It's George, and yes, go through."

The first thing Mitchell noticed upon entering the room, was the overwhelming smell of chip oil. It seemed to smother from every direction, he was amazed that the werewolf managed to live with it for six minutes, nevermind six months.

He watched as the young man peeled off his bloodstained shirt and threw it in the dustbin. Before George turned, Mitchell caught a glimpse of the violent pink scars running vertical along his left shoulder. Still adjusting to the slow-forming keloids, George's arm maintained an alien stiffness, and that made something in Mitchell wince; Ssomething buried, but not quite gone. The pain of the attack was written all over the young man's face, masked by the reflex of human pride, but Mitchell was not fooled. The trauma radiated from George like steam rising off of August asphalt.

The werewolf seemed to forget Mitchell was there, busying himself with the linen basket at the far side of the room. Not finding an available chair, he settled on the edge of George's bed. Worn sheets---slightly yellowed with the alkali of night sweats---were pulled hospital crisp against the mattress. Mitchell found the contradiction amusing, and terribly sad. He caught George's eye, and gestured for him to sit as well.

"George, you're making me nervous."

The man half-chuckled, and rested next to him, shakily folding his hands in his lap. "I'm making you nervous? I...I apologize, it's just that with the whole 'vampires are real and they want to see me dead' thing, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts tonight."

Mitchell took the hint, and rose from the bed. "If you're alright then I think I'd better go." He straightened his jacket and took a step, feeling the hand on his back a second before George stood up to place it.

"Don't...I mean. You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that. I need, I ne-ne-need you to talk to me. I need answers!" The last sentence was forced at him, and with it, a minute spray of blood from George's reopened lower lip. Mitchell turned away in an instant, the soured musk of it making his stomach leap.

"George, your mouth. I, em," Mitchell kept his eyes down as he rubbed the transfer from his chin, not wanting to frighten away the small progress of the conversation with a flash of ebony.

George shuffled to the kitchenette, prompting Mitchell to sit once more. He forced himself to calm down, blinking away the black, repeatedly wiping his mouth like an alcoholic. The scent was too different, too much all at once. It was earthen and meaty. It was rotted plantlife and unwashed fur. It was disgusting, and utterly intoxicating. Mitchell knew that upon tasting it, he probably would not be able to stop.

He remained still as George returned, cautiously watching the man pat his face with a damp towel. There was something in George's eyes that wanted, needed to trick Mitchell into thinking the vampire's every uncomfortable thought was being broadcasted outwards. And as thought gave birth to speech, George brazenly leaned in and whispered," I can smell you too."

Mitchell's eyes darkened, and he shot from his seat.

"Don't worry, full moon's five days away. But I guess you know how things work," George continued with an abrupt growl," Did you come up here to kill me? Scare off your mates to have me all to yourself!"

Mitchell knew the talk was just so much chest-thumping, as he could still taste the fear in the air. " No, George. I don't want to kill you, I don't see the sense of it." He watched George dial back his anger, almost hearing the bluster in his mind fade again to the television static of dull pain. He kneeled at George's feet, resting a palm on the man's knee. "I wish I had the answers for you, you seem like a guy who deserves them. But I can't give you the hows and the whys. This is all there is. The real world wants nothing of us, save mutual ignorance, so here we stay...in the alleys."

George let out a weak moan, and sank down to the floor. "Please don't...I just can't..."

Without thinking, Mitchell pulled off his gloves and turned to face him. George gave a muted shudder as Mitchell's chilled fingers found their destination, wrapping around George's feverish ears. He could sense the man's unease, and attempted to quell it with a light kiss. Avoid the cuts, avoid the cuts. In an instant, cool became cold, and resting back on his heels, he could see the anger return in George's eyes.

"I'm s-orry," Mitchell stammered as he recoiled, rising in tandem with the young man.

"You're sorry?" George spat, "Sorry?! I've just had my world crash down on me for the second time in a year, and you're sorry over a bloody kiss!"

It occurred so quickly, Mitchell saw it happen in slow motion. George's fists careening out and up, the sharp grate of knuckles against his breastbone, the feeling of weightlessness as he crashed to the floor. His natural instinct told him to leap back up, swat the boy like a fly and open his throat like a penny fountain. He could sense the fight had not left George, and he knew the werewolf needed this, so Mitchell stayed limp as he was being pummeled. A bare foot found purchase in his ribcage, a fist cracked against his collarbone, an elbow stabbed his thigh. It didn't take long for the already weakened George to tire, and as the hits wound down, Mitchell unfastened his eyes long enough to see the werewolf collapse against the bed, a flood of tears streaking the mess of his face.

As the sobbing died down George asked,"There's nothing left of the world for people like us, that's all you tell me?" Crawling to Mitchell, he continued,"And then you try to kiss me?"

Mitchell could hear the click in his head, realizing his insensitivity. There's still a schoolboy in there somewhere, shit. He wrapped his arms around George, and said softly,"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that there's nothing left of the past for us, but that doesn't mean we're done here and now." He placed his hand against George's neck, and tentatively kissed his cheek."We don't have to live in the alleys like rats. I'm so tired of living in the dark, George...aren't you tired of it too?" The werewolf nodded against Mitchell before he went on," If we...I dunno...tried to stay out of the alley together, maybe things wouldn't look so grim, yeah?"

George looked at him, the reflection of his black eyes mirrored in the more natural blue. "I can't remember what they called you," he stated calmly before nestling against Mitchell's neck. The vampire gasped at the sudden heat of fingers under the back of his shirt, a careful hand surveying the nubs of his spine.

"M-Mitchell," was all he could get out as George continued his exploration, seemingly awed by the refrigerated temperature of his flesh. He quickly pulled off his jacket and shirt, letting the werewolf have full access.

"You're so cold, how do you, I mean?" George stuttered, tracing a thumb over Mitchell's right nipple. "So cold, my god," he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Mitchell. Cautious at first, Mitchell didn't press into the kiss, fearing the delicate, wounded skin would break open again. He felt George's breath quicken, and lightly darted his tongue. Suddenly he felt strong arms pulling him closer still, and without warning, George crushed his mouth against Mitchell's.

The taste was immediate. Dead animals, stale tea, rotten wood, it coated his chin and trickled down his throat. He felt the fangs, but could not stop. He heard a whimper as he bit into George's lip, but could not stop. It was horrible and wonderful, it was the taste of George battling with the monster that grew inside him; fury and regret and all those terrible thoughts that the creature secreted away from the parts that were still George. He swallowed hard, and with a heavy gasp, he pulled himself off. George's eyes stared wide, spun with parallels of pain and arousal.

"George, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," he muttered, unconsciously licking at his fangs.

George shook his head, and resumed the embrace. "You didn't hurt me, Mitchell, I'm okay," he replied, cementing the assurance by licking a bloodied stripe against Mitchell's face.

Mitchell could sense that a wall had come down between them, sometime between the first failed kiss and first successful bite. A new air of playfulness, eagerness, rose from George. Like a puppy, he mused, watching the man trip over his clothes as he tore them off. George gave him a crooked smile, gesturing for Mitchell to take off his trousers as well, a command that didn't have to be repeated.

Both standing naked, George nuzzled into Mitchell's neck, his solid weight pulling them both onto the bed with ease. The perfumed hunger of the vampire appeared to commingle with the animal scent rising from the werewolf's body underneath him. Mitchell could tell by the strained look on George's face, that he could smell it too, and with much keener senses. George grabbed at Mitchell's ass with both hands, seeming to want every square inch covered with his touch. Mitchell moaned into the short rough of George's nape, absently clawing at bare shanks as they struggled to find a common beat.

He couldn't resist George's mouth any longer, and turning his head, he dove into the seeping wreck of George's lips. Mitchell's tongue opened a cut as they kissed, and fangs soon reappeared, garnering a positive response from George in the form of a hot hand wrapping itself around Mitchell's dick. A low growl emanated from George's chest as Mitchell sucked and bit, and it wasn't long before he moved to the valley of the man's neck. He took in a wasted breath, and paused.

"It's okay," George said for the second time that night, and accompanying the permission, George tightened his grip.

Mitchell gasped, and sank his gratitude deep into George's shoulder. He drank with a whisper of warning, concentrating on the stop and start of George's hand against his cock. He knew that if the grip faltered, he was taking in too much. The intersection of smells and tastes, ancient death wrapped in the youthful sting of ammonia, drove Mitchell to a higher plane. It was nothing and everything he'd ever desired. Feeling a quick shudder beneath him, he unclamped from George's crook, and looking carefully into his eyes he asked, "George, are you alright?"

"Fi-fine," George uttered, and weakly bucked his hips upward.

Mitchell feared the worst, and as if hearing him again, George washed away the thought with a kick of his legs. Color bloomed back quickly in the werewolf's face, and Mitchell could feel the need grinding between them, hard and desperate. George forcefully grabbed Mitchell's ass again, trying in vain to fold them into one being. Mitchell bit at his chest, leaving tiny marks that made a shaky trail across the span of George's nipples.

The growling continued, not quite animal yet, but not man either, and it sent Mitchell to the edge. He held himself up with one arm, and spat into his hand, George's frothy blood the only thing filling his palm. He stared at George, who answered the question by adding his saliva to the mix. Mitchell flashed a toothy grin, and proceeded to rub the pinked slick along George's shaft, using the remainder to keep his own fingers lubricated. Resting his forehead in the moist gore of George's shoulder, Mitchell pushed his finger slowly inside. After so many years, it was still a bit of a shock to feel his own insides. Always cool and shallow, but during the height of pleasure, it retained a natural heaviness, the body's old memories of firm desire. He snaked a second finger in, gasping into George's chest as he wriggled and slid, making room for his new companion.

George made a solitary ticking sound, signaling Mitchell to look up, and as he did, George kissed him again. The meat of George's tongue scraped against Mitchell's fangs more than once, but neither seemed to care. The kiss was full, and warm, and invulnerable to everything outside of the space they shared. Mitchell withdrew his fingers, and with lightning precision, replaced them with George's cock. The werewolf growled from somewhere very far away, and sat up, slamming into Mitchell as he positioned their bodies. Mitchell cried out, and returned the action, swiftly pistoning his body up and down, finally catching the rhythm as he half-folded his legs against George's back. Mitchell lapped at George's mouth, neck, ears, and with every lick, George matched with a harder upward thrust. The sounds were no longer discernible as human, and Mitchell took a moment to look into George's eyes, just in case, but they were fully dilated with sky blue rings; he let a relieved moan slip out, and gripped George tighter. The feeling was incomprehensible, the fire of George sinking repeatedly into him, molding the horrors of the night and transforming them into something beautiful. Safe.

Mitchell wavered in and out as the rush of George's heat took his body over section by section, and before he could register it, George had flipped them over, Mitchell's back now flush against the mattress. George took Mitchell's legs with his hands, and began jackhammering like a teenager, all sense of modesty thrown aside in favor of sheer, repetitive force. The look on George's face as he grunted and growled made Mitchell smile, but he stifled the laughter that bubbled.

The relentlessness of George's motions began to work their magic, and Mitchell brought a hand up, tightly grasping his own dick and pumped in time with George. Looking down to see what Mitchell was doing, the werewolf shook the mattress, appearing to lose control over every muscle he had, and let out an almost comical howl as he came, furiously propelling it so deep Mitchell could swear he felt his ribs light up. Grabbing George close, he stole one more taste of the semi-clotted shoulder wound, and let out a low scream as he finally succombed.

Collapsing into Mitchell's arms, George tiredly whispered," It really is okay, isn't it?"

The vampire kissed his bloodstreaked face and replied, "Yeah, George, it is."

---

The first thing Mitchell noticed upon waking up were the curtains, shut tight and fastened, cellotaped, against the windows. Small cracks of light gave the room a funny amber glow, and as he slowly sat up, Mitchell noticed he was alone in bed.

"George? George," he called, the sound of his voice echoing along the far wall. He then heard the rapid scurrying of someone running up the staircase. George bounded in seconds after, shutting the door fast.

"Is it enough? I mean, the sun, I mean, you're not gonna?" George pointed to the slivers of light and continued rambling,"Oh my god, I didn't use enough, don't get up, I mean, your arm! Your arm is in the light?! You're gonna, you're gonna!" He then made a dramatic whooshing sound, threw the bedsheet over Mitchell's arm, and began digging through the hamper for more coverage.

"I'm fine, George, calm down," Mitchell laughed, scooting off the mattress. He lifted his arm into the light for a few moments, and then dropped it again. "See, no combustion, alright? Just makes me a bit sick if I'm out too long."

George heaved a sigh of relief, and hugged him, muffling the remaining giggles left in Mitchell's system. He returned the embrace fully, and looked down to see a glint of jewelry catch the sunlight.

"That's nice, George, what is it?" George caught his gaze, smiled, and pulled the Star of David necklace from under his shirt.

Mitchell panicked only momentarily, the twinge passing as fast as it arose. "Hmm," was all he could say, before returning to the warmth of the hug. Mitchell then rested his head on George's left shoulder, knowing the right would still be quite sore. "You need to eat, George, if you haven't already," he mumbled against the soft flannel of George's shirt.

The werewolf released the embrace with a smile. "Taken care of. I woke up this morning craving half a dozen eggs. Four days, and all."

Mitchell nodded, pulling his clothes on as he moved around. "Where do you go, on the night of?"

"Well, I used to go to this abandoned factory nearby, old industrial-sized cold storage in the basement. Guess that's out of the question now."

Mitchell looked at the werewolf with a tinge of sorrow and replied,"Yes, George, I'm.."

George cut him off, squeezing his gloved hand. "Time to move on. Right, Mitchell?"

Mitchell grinned, spotting the packed bag at the door as they put on their coats. "Yeah, time to move on."

---

end.

BBTP FIC: Gee, Officer Krupke.

2009-09-01T14:46:04Z

Title: Gee, Officer Krupke
Author: omarandjohnny
Fandom/Pairing: As the World Turns, One Life to Live crossover pairing Oliver Fish/Luke Snyder
Rating: R
Word Count: 432
Summary: AU, Officer Fish has to deal with a rather unruly drunk. Dedicated to dee_groovy, for spoiling me rotten with all of those lovely Nuke stories of hers ;)
Disclaimer: I claim nothing.
Highlight for Warnings: * none *
Beta: dee_groovy

"Sir, I need you to get off the road!"

Oliver knew by the ridiculous swaying, that the kid was drunk. Very much so. Though, one would have to be drunk to attempt a box step on the lip of Llanview's only off-ramp...on a Friday night.

"Sir, off the road NOW!" To drive the point home, Fish sounded a few seconds of the car's emergency siren. The blond boy jumped at the first wooooo-oooot, and quickly scurried up to the shoulder to meet the squad car.

"Gurd evenin', Offfffficer. Whadcan I do to, heh, for you?"

Fish surveyed the kid, guessing he was no more than 18-19, and snapped his fingers in the boy's eyeline, "What's your name, Sir?"

The kid giggled," I'm likin' thissss Sir thing, how 'bout we stick with that?"

"Name. Now."

The boy grinned, replying low,"Luke Snyder."

Oliver nodded, placing a tentative hand on the boy's shoulder. "Luke, how much have you had to drink tonight?"

"A gallon of apple juice, laced with sunshine and unicorns." Luke chortled, throwing off Fish's hand before continuing,"Am I free to go, Officer Krupke?"

"Officer Fish, actually," Oliver corrected,"And no, you're intoxicated, and I presume underage. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

"Officer Fissssssssssh? SERIOUSLY?!" Luke howled, leaning back to rest on the hood of the squad car. "Heeeere, Fishy, Fishy!" He sidled up to Oliver, closing the distance between them, and boldly grabbed the Officer's crotch.

"What are you doing!" Before Fish could pry the young man's hand away, Luke deftly unzipped Oliver's fly, exposing his rather telltale erection.

"And what have we got here, Fissssssshy?" Luke dropped to his knees, wobbling slightly before grabbing Oliver's shaft, swallowing him whole with startling precision.

Oliver's knees screamed to the buckling point as the young man sucked away, the vacuum of his mouth seeming to grab hold of more than his outsides. "I...Sir...Luke..." He could feel Snyder smiling at the Sir, and it sent a jolt to his middle. Just as Fish could feel the end approaching, he suddenly heard singing in the background...

WE'RE NO GOOD, WE'RE NO GOOD!
WE'RE NO EARTHLY GOOD!
LIKE THE BEST OF US IS NO DAMN GOOD!

Oliver audibly gasped, realizing he'd fallen asleep in the squad car. Again. Saved by the ringtone.

"Yes, Sir, I'm still at the stakeout. Nothing to report," he answered, hearing McBain give a noncommital hum before hanging up. Oliver rubbed the doze from his eyes, and then paused, looking down at his tented uniform pants.

Fish sighed, and went back to work.

---

End.

New MBL fic, yay!

2009-08-04T22:38:01Z

Title: When You Was a Suedehead
Author: omarandjohnny
Fandom/Pairing: My Beautiful Laundrette, Omar/Johnny
Rating: PG-13, for language
Summary: 1988. Powders is still going strong, are is the other laundrettes that Omar now manages. A lazy day in bed, and a song bring back memories.
Notes: Started as a drabble for movie_100's latest prompt- history, quickly mutated into something else entirely. Loosely inspired by Mozza's little ditty, which in itself is a hat tip to R. Allen's book, Suedehead. Much love to leda_speaks, who reminded me that I need to give my namesakes some much needed attention!
Shorter!Notes: Another one of my frickin' song fics.
Beta: darkpowerone ♥
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I claim nothing.

"He is such a tosser, turn that down!"

Omar chortled roughly at the demand, sex and sleep still clogging the gears in his throat. Rolling free, he passed a thumb over one of Johnny's alley-cat hipbones, and attempted to reach the radio. Letting out a slight groan of defeat, he snaked back under Johnny's arm.

"Sorry, the tosser's staying," Omar half-whispered, quickly lowering his tone after noticing his friend had resumed dozing.

Through blurry eyes, Omar watched the rise and fall of Johnny's chest; the flatness and the paleness of it making total sense to him. Johnny was a language of jagged elbows and dirty fingernails, soiled shirts and torn trousers. And odd hair. He was certainly a language, several rapidfire dialects, of odd hair. Omar gently ran his fingers through Johnny's current ebony scruff--the blonde long since grown out and chopped off--and smiled his way back down into sleep.

--

Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me?
When you know, oh
Why do you come?

--

"You look ridiculous," he heard Omar bellow from the flat above, following a shard of nervous laughter that rang against the train tracks. Johnny gestured back with a non-threatening sneer, and ascended the front staircase.

Clearing off one of the chairs, Johnny sat down and waited for the inevitable. He silently ticked away the seconds with his fingers, and as predictable as morning storms, Mr. Ali began to shout.

"Contract fleas, did you? Lice? Only justifiable excuses for a haircut like that, you foolish boy!" Papa slammed an ashtray against the dresser, scattering its contents like noxious confetti over the book he had put down moments before.

"Thassit, Mr. Ali, fleas," Johnny replied, smirking as he took the not-quite-hot cup of tea from Omar. He choked on the first swig, a soapy ghost of the cup's last wash making his guts lurch momentarily. Omar giggled, poking Johnny's leg as a cue to keep quiet.

"I don't know what your parents have to say, but I think it's appalling. What next, a swastika on your face, a pin in your ear?!" Papa wrung his hands, as if to physically rid himself of the country's unrest that he could feel boiling to the surface.

"Omar, you have studies, and it looks as though your little friend needs another delousing," Papa barked, abruptly shoving a book in his son's direction," So time to go, Johnny, come back when you're not so fashionable."

Omar frowned, and looked over at his freshly shorn mate, who returned a cheshire grin. Knowing the consequences, Omar nodded and they shot from their seats in unison, quickly tromping down and out of the building.

"Tell Mum I'll be home late," Omar shouted up as they rushed off. Papa sighed loudly, and went back to his reading.

--

The washer had been running the same load for two hours.

Johnny failed to notice this, preoccupied by the group of young boys that were convening in front of the laundrette. Four scowling, spotty boys with shorn heads and red braces. No political badges, that's good, he thought unconvincingly. Johnny didn't think much of it for the first few days, but after a week had passed, Omar commented on their presence, prompting a strange blossom of guilt to bloom in his middle.

"I don't want any trouble, Johnny, okay? You know they won't listen to me, though."

He worried about the possibility of trouble as well, he didn't want to end up scrubbing blood and sick from the concrete, especially not on a such a warm Sunday evening.

Swinging the door open, Johnny leaned out and calmly ordered," Move along, lads, that's it now." One of the boys, presumably the leader, looked up and smiled.

"Sorry, Mistaaah," he crooned at Johnny, and started to shove his friends down the street.

Johnny caught himself, for only a second, feeling disappointed about the lack of a row. Turning back inside, he stopped the washer, pulled his cap on, and began the routine of closing up shop.

--

"You knew Papa would be like that, man." Omar plied Johnny's neck with semi-playful bites, purposely avoiding the newly rough area above the nape.

"Didn't mean nothing by it," Johnny mumbled,"Just a haircut, innit?"

Omar winced, pausing the onslaught. "You and I both know it's more than just a haircut. You're not that thick, Johnny Berthoty."

Johnny rose, moving to the other side of the abandoned bedsit. Omar followed swiftly, tugging Johnny to the floorboards.

"I also know you don't really mean it," Omar whispered, and wrapped his arms around his friend's bare shoulders. Johnny smiled weakly, and closed the distance with a kiss.

--

The smell of the soggy takeaway cartons drifted across the room, permeating the already heavy air of the flat. Omar groaned at his mindless gluttony, stripping down to his pants before landing on the sofa. Johnny laughed at the slight paunch of Omar's stomach, and scooted closer to embrace him.

"Eyes bigger than your belly," Johnny teased as he ran a hand over Omar's naked front, pausing to swirl an invisible tuft of chest hair. Omar agreed silently, and bent his head to rest in the cradle of Johnny's shoulder, both of them damp with Summer sweat.

"Got rid of those kids today," Johnny spoke, his hand continuing it's downward path, finally settling at the waistband.

"No bother I hope," Omar replied, looking up.

"Nah, no bother. God knows I've had enough of that," Johnny answered, kissing the tip of Omar's nose. Omar grinned warmly, and returned to his place in the home of Johnny's sharp ledge.

As they lazily escalated the embrace, Omar found himself half-listening to the noise of a radio being played nearby. Laughing into Johnny's exploring mouth, he sang along in his head:

Oh, it was a good lay, good lay
It was a good lay, good lay
It was a good lay, good lay
Oh

---

End.

Supernatural fic.

2009-04-15T01:37:41Z

Title: I Got Soul, But I'm Not a Soldier
Author: omarandjohnny
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (relationship already established)
Summary: Takes place after "The Monster At the End of This Book." Dedicated to Karen ♥
Warning: I do not own these characters, in any shape or form. I claim nothing.
Beta: The Omnipotent andreth_47!

"She's not gonna survive the apocalypse, I'll make sure of that."

Sam's words brought a chill to his skin, replaying over and over as they pulled into the parking lot of the faceless motel. Dean could hardly bring himself to look at his brother, for fear of catching a glimpse of dark arrogance in those eyes that were once so clear. Dean acknowledged with a nod before stepping out of the car, and he quickly found himself wanting to get as far from Sam as possible.

"You hungry?" Sam asked as he brought his bags in, the smell of old carpet and older cigarettes hitting Dean as they passed the threshold.

"Nah, man. You go on, I'm kinda beat."

Sam shrugged, jingling the keys as the door shut behind him.

Dean sprawled onto one of the beds, trying in vain to shake off the night; the things his brother had said, and failed to say. There had been too many sharp edges laced along Sam's words, too many shards on which to snag his already bruised sense of purpose.

Not able to doze off, he ambled to the bathroom.

Without a second thought, he sat on the toilet's lid, and began to pray for the second time in as many days.

----

"I heard your call."

Dean rose from the closed commode with a start, his right hand just short of breaking the glass as it defensively shot out towards the windowpane. "I wish you'd learn to knock or something," he grumbled to Castiel.

Dean watched as the angel rubbed a temple slightly, before uncharacteristically resting against the door. Castiel gestured for Dean to sit down once more." I know your brother weighs heavily on your mind. His involvement with Lilith," he began.

Dean shifted on the seat, but didn't have the energy to stop the imminent lecture.

"Time is running out, Dean. But I don't need to tell you that." The angel knelt down to meet the hunter's eyes, gently resting a hand on Dean's knee. "We need you to persevere. You are the heart, the mind, the weapon." Moving his fingers to rest along Dean's thigh, Castiel inched closer, his other arm poised to embrace.

"Cas," Dean whispered, leaning into the touch.

The angel then wrapped his arm around the weary hunter, closing the gap before pressing his lips to Dean's forehead. "We need you to stay the course."

A year ago, Dean would fought this, would have swung out wildly at any such coddling. But things were different now, he was different now. Those lost decades in unmentionable places, past horrors which still threatened to collapse his hold on the waking life of now. Unknowingly, Dean had handed the tethers to Castiel, praying silently that this angel would keep his tired feet strapped to sure ground.

"I'm doing what I can, Cas. But it ain't enough anymore," he whispered gruffly against the angel's cheek. Castiel shook away the statement, cradling Dean's face with cool hands.

"Stay the course, please." A hint of true pleading slipped through Castiel's voice, before losing himself to the kiss. Keeping his hands against Dean's face, he sank deeper into the exchange, letting the kiss grow with languid swipes of his tongue, enjoying the warmth of the hunter's mouth. He did not want this to be hurried or tense, he wanted Dean to unwind against him. He needed Dean to forget all else, and just be, if only for a moment.

Their moments together were always like this, mentions of revelations unfurling from worried mouths, sighs of defeat muffled by heated flesh. Castiel let himself wonder---if it could be described in such a human fashion---what would happen if the plan didn't succeed? If the whole of humanity was not torn like so much red crepe paper? If Dean stayed the path, and won?

Questions he didn't want answered.

Not tonight.

Pressing his mouth into Dean's neck, he uttered a whisper-silent please, and disappeared. Dean jumped at the rush of air, and opened his eyes in time to see Sam open the door.

----

End.

CALLING ALL POTTERHEADS!

2008-12-02T23:47:54Z

littleblackbow has several HP art auctions ending in a few hours, if you're looking for something shiny to snap up for the holidays, head on over!!!

Being Human Fic.

2008-11-08T07:46:46Z

I wrote something, yaaaay! I couldn't have done it without my bevy of literary beauties, lilithilien, shellydkitty, and aldiara, poking me with sticks and jump-starting my brainpan :)

Title: Flat Scenes
Author: omarandjohnny, with amazing contributions from lilithilien ♥
Fandom: Being Human
Pairing: George/Mitchell, with a smattering of gen!Annie.
Rating: a very light R, perhaps?
Summary: A few flashes of what goes on in an average, supernatural household. Different POVS/different angles. Could be seen as a few ficlets with a main thread, I reckon.
Disclaimer: The vampire, the wolfie, and the ghostess-with-the-mostest do not belong to me.
Beta: lilithilien

George doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.

---

Annie cleans the house, keeps the sink clutter-free, washes, dries, and folds their clothes. Meals are prepared, dishes stacked. The house runs like a well-oiled machine. Not even a crumb on the coffeetable.

He hears her at night, knocking about the flat. She's always finding something that needs seeing to, little tinkering noises here and there as the hours drone on. George asks nicely for her to relent. He pleads for silence. He promises to give her a day off. He even shouts the place down in varying states of hellish, exasperated rage.

Annie says that she finds his tantrums adorable. This makes George shout even louder.

---

Mitchell watches them from a distance, entertained--if not mildly annoyed--by their domestic dramatics. He stays in his darkened corner, the spider observing the flies wrestling for freedom from the web.

Mitchell knows that when the anger dies down, Annie will go up to her room, and put on her music. He also knows that George will still be wound up, and will come stomping across the hall as if following some sort of argument to-do list. Clockwork precision. George will then open Mitchell's door, and collapse on the bed. Mitchell will follow him inside, and settle quietly alongside his friend. George's knuckles will be white from the wringing, and his face will be crimson, like a freshly reprimanded child. He will look to Mitchell for comfort. Mitchell will acquiesce.

---

Hands run over tense shoulders, and with cool fingers, stress is kneaded away. Arms wrap tight around a fevered torso, giving a much-needed, sympathetic hug. A damp shirt peels away, letting flushed skin calm and smooth as night air breezes through the open window. Wet, chilled kisses explore a throbbing jugular. The pulse beneath steadies itself, then speeds forth again with a different energy, passion, not anger, its fuel.

An embrace becomes tighter still, extreme heat and extreme cold merge and multiply across two canvases. More clothes subtract from the equation, leaving two naked figures hurriedly grappling to become one solid sum as they stretch out on the bed.
---

A low purr begins, rolling like velvet across his hot stomach. George then, and only then, opens is eyes to look down at Mitchell. Reality can no longer be delayed, as ruby eyes glisten up at him, as fangs catch a shard of light from the bedside table.

Those teeth have, and will always, excite George. They make Mitchell seem more familiar, and as much as he hates his own animal self, those fangs make him feel less alone.

Elongated canines nibble closer and closer towards spent tender parts, making him giddy and frightened in the same turn. George watches Mitchell lick his bottom lip, and then he feels the razored pinch. Mitchell bites down on George's thigh, a strangely gentle nip that--thankfully--will not result in major blood loss.

A patch of broken skin, a trickle of blood, and it's over.

Mitchell grins, post-coital and toothy, lapping up the translucent mess they made along George's trail. George returns this kindness with a cartoonish shiver, an on-going tease at the expense of Mitchell's wonderfully icy tongue.

---

George knows he can hang on a bit longer.

End.

Build Your Own Edward II: Parte the Sixthe...

2008-09-27T19:28:36Z

Jewel Purse & Itty Bitty Patents of Nobility!

In process.

Semi-finished (I ended up substituting the flowers in the middle for a letter E)

All sewn up and ready to carry shiny things!

Bite-sized patents of nobility.

Edwardus
dei gracia Rex
Anglie Dominus
Hibernie et
Dux Aquitannie

(this is basically just his title, thanks to Alianore for the Latin)

Build Your Own Edward II: Parte the Fifthe...

2008-09-25T19:47:49Z

Sword & Crown!

Sword and sheath (sheath has a built-in beltloop/froggy thing, yay!)

Shiny. Not huge, but not tiny. JUST RIGHT. ::ev0l grin::

Nay, then, lay violent hands upon your King!
Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edward's throne;
Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my crown.
Was ever king thus overruled as I?

Also, I was thinking of embroidering a jewel purse for Ed, something a bit more adventurous than the favour.

I've got an old rough black shirt that's dying to be cut up, so I'll use that as the fabric, and the design will be burgundy, dark gold, and light gold. We'll see how it turns out!

Build Your Own Edward II: Parte the Fourthe...

2008-09-21T18:32:46Z

In process. Picking the pattern out of the embroidery took me
about as long as the actual sewing did!

Finished pattern. I decided to nix the crown, as it did look a little
too 'King of Kings.'

Completed Favour. Sewn up and beltloop added.

Build Your Own Edward II: Partie Deux.

2008-09-05T12:28:31Z

Crushed red velvet cloak, gold-red-black medieval trim, gold bead 'fastener' chain

black and white Maribou lower trim (what a bitch that was to sew through, I am NEVER working with maribou again! lol)

In other news, my lion better get here today!

Build Your Own Edward II: Parte the Firste...

2008-09-03T12:53:52Z

The outer gown, black with gold paisley. Red piping, black, red, gold medieval patterned trim.

still waiting on my third lion to arrive...

In related news (if you tilt your head, that is), I was watching this fun romantical comedy Monday night, Oh Happy Day, and about jumped outta my chair when I saw that Stephen Billington was playing the other lead. I'd seen him previously in Dracula II: The Ascension, but he was bleach-blonde and fanged out so it never clicked that I'd seen him in anything earlier. Well, I figured it out, he was Phillip!!!

Poor, sweet, FICTIONAL Phillip ♥

I know I've ranted about it before, but I think it bears re-repeating: Braveheart does not accurately depict Edward II's life, marriage, personal appearance, general demeanor, and choice of boyfriends AT ALL. This article has a lot of the overall boo-boos, but of course, I had to LOL at this:

Meanwhile, the king's daughter-in-law Isabella of France is finding stories of Wallace a lot sexier than her gay husband, who prances around the palace in a baby blue crushed velvet tunic while a pageboy carries a mirror in front of him (Gibson denies that his film is homophobic). Bizarrely, the king sends her to negotiate with Wallace. So irresistible are the Scotsman's hairy charms that she allows him to impregnate her. This scene is set in 1304 or 5, when the real Isabella would have been nine years old. Accuracy on that point might have been a bit tasteless, but accuracy on the point that she was still living in France and didn't marry the Prince of Wales until three years after Wallace's death would have been fine.

Oh, Sugartits.

I've always thought that Phillip was supposed to be a fictional version of Piers Gaveston, as they had already become companions circa 1304-5 (Edward I brought them together, suck on that Mel)

So, not sure why they felt the need to not only falsify his entry into the household, but give him a different name. ::grumbles::

And now, back to sewing!

As promised...

2008-07-05T03:19:53Z

NSFW (for a veryveryvery slight peekaboob shot)

Hand overview

wrist- 'laundrette', for my favorite movie, My Beautiful Laundrette

fist- 'he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.' It's the tongue-twister Bill Denbrough's mother taught him to soothe his stutter (Stephen King's IT).

(only color photo in series, as I really do look best in black & white)
thumb- black and blue stripes for gay punk icon, Darby Crash. Most Germs fans shunned his more flamboyant 'Adam Ant' stage towards the end of his life. I decided to honor his bravery with the signature warpaint stripes, in his two favorite colors.

hand- 'hey jude,' a song I've loved since I was little. I grew up with The Beatles, they are as much a part of me as my skin is.

fore and middle finger- 'madness of kisses', a reference to one of Oscar Wilde's loveletters to Lord Alfred Douglas. My Own Boy, Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those rose-leaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses...

middle finger (inner)- 'steel', a hard word in a soft place ;)

wrist- 'brokeback', in honor of the most amazing period of my life-to-date.

wrist- bullseye with star, inspired by Johnny Knoxville's Rolling Stone cover, the star for his own Tennessee star wrist tattoo.

forearm- 'goodnight lovers', title of a very beautiful song by Depeche Mode

forearm- 'shan't be parted no more', part of a declaration made by Alec Scudder to Maurice in E.M. Forster's novel, Maurice-And now we shan't be parted no more, and that's finished.'

forearm- 'my sweet favourite', from Edward II by Christopher Marlowe- Now 'tis time
To be avenged on you for all your braves,
And for the murder of my dearest friend,
To whom right well you knew our soul was knit,
Good Piers of Gaveston, my sweet favourite.

forearm- '97bee412/98kay514', the prison numbers for Tobias Beecher and Chris Keller on OZ (B and K are represented phonetically)

forearm- 'omarandjohnny', for the main characters in My Beautiful Laundrette. I cling to them because I think they are a both parts of myself in a way.

forearm- 'embracing my life between your thighs', a line from a Germs song. It's one of more honest of Darby's songs, it describes his frustration over his relationship with Donnie Rose, a teenage hustler.

forearm- horseshoe with keys and heart-shaped lock, in reference to the quote from Brokeback Mountain, They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together.... Inside of the horseshoe reads, 'cause I know you by heart' from the Eva Cassidy song of the same name. Underneath the horseshoe reads, 'Little Darlin', in reference to another BBM quote, Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, little darlin.

forearm- 'like faint electricity', another BBM quote

forearm- 'bogarde' and 'forwood', for Sir Dirk Bogarde and his partner of over 50+ years, Anthony Forwood. I have an immense amount of respect for them both ♥

outer forearm- 'boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times, thou never shouldst love woman like to me', a quote from my favorite Shakespeare play, Twelfth Night. The continuous genderfucking throughout the piece is what I adore most about it, that and it's damn funny too.

outer forearm- 'Lexicon Devil', another Germs song, and was used as the title for the incredible book about Darby Crash.

tummy- 'rebel' kanji, for James Dean. Also, PEEKABOOB!

right breast- large 'dragon' kanji, everyone needs a pet dragon to protect them, and he's mine. He's fierce, but he also loves a good cuddle now and again. ::cheeky grin::

shoulders- nautical stars, a nod to my love of the rockabilly.

collarbone- 'only the gentle are ever really strong' a quote by James Dean, my fellow queer hoosier. I know it's odd, but I've considered him my guardian angel since I was a teenager :D

right arm- the only kanji I've gotten from wallflash, it was an impulse buy (I wanted the pain more than ink that day), and I later found out that it's incomplete (it's supposed to mean 'rage'). A Britney Spears moment that I have to live with, as I don't believe in tattoo removal. It's my mistake, I wear it with great humility.

right arm- tribal armband, for decorative purposes.

right arm- tribal piece, heavily scarred thanks to a novice artist. Again, the journey is half the point, so to have it fixed would be like wiping away my footprints. I own my experiences, good or bad.

right arm- celtic knot, my first actual tattoo, inspired by Jason Flemyng's celtic armband.

back (right side)- Angelus's gryphon, from BTVS and Angel. My most intricate piece-to-date.

back (right side)- the kanji for vampire, comprised of 'blood', 'suck', and 'ghost.'

right knee, homemade tattoo, done at age 15, inverted triangle.

Further proof that Verbotene Liebe> everything else.

2008-06-08T05:09:11Z

INSANEJOURNAL LOVE-IN WEEKEND!!!1!!11!

2008-04-19T13:07:45Z

Now that I've got your attention...

This weekend is all about the IJ love. Because that's why we're here, right? Insanejournal is a place for love, sex, creativity, honesty, and all-out hilarity.

And let's face it, Tweak makes us happy in the pants.

So, to get the weekend rolling, lilithilien posted a spectacular spam here, full of lots of lovely ladies!

Now to rachie's contribution: (not exactly dial-up friendly, but it's worth a crash or two, LOL)

Kett Turton, goth/punk/rawk kitten.

Stanislas Merhar, androgynous French actor. I first saw him about 8-9 years ago in Dry Cleaning, and was pleasantly surprised to see him pop up semi-recently in Merci Docteur Rey.

Justin Theroux, who always brings the awesome to any movie or music video he's in.

Jamie Campbell Bower, the prettiest part of Sweeney Todd by far. Such a dreamy little doll, can't wait to see him in RocknRolla

And one more of Jamie, I just had to.

Jeremy Renner, I've had it hardcore for this wee fella since Dahmer. Nothing is more entertaining than watching him dance badly to Tallahassee Lassie XD

And because we can't forget the lady-shaped guests at this party:

JD Samson, gods how I lust after that woman.

Daniela Sea, another slice of hotness.

Kate Moennig, are we seeing a theme here?

Alexandra Billings, I saw her in Socket last weekend. Foxy transgendered lesbians FTW.

And finally, my soap opera sweetie pies!

Bernat Quintana, my Catalonian pretty kitty from El Cor de la Ciutat ♥

Jo Weil, my German dreamboat from Verbotene Liebe.

Jake Hendriks and James Sutton from Hollyoaks. Oh, if only Catholic priests really looked like Jake...

And we end with a kiss, courtesy of Igor Dolgatschew and Dennis Grabosch of Alles Was Zählt :D

They've devoted a website to the cause, yaaaay!

2008-03-27T17:01:02Z

http://mygayestlook.com/

Please, if you've got a camera and five minutes, send in your gayest look. Let the Lenos of the world know that we are not amused.

You know things are bad when even the LOLCAT is ticked off:

moar funny pictures

(I know, it's big, but the LOLCAT demands bigness)

This is how rachie shows support for Strike 08...

2008-03-21T18:03:03Z

It's pretty much everything that's floating around in my skull at this very moment, enjoy ;)

Louis!

Gregoire!

Louis AND Gregoire!

The Treadaways!

Conjoined Treadaways!

Luke Treadaway!

Luke in Clapham Junction!

Harry Treadaway!

Harry in Control, with Joe Anderson!

More Joe!

Wartime Strawberry Joe!

Ben Whishaw!

More Ben!

Nipple of Ben!

Nipple of Ben take two!

HOLY FUCK, BEN.

Ides of March Fic Challenge- Being Human

2008-03-15T13:44:00Z

Title: I Don't Leave You Alone
AuthorArtist: omarandjohnny, with magnificent contributions by lilithilien ;)
Fandom/Pairing/Prompt: Being Human, George/Mitchell, prompt #016- Firsts
Rating: R
Summary: George isn't by himself tonight...Takes place before the pilot. Title is from VAST's Touched.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I claim nothing, I IZ NOTHING. Merely a fan, that's all.
Highlight for Warnings: * none that I can think of...*
Beta: lilithilien

It can smell the dead thing in the tree.

The wolf could smell it long before the dead thing shifted its weight, unintentionally giving the location away.

The dead thing has long legs that wrap tightly around the thick branch. The dead thing is smart, it didn't climb too far away from the butt of the trunk. Resting near the junction, the dead thing is doing everything it can not to be noticed. The wolf now places the purring sound that the dead thing has tried so hard to muffle. The sound is buried too deep in the body to be completely drowned out by force, but still, the dead thing makes a strained attempt.

It's not a threat, this thing. The creature can sense no real fear, but a taste of caution still salts the air. The only smell that it truly picks up is the rotting. A whiff of sweetness before the overwhelming sour. Like the purring, the smell comes from deep inside. It knows that if the dead thing is ripped open, that smell would pour out like water. The wolf could leap up and swipe one of those spindly legs, snatch and snap it right off. It almost wants to, needs to, make the leap. If only for curiosity's sake.

Something stops the creature, keeps it from crouching down to jump. A sound, in the back of its mind, making noises that join together in a line. The lines are words that he knows. Words that the Day Man knows. These words are from him, he is screaming at the wolf-thing from a faraway place in their head. The Day Man shouts things like STOP and RUN and DEAR GOD PLEASE NO. The creature backs away reluctantly, not fully knowing why the Day Man is so upset. It can sense a familiarity, though, a thread that runs from the dead thing to the Day Man. Retreating slowly, the wolf now senses a live thing close by.

As it quickly tackles and begins shredding the doe's compact frame, the beast no longer wonders about the dead thing in the tree.

---------

The dawn is terrible, it makes every bone crack and shift back into place. George can count each cell as it realigns, and it is pain without end. As his spine shrinks back into his body, George knows that this is what babies feel in the womb. This is why our first sounds are screams. The skin tightens over the muscles, still thick but drastically reduced, and he gasps before truly waking.

George is shivering, but is not cold. Not really cold. He realizes that he is being partially covered by something. A wool coat. Startled, he rolls over slightly to find Mitchell sleeping behind him. Touching, but not spoon-shaped touching.

"Mitchell! Wake up!" George shoots an elbow back, earning a low groan from his friend.

"I'm not asleep, George, calm down," he replies, moving the coat to further shield George's bare legs from the early Spring air.

The coat is not fully accepted; he rolls over to face Mitchell, and continues to rant. The vampire catches bits of 'What the hell is wrong with you?' and 'Have you lost your mind?' before completely tuning out George with a well-timed, "Shut it!"

George curls into himself, trying his best to keep the terror of what if at bay. Mitchell closes in, slipping his other arm out of the coat, and drapes it fully over his friend's naked body.

"Mitchell, please. Why are you here? God, how long have you been here?" Without thinking, George lightly runs a hand through Mitchell's hair. Relief. The hair is smooth, and gives off a sweet smell. It is nothing like his hair, the other one's hair...coarse, almost sharp, with a pungent stink that never quite leaves his nostrils.

"I followed you all night, tracking you as you tracked others. I think I gave the game away at one point...but you weren't very much interested in me." Taking George's hand, Mitchell places it to his chest, directly above the heart. Peaceful and cool, those are the words that George uses when thinking about Mitchell's heart. Not dead, not really. The gesture makes sense, and George nods with a half-smile. They've never been this close before, physically, yet he senses no apprehension from Mitchell. No insecurity. Concern. Maybe even love. Love for a fellow-sufferer. Love for a good friend.

George's own insecurities wash away the instant Mitchell kisses him, cooled lips grazing his relaxed mouth. It is not forceful, this kiss, but it is precise. It is gentle, a single flick of Mitchell's tongue against George's lips as their arms weave together. It is strangely cozy, as he finds that the heat of one can be shared by both. Mitchell grins into the kiss, the warmth of his friend sinking into his lanky frame. They enjoy this new atmosphere, this two-becomes-one feeling. It is simple, and kind, and whole.

"But why did you follow me?" he asks, somewhat pleadingly, against Mitchell's cheek. The vampire, cautious of the light, pulls George on top of him. Their embrace becomes tighter and even warmer still. A hitch develops in Mitchell's lack of breath, and he answers, "I wanted to know what it's really like for you."

George feels himself blushing, and bucks his hips in a boyish show of appreciation. "Did you see everything?"

"Yes," Mitchell says," I saw everything." He tries to smile at George, but at-hand memories of tearing sounds and piercing shrieks keep him from truly enjoying the now-apparent hardness between them.

His friend senses the shift in mood, knowing that everything is never a pleasant thing to witness. George runs a thumb along Mitchell's jawline, and lets the fire settle down with a long, playful hug. Now is not the time, he thinks momentarily, before looking back into the vampire's lust-hooded eyes. It is time.

The only word Mitchell can find is,"George."

It is not playful now, it is urgent. George takes the cue, and bucks a second time. Gasping, Mitchell undoes his zipper, quickly peeling away his trousers. Skin to skin. George likens the feeling to forearms resting against a cool air vent. The contrast in temperatures send a shot through his torso, and he finds himself clawing at Mitchell's waist. There is a panic running just below the want, and George knows that daylight will not stall for them.

The want transforms as they writhe together like virginal teens, not quite knowing where the rhythm will join the melody. George presses into Mitchell, grinding, pistoning. Something steals the air, and he looks directly into the vampire's eyes. Only ruby and onyx shine back. The fumblings then become something else, something feral, and George nuzzles into Mitchell's shoulder as friction and fingers complete the task. A strangled cry, and it is over for George. Mitchell follows a moment after.

The air returns, and with it, the day.

"Mitchell?" George whispers as they dozily embrace, "Please don't ever pull a stunt like that again, alright?" George secretly hopes that Mitchell won't obey. As he watches the vampire pull matted strands of hair from his face, George knows he won't obey.

"I think you're getting a tan, Mitchell."

His friend chuckles softly as they finally part and stand, Mitchell pulling the coat over George before rapidly tending to his own clothes.

"The car's this way," he replies, and turns to guide George home.

END.

BBTP challenge- Tranquilo.

2007-09-01T04:05:39Z

Title: Tranquilo
Verse/Pairing: Plata Quemada (Burnt Money), Angel/Nene
Rating: NC-17, I hope XD
Summary: Nene tends to Angel's wounds, all of them.
Warnings: Em, blood? Not blood-play, just blood. (My mother faints at the word alone, so I thought I'd mention it for the more squeamish members) Action Movie Violence...that's about it.
Note: Quite spoilery. Even though the movie is based on true events, I don't know how one could consider semi-historical fanfiction as spoilery...but there ya go. (some of it takes place after the bank heist) They were called The Twins, but they weren't really related so, sorry to all fellow bro!yayers. I do not claim the boys, or the story as my own. It is based partly on the amazing true crime novel, and movie adaptation. Oh, and English is my only language, so I apologize down to the marrow if I've messed up what little Spanish I used for this.

Calm down. Everything will be fine.

Nene had used the phrase so often it felt like a mantra. It was a hot-strike brand, singed on his tongue. Constant reassurance, a sense that the net--meaning his own sanity--would be there to catch them both when the high-wire finally buckled beneath their feet. It was tiring, to be the voice of reason. There were so many times when Angel danced too close to the edge, and the wolf would come a little too near the door.

This time is no different. The bullet buried in Angel's shoulder, his blood quickly staining the sofa a crude scarlet, it feels like the end. The shallow breathing, those wild eyes. Nene allows himself to panic for all of two seconds, and then goes into survival mode. The living room becomes an operating theatre, the array of tools decorating the coffee table. Surgical equipment.

All that is left is the diving in.

The pain in Angel's voice threatens to shatter Nene's concentration, a whimpering laced with childlike fear. He is a child--Angel--in some aspects. The sickness turned him into a little boy at times, afraid of his own shadow. The voices accompanying the sickness made him more and more unpredictable by the day. In all honesty, Nene is amazed that they made it through the robbery alive.

As Nene zeros in on the flattened bullet, Angel's eyes convey a myriad of things; through the confusion and panic, he understands what those eyes are saying.

Please don't let me go. I don't trust them. I'm scared, Nene. Say it for me. I need to hear it.

A final gasp as lead is freed from flesh, and a familiar metallic clink against glass. He stares at the blood that paints Angel's chest, and sees the horrible beauty that the man exudes. The flares lighting the traffic accident, the mosaic of bodies strewn about war-torn Huaqui, the gleaming apple in the gutted pig's mouth. What troubled Nene was the fact that he exuded that same aura.

They were twins, after all.

He watches as Angel falls into something that is almost sleep, the floating space where the voices cannot go. Taking a swig from the bottle, Nene settles on the floor beside the sofa. The coffee table is littered with soiled, make-shift bandages, and tools covered in dried blood. Pieces of Angel, pieces of Nene, co-mingling on steel and wood. One and the same.

---

He could remember a night, months ago, when Angel was clear-headed enough for a long night without sleep. A night of fun after a successful job. That's all it had been. Unabashed silliness, devoid of manic tantrums and suicide attempts.

Nene had been hard from the moment Angel pistol-whipped the shop clerk; a red fury creating balletic grace with each pass. It happened so fast, but time seemed to slow to a molasses-tilt. The man had spit in Angel's face, refusing to open the register. You just don't disobey him, you just don't. Nene had observed the first blow mid-air, the gun became a part of Angel's arm, guiding it home. Home was the idiota's temple, and the cracking sound of metal against bone sent shivers down his spine. It didn't disgust him, however, but Nene remembered how the sound grounded him, if only for a moment.

They had escaped clean and clear that afternoon, their driver Cleto was a bevel-set god on the tight streets of Buenos Aires. The car flew past sleepy cops, and they ended up on the far side of the Casa Rosada, well away from all leering badges.

---

Angel practically carried Nene to the sagging motel mattress that night. It creaked as they pounced together, flinging trench coats and well-shined shoes about the room. It felt like the first time in that stall, the electricity of those precious minutes flooding back with each kiss. Nene felt ravenous, his gut channeled a virginal hunger he hadn't experienced since adolescence.

He wanted to have every inch of Angel's body, he wanted to possess it with a well-placed lick, or excite it with a sharp pinch. He remembered every embrace that evening, how like schoolboys they behaved, discovering new secret places with no fear of being caught. Nene remembered that devilish grin he wore proudly as he chased Angel around the bed, filled plastic ice bucket in hand. He recalled how he giggled as Angel wrapped cube-cooled lips around his dick, and the roaring laughter that followed as chilled fingertips entered him from behind. Nene also remembered the opalescent circles he drew on Angel's stomach, his cum drying in obscene moon-faces around the navel.

Lying on his back as he drew a pearly ladder leading to Angel's groin, he knew he wanted to be taken. He wanted Angel so close, so far inside that he could never leave. Without a word, he slicked Angel's cock with spit, and nodded. The sensation was immediate, set to bursting and pleasantly full with a single thrust. After the initial shock, he opened his eyes and looked around as Angel pistoned. Nene chuckled at his own skinny ankles, watching them whip clumsily atop Angel's shoulders, as his feet danced on an invisible floor. Locking with Angel's eyes, he could see how calm and clear his twin's mind was. Those dark pools, smooth and peaceful, radiating love. He moaned as Angel pulled him closer, rearranging himself inside. It was precise, those movements, but Angel never made it seem mechanical. Everything had a purpose, and he knew that Angel plotted every second for Nene's benefit. Such adoration in the muscles that worked so hard, Nene could see how much the strain pleased his twin. He remembered then the tears that had welled, and threatened to spill as Angel smiled through the climax. He remembers not crying, but coming a second time as Angel arched in a final push.

Most of all, he could still hear those wonderful post-coital groans. Pleasure rolled over Angel like the ocean, the waves keeping his soul afloat. Pleasure was so alien on Angel's face, and in his voice. It became euphoric, those smiling sounds and contented cries. Nene hoarded those moments of relief, kept them close to his heart, forever warming his breast.

---

These memories keep him strong, keep him steady. However, Nene knows that he will falter, sooner or later, when the memories yellow and fade. The passion of that night seems so far away, but he doesn't want to think about that now.

Leaning his head against Angel's leg, careful not to let exhaustion cloud his voice, Nene whispers once more:

"Calm down. Everything will be fine."

And maybe it will.

END.
---