Fic comm and two drabbles.
May. 7th, 2007 03:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleFirst. I made a community, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
midnight_fic. I've started moving over my fics, though it'll take time, 'cause zomg, too much work. *lazy* I'm only posting newer things there. FFXII, KKM, RPS, etc. So, uh... Yeah. If you're interested.
I'll post drabbles and fics here first, then over on the comm a few days later. *nods*
Now, drabbles.
Spider-Man drabble. Set no where in the timeline, except vaguely post-movie number one. No spoilers for Spider-Man 3. Written at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mariagoner's prompting.
Money can buy most anything, even love and happiness. Harry/Harry, vague Harry/Peter.
Buying Happiness
Money can buy anything. If nothing else, his father taught him that money can buy power, and happiness, and maybe even love. Money can even buy life.
He lifts the clone's hand again, turns it over to he can look at the fingerprints, the places where he has callouses and little nick-scars from paper-cuts. The clone's hands are smooth, though, skin with the faintest shadows of fingerprints.
"What do you think?" one of the lab techs asks, standing far too close. Harry puts the clone's hand down and steps away, frowning.
"How's its--" He waves a hand around, not quite sure what word he's looking for. The lab tech nearly shines, though, picking up the clone's hand himself.
"It's entirely responsive," the tech says. "It moves on its own, and it's awake for nearly half a day now, before needing to recharge."
Harry tries a smile, leaning forward to try to read the tech's badge. "Good job, Dr. Jacobs. Have it sent up after it's recharged."
x
Money can buy a great many things. Silence, respect, absolute loyalty. It also buys warm bodies in the bed, with faces that look the same. Harry kisses his lips, because they are his lips, with the little tilt on the right side.
"Harry," Harry says, and the clone makes a gasping sound. "Say it, say 'Harry.'"
"Harry," Harry says, and "Harry," the clone says. It hands are warm, and feel curious on Harry's cock, like Harry's turned himself inside out, or perhaps all around, until he's a mirror. But mirrors don't breathe, or move, or lie flushed against his body, hot and sweat-slicked.
"Harry," someone says, and Harry's not sure which of them, because he's not even sure which he is, but this is good enough. This time, he's good enough, and heaven help him, but he'll find someone to love him, even if it's himself.
x
Money can buy a lot of things, except maybe not time. The clones die off, one by one, like batteries that've been recharged too many times. Harry finds the first one in his bed, curled around a pillow like Harry does, and at first, Harry thinks it's him, thinks that maybe, maybe it was him who died, sometime during the night. The second clone shuts down in the shower, saying, "Harry," water dripping from its eyes and ears and mouth. The third and fourth never leave the lab, cords running from hands that don't have the same scars Harry's hands have, and the fifth never opens its eyes.
Harry hates it, hates the sight of him lying like a corpse, like his father, wrapped up in blankets, laid out in wake. Even more, he hates the thought that even he wasn't good enough, even he couldn't love himself.
"This time," he tells the lab tech, "I want you to make this one."
Pictures of Peter, it seems, might buy Harry happiness.
And written to the god-like promptings ofdragon_bite. My first venture into Doctor Who.r
Doctor/TARDIS. Yes, Doctor/TARDIS. No, I don't know what I was thinking, either. Doctor, TARDIS, and the things that make a man. Or alien. Or Time and Relative Dimensions in Space vehicle, as it may be.
Living Metal
Metal's cold beneath his fingertips, but it hums like it's hummed for hundreds, thousands, of years. He needs the humming like he needs oxygen, because he needs to know there is something else out there, alive and waiting and wanting, and that he's not alone.
His companions come and go, one after another, in twos and threes. He picks them up from one place and another, and drops them off, a few months, years, decades, centuries older, with their eyes a little jaded and their mouths a little slack. He watches them walk away, backs small and shoulders hunched, and TARDIS's doorframe is big around his body.
So at night (not that there is a night, necessarily, while bouncing through space and time and all those relative dimensions, where anything like time is nothing more than a thought, an idea based on semantics and flimsy notions of the fragile, mortal mind), he touches the walls, where power both mortal and endless hums, quivering against his skin.
It's not that he's a flimsy man, himself, not that he's quite sure he'd even call himself a man, not a man like Rose Tyler would call a man, but at times, he feels particularly empty, like there's something large missing from him. Large, like maybe a planet, or a race, or a family that numbered in the innumerable before it disappeared with a bang and a flash and a cry too small to be heard.
But sometimes, he is small, and needy, and he slides down to sit below the console, right where he can duck himself in, surrounded by pipes and cords and all manners of TARDIS. Then, it's easy to close his eyes (blue, this time, he's always liked blue), and lean back against metal and plastic, and pretend that TARDIS's voice is a little more-- Not human, but not like a Time Lord, but something more alive, something that will wrap its arms around him, pull him back against warm flesh, where he won't be so alone.
He listens to TARDIS talk to him in clicks and whirrs, a faint buzz at the base of his neck, where the console's stem is a little cold, and where he can feel particularly old and young all at once. He hums back, to himself and to TARDIS, little ditties, and his fingers are shaking on his cock. He shivers, buries himself in TARDIS, and when he shakes apart, TARDIS is shaking apart, too, and maybe he'll be able to piece them both back together, with a little luck and a lot of time. He wipes the come from his fingers, smears it on his trousers, and TARDIS is crying a mourning dirge in the rattlings of the wires.
"It's alright," he says, lying out on the floor, naked and cold and maybe shivering a little, but there's TARDIS wrapped around him, resoundingly empty except for him and the voices in the wall. It'll be morning soon, not that there's a particular morning to look for, out of the mornings from the beginning of time to the end, and there're worlds to be saved from themselves. And there's TARDIS, shaking its way through the nowhere of everywhere, and there's him, all fucked up inside and outside, with no one to fuck or kiss or even touch, except for walls and buttons and wires that wrap red-hot around his wrists.
Maybe, in the morning, he'll find another companion.
midnight_fic. I've started moving over my fics, though it'll take time, 'cause zomg, too much work. *lazy* I'm only posting newer things there. FFXII, KKM, RPS, etc. So, uh... Yeah. If you're interested.I'll post drabbles and fics here first, then over on the comm a few days later. *nods*
Now, drabbles.
Spider-Man drabble. Set no where in the timeline, except vaguely post-movie number one. No spoilers for Spider-Man 3. Written at
mariagoner's prompting.Money can buy most anything, even love and happiness. Harry/Harry, vague Harry/Peter.
Buying Happiness
Money can buy anything. If nothing else, his father taught him that money can buy power, and happiness, and maybe even love. Money can even buy life.
He lifts the clone's hand again, turns it over to he can look at the fingerprints, the places where he has callouses and little nick-scars from paper-cuts. The clone's hands are smooth, though, skin with the faintest shadows of fingerprints.
"What do you think?" one of the lab techs asks, standing far too close. Harry puts the clone's hand down and steps away, frowning.
"How's its--" He waves a hand around, not quite sure what word he's looking for. The lab tech nearly shines, though, picking up the clone's hand himself.
"It's entirely responsive," the tech says. "It moves on its own, and it's awake for nearly half a day now, before needing to recharge."
Harry tries a smile, leaning forward to try to read the tech's badge. "Good job, Dr. Jacobs. Have it sent up after it's recharged."
x
Money can buy a great many things. Silence, respect, absolute loyalty. It also buys warm bodies in the bed, with faces that look the same. Harry kisses his lips, because they are his lips, with the little tilt on the right side.
"Harry," Harry says, and the clone makes a gasping sound. "Say it, say 'Harry.'"
"Harry," Harry says, and "Harry," the clone says. It hands are warm, and feel curious on Harry's cock, like Harry's turned himself inside out, or perhaps all around, until he's a mirror. But mirrors don't breathe, or move, or lie flushed against his body, hot and sweat-slicked.
"Harry," someone says, and Harry's not sure which of them, because he's not even sure which he is, but this is good enough. This time, he's good enough, and heaven help him, but he'll find someone to love him, even if it's himself.
x
Money can buy a lot of things, except maybe not time. The clones die off, one by one, like batteries that've been recharged too many times. Harry finds the first one in his bed, curled around a pillow like Harry does, and at first, Harry thinks it's him, thinks that maybe, maybe it was him who died, sometime during the night. The second clone shuts down in the shower, saying, "Harry," water dripping from its eyes and ears and mouth. The third and fourth never leave the lab, cords running from hands that don't have the same scars Harry's hands have, and the fifth never opens its eyes.
Harry hates it, hates the sight of him lying like a corpse, like his father, wrapped up in blankets, laid out in wake. Even more, he hates the thought that even he wasn't good enough, even he couldn't love himself.
"This time," he tells the lab tech, "I want you to make this one."
Pictures of Peter, it seems, might buy Harry happiness.
And written to the god-like promptings of
dragon_bite. My first venture into Doctor Who.rDoctor/TARDIS. Yes, Doctor/TARDIS. No, I don't know what I was thinking, either. Doctor, TARDIS, and the things that make a man. Or alien. Or Time and Relative Dimensions in Space vehicle, as it may be.
Living Metal
Metal's cold beneath his fingertips, but it hums like it's hummed for hundreds, thousands, of years. He needs the humming like he needs oxygen, because he needs to know there is something else out there, alive and waiting and wanting, and that he's not alone.
His companions come and go, one after another, in twos and threes. He picks them up from one place and another, and drops them off, a few months, years, decades, centuries older, with their eyes a little jaded and their mouths a little slack. He watches them walk away, backs small and shoulders hunched, and TARDIS's doorframe is big around his body.
So at night (not that there is a night, necessarily, while bouncing through space and time and all those relative dimensions, where anything like time is nothing more than a thought, an idea based on semantics and flimsy notions of the fragile, mortal mind), he touches the walls, where power both mortal and endless hums, quivering against his skin.
It's not that he's a flimsy man, himself, not that he's quite sure he'd even call himself a man, not a man like Rose Tyler would call a man, but at times, he feels particularly empty, like there's something large missing from him. Large, like maybe a planet, or a race, or a family that numbered in the innumerable before it disappeared with a bang and a flash and a cry too small to be heard.
But sometimes, he is small, and needy, and he slides down to sit below the console, right where he can duck himself in, surrounded by pipes and cords and all manners of TARDIS. Then, it's easy to close his eyes (blue, this time, he's always liked blue), and lean back against metal and plastic, and pretend that TARDIS's voice is a little more-- Not human, but not like a Time Lord, but something more alive, something that will wrap its arms around him, pull him back against warm flesh, where he won't be so alone.
He listens to TARDIS talk to him in clicks and whirrs, a faint buzz at the base of his neck, where the console's stem is a little cold, and where he can feel particularly old and young all at once. He hums back, to himself and to TARDIS, little ditties, and his fingers are shaking on his cock. He shivers, buries himself in TARDIS, and when he shakes apart, TARDIS is shaking apart, too, and maybe he'll be able to piece them both back together, with a little luck and a lot of time. He wipes the come from his fingers, smears it on his trousers, and TARDIS is crying a mourning dirge in the rattlings of the wires.
"It's alright," he says, lying out on the floor, naked and cold and maybe shivering a little, but there's TARDIS wrapped around him, resoundingly empty except for him and the voices in the wall. It'll be morning soon, not that there's a particular morning to look for, out of the mornings from the beginning of time to the end, and there're worlds to be saved from themselves. And there's TARDIS, shaking its way through the nowhere of everywhere, and there's him, all fucked up inside and outside, with no one to fuck or kiss or even touch, except for walls and buttons and wires that wrap red-hot around his wrists.
Maybe, in the morning, he'll find another companion.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 10:40 pm (UTC)And homg, that H/H fic is even creepier-- and hotter-- on a LJ post than when it's on the AIM page. You weren't joking when you said you enjoyed making the impossible happen!
And the pr0n it's also all good there too. ;)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 10:48 pm (UTC)And homg, that H/H fic is even creepier-- and hotter-- on a LJ post than when it's on the AIM page.
*flails madly* You're like an addiction to me~ Thank you~
And I'll probably finish posting up the FFXII drabbles sometime today or tomorrow. I feel bad, though, 'cause I'm spamming the people who have it on watch. *guilt* But! Anything for you~
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 10:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-09 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-10 01:05 am (UTC)