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This is insanely late, I know, (by, like, a month oh god) but STILL, I hope this is okay for you. It was Written With Love at least.
HAPPPPPPYY BIRRRRTHDAYYY!
Title: Fragments, Smiling
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Oh, maaaany.
Disclaimer: None of these characters or worlds are mine. At all. Nor am I making any profit from them.
A vampire and a werewolf walk into a bar.
Ianto says, “Should we take them back to the hub?”
Jack, not listening, says, “I’ve fucked him.”
It is a testament to either Ianto’s experience of his job or his experience of Jack that he only says, “Which one?”
**
When Prior lies in bed, in pyjama bottoms or a nightshirt or nothing at all, sometimes he misses his uniform. It scares him, on these occasions, that he can feel nothing against his skin. His head feels light without the band of his hat; his hips feel bigger without the constraint of the belt; his arms itch without the carefully pressed shirt.
On these nights, it scares Prior to feel so unrestrained; adrift; so free.
**
Merlin is tired. He says, “I’ve cleaned everything. Can I go?”
Arthur gives the room a cursory glance. Everything is, indeed, clean. It is very clean everywhere: Merlin has cleaned it. Arthur says, “It still looks dirty to me.”
Merlin stares at him, shoulders held like he is still about to turn and leave. Arthur ignores him. Merlin says, “Right,” and gets back to work.
**
It is hot in this classroom. All the windows are open but it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. There is no breeze outside; the grass looks prenaturally green in the unseasonable heat; the sky is an illusional shade of blue. It is the kind of day where a person’s very thoughts move more slowly, like the heat can get inside one’s head and liquefy everything it finds, like you’re thinking through candlewax and it has already set.
Irwin watches, surreptitiously, from behind an arm raised to write something up on the board, as Dakin frowns and swears at the recently returned essay lying on his desk. Dakin’s shirt is still pristine, despite the weather. The other boys are sleepy, speaking sluggishly, lazily. Dakin looks straight up, straight at Irwin, disappointed or distrustful or some other petulant emotion, and folds his arms.
Irwin blushes hotter than the day outside.
**
Sam wants to go home. He is standing in his kitchen, from where he can see his bed, from where he can see his bathroom, from where he can see his front door. When he leaves, he will go to work, and when he leaves work, he will come back here, and it will be another 34 years before anything will look clean.
**
Laughing, Sirius shoves Remus backward and they both land with a thump at the edge of the lake. Hands on Remus’ hips, Sirius shakes his hair out like the dog he isn’t right now, and Remus squirms and squeals and puts his palms out against Sirius’ shoulders, turns his head away.
“You sound like a girl,” says Sirius, fondly, and Remus says, “You’re dripping on me.”
Sirius leans in, leers, “I can drip harder, baby.”
Remus scoffs but he is smiling. Sirius kisses him.
Remus mutters, “Watch out for the squid,” and Sirius bites him on the lip, and they both laugh again.
**
Tomorrow is the full moon, and tonight Remus is hot. Blood thumps through his veins; he can feel his pulse everywhere. His bed seems stifling, curtains hanging lank and oppressive, sheets lying forlorn at the bottom of his mattress, kicked and rejected, out of the way. His hair sticks to his forehead and to the back of his neck.
He is angry, but he has nothing to be angry about. It is the wolf, lurking, scratching its way, incrementally, out. Remus can sense it, malevolent and biding its time; in his head, it paces, and howls, and waits.
Remus is hot.
And then there is Sirius, sliding in beside him, draping a wet cloth over Remus’ head for all the world like a couple of Muggles; like a couple of wizards who like to pretend they are Muggles; like a struggling werewolf and his boyfriend who struggles right alongside him.
“You’re hot,” says Sirius, and waggles his eyebrows.
“Mmm,” mumbles Remus. He feels ridiculous, and young, and more than a little bit needy. He aches. He whines, “Kiss me.”
“Oh, you foul werewolfy tempt-bucket,” says Sirius, and he obliges, pressing the full length of his sweaty, lithe body into Remus, sweaty, tender one.
In Remus’ head, everything stops.
There is quiet.
**
Sam wants to go home. He is standing in his bedroom, which is white, and from here he can see his bathroom, which is white, and from there he could see his kitchen, which is also white. There is too much space; everything is clean.
**
Today, it is cold. The heating, as the heating does in all comprehensives, has broken. The boys are huddled in layers over layers of scarves, jumpers, coats. Irwin is wearing none of these items.
Dakin watches him, surreptitiously, glancing up from behind long, cold eyelashes while ostensibly studying his essay. Fuck his essay: however much he tries, he won’t have tried hard enough.
Irwin shivers as he turns away from the board. His shirt, brown and non-descript, is large on his frame; Dakin sees the contours of his ribs as he breathes sharply in, rubs his forearms distractedly and hunches his shoulders forwards against the chill in the air.
“You cold, sir?” asks Dakin, facetiously, and Irwin turns a slow, deep red.
**
“Merlin,” hisses Arthur, crooking his fingers in Merlin’s general direction. “Come here.”
Merlin obligingly slides forward through the undergrowth. Arthur says, “Where were you?”
Merlin looks back over his shoulder and then back at Arthur. He looks confused. Arthur sighs, hugely, and hits him on the shoulder. He is carrying a sword and shield: back-to-basics hunting, he’d called it. The scabbard catches Merlin on the hip: he says, “Ow.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “Just, stay here, all right? I might need you.”
Merlin says, “Staying here,” in what Arthur considers an unnecessarily truculent tone of voice.
Arthur says, “Right,” and they both walk into the woods.
**
When Prior is in his uniform, sometimes he misses his skin. His shirt covers his arms; his socks creep up his legs underneath his trousers; his hat shades his face. He misses the way he knows his body can move, loose-limbed, with intent. He knows there’s more than this, these rules, this obligation, this fight.
Sometimes, this part of Prior wants to feel carnal: he wants to feel free.
**
A dead man and a live man walk into a bar
George says, “I do like it in Cardiff. It was a good idea to come here - hey, do you think they live here? Real, proper, Cardiffians. Cardithians? People of Cardiff? I don't know. They look at home. I like their shoes. I wonder where they work.”
Mitchell, not listening, says, “I’ve fucked him.”
It is a testament to either George’s innate ability to gossip or his innate ability to understand Mitchell that he only says, “Which one?”
*
This is insanely late, I know, (by, like, a month oh god) but STILL, I hope this is okay for you. It was Written With Love at least.
HAPPPPPPYY BIRRRRTHDAYYY!
Title: Fragments, Smiling
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Oh, maaaany.
Disclaimer: None of these characters or worlds are mine. At all. Nor am I making any profit from them.
A vampire and a werewolf walk into a bar.
Ianto says, “Should we take them back to the hub?”
Jack, not listening, says, “I’ve fucked him.”
It is a testament to either Ianto’s experience of his job or his experience of Jack that he only says, “Which one?”
**
When Prior lies in bed, in pyjama bottoms or a nightshirt or nothing at all, sometimes he misses his uniform. It scares him, on these occasions, that he can feel nothing against his skin. His head feels light without the band of his hat; his hips feel bigger without the constraint of the belt; his arms itch without the carefully pressed shirt.
On these nights, it scares Prior to feel so unrestrained; adrift; so free.
**
Merlin is tired. He says, “I’ve cleaned everything. Can I go?”
Arthur gives the room a cursory glance. Everything is, indeed, clean. It is very clean everywhere: Merlin has cleaned it. Arthur says, “It still looks dirty to me.”
Merlin stares at him, shoulders held like he is still about to turn and leave. Arthur ignores him. Merlin says, “Right,” and gets back to work.
**
It is hot in this classroom. All the windows are open but it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. There is no breeze outside; the grass looks prenaturally green in the unseasonable heat; the sky is an illusional shade of blue. It is the kind of day where a person’s very thoughts move more slowly, like the heat can get inside one’s head and liquefy everything it finds, like you’re thinking through candlewax and it has already set.
Irwin watches, surreptitiously, from behind an arm raised to write something up on the board, as Dakin frowns and swears at the recently returned essay lying on his desk. Dakin’s shirt is still pristine, despite the weather. The other boys are sleepy, speaking sluggishly, lazily. Dakin looks straight up, straight at Irwin, disappointed or distrustful or some other petulant emotion, and folds his arms.
Irwin blushes hotter than the day outside.
**
Sam wants to go home. He is standing in his kitchen, from where he can see his bed, from where he can see his bathroom, from where he can see his front door. When he leaves, he will go to work, and when he leaves work, he will come back here, and it will be another 34 years before anything will look clean.
**
Laughing, Sirius shoves Remus backward and they both land with a thump at the edge of the lake. Hands on Remus’ hips, Sirius shakes his hair out like the dog he isn’t right now, and Remus squirms and squeals and puts his palms out against Sirius’ shoulders, turns his head away.
“You sound like a girl,” says Sirius, fondly, and Remus says, “You’re dripping on me.”
Sirius leans in, leers, “I can drip harder, baby.”
Remus scoffs but he is smiling. Sirius kisses him.
Remus mutters, “Watch out for the squid,” and Sirius bites him on the lip, and they both laugh again.
**
Tomorrow is the full moon, and tonight Remus is hot. Blood thumps through his veins; he can feel his pulse everywhere. His bed seems stifling, curtains hanging lank and oppressive, sheets lying forlorn at the bottom of his mattress, kicked and rejected, out of the way. His hair sticks to his forehead and to the back of his neck.
He is angry, but he has nothing to be angry about. It is the wolf, lurking, scratching its way, incrementally, out. Remus can sense it, malevolent and biding its time; in his head, it paces, and howls, and waits.
Remus is hot.
And then there is Sirius, sliding in beside him, draping a wet cloth over Remus’ head for all the world like a couple of Muggles; like a couple of wizards who like to pretend they are Muggles; like a struggling werewolf and his boyfriend who struggles right alongside him.
“You’re hot,” says Sirius, and waggles his eyebrows.
“Mmm,” mumbles Remus. He feels ridiculous, and young, and more than a little bit needy. He aches. He whines, “Kiss me.”
“Oh, you foul werewolfy tempt-bucket,” says Sirius, and he obliges, pressing the full length of his sweaty, lithe body into Remus, sweaty, tender one.
In Remus’ head, everything stops.
There is quiet.
**
Sam wants to go home. He is standing in his bedroom, which is white, and from here he can see his bathroom, which is white, and from there he could see his kitchen, which is also white. There is too much space; everything is clean.
**
Today, it is cold. The heating, as the heating does in all comprehensives, has broken. The boys are huddled in layers over layers of scarves, jumpers, coats. Irwin is wearing none of these items.
Dakin watches him, surreptitiously, glancing up from behind long, cold eyelashes while ostensibly studying his essay. Fuck his essay: however much he tries, he won’t have tried hard enough.
Irwin shivers as he turns away from the board. His shirt, brown and non-descript, is large on his frame; Dakin sees the contours of his ribs as he breathes sharply in, rubs his forearms distractedly and hunches his shoulders forwards against the chill in the air.
“You cold, sir?” asks Dakin, facetiously, and Irwin turns a slow, deep red.
**
“Merlin,” hisses Arthur, crooking his fingers in Merlin’s general direction. “Come here.”
Merlin obligingly slides forward through the undergrowth. Arthur says, “Where were you?”
Merlin looks back over his shoulder and then back at Arthur. He looks confused. Arthur sighs, hugely, and hits him on the shoulder. He is carrying a sword and shield: back-to-basics hunting, he’d called it. The scabbard catches Merlin on the hip: he says, “Ow.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “Just, stay here, all right? I might need you.”
Merlin says, “Staying here,” in what Arthur considers an unnecessarily truculent tone of voice.
Arthur says, “Right,” and they both walk into the woods.
**
When Prior is in his uniform, sometimes he misses his skin. His shirt covers his arms; his socks creep up his legs underneath his trousers; his hat shades his face. He misses the way he knows his body can move, loose-limbed, with intent. He knows there’s more than this, these rules, this obligation, this fight.
Sometimes, this part of Prior wants to feel carnal: he wants to feel free.
**
A dead man and a live man walk into a bar
George says, “I do like it in Cardiff. It was a good idea to come here - hey, do you think they live here? Real, proper, Cardiffians. Cardithians? People of Cardiff? I don't know. They look at home. I like their shoes. I wonder where they work.”
Mitchell, not listening, says, “I’ve fucked him.”
It is a testament to either George’s innate ability to gossip or his innate ability to understand Mitchell that he only says, “Which one?”
*
