..::Fallen angels at my feet::...

Possession is Nine Tenths

Tue, 11 Nov 2008 22:22:32 GMT

Title: Possession is Nine Tenths
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com)
Pairing: Joe Biden/Rahm Emanuel
Rating: NC-17 for filthy nasty porn.
Summary: Joe is tired of sharing Barack, but sudden its Rahm who's being shared.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum. Also, slut is Swedish for "end." Look it up.
Notes: A somewhat follow up to my last fic which you can read here if you so choose. Inspired by someone in rahmbamarama and encouraged by tracy_loo_who. Pretty much PWP. It kinda dips into an S/M sort of thing, just to warn you. PLEASE ENJOY.

"You, me, outside. Now." Your chest is heaving as you try to contain your anger and you're doing your best to ignore Barack's scandalized expression. He and Rahm just stepped out of his office, looking flushed and quite pleased with themselves. You, yourself was just about to go get a cup of coffee when you spotted them.

Meanwhile, Rahm knows exactly what you're talking about but decides to run up your blood pressure by playing dumb. "What ever for, Joe," he asks, feigning confusion.

You grab his collar and pull him close to you. "I'll show you what happens why you touch my president," you growl.

"Joe, stop," Barack is saying as he straightens his wrinkled tie. "This is silly and pointless." He's using his scolding tone on you, the one you've always said you hated. "Rahm doesn't want to fight you so what --"

"On the contrary," Rahm interrupts, pulling himself free of your grasp. "I'd love to see what he'd like to do to me."

/////

You bless the dreary weather as you stomp out to the grounds behind the White House; no one is outside and the paparazzi aren't likely to get much luck spotting you in the drizzle that is already coming down. The pair of you find a mostly bare patch of ground (save for the gazebo to your left) which will do nicely for your brawl.

Rahm is already taking off his jacket and loosening his tie, a smirk seemingly permanently affixed to his lips. A surge of anger floods through you as you think of how you'd like to bash his face in, and you toss your jacket aside without much notice where it lands (looks like in a puddle of mud, but you have more important things to deal with now).

He throws the first punch. It is unexpected and lands right in your gut. You cough, but have the presence of mind to not double over and clutch your stomach like a little bitch. "You fucker," you snarl, and you lunge after him, but he nimbly dodges out of the way (you mentally curse his ballet training) even as you start to lose your footing in the loose mud.

Somehow he slips behind you and kicks you in the back of the knee, causing your legs to buckle and you fall to the ground before you even realize what happened. You scramble back to your feet in a second but he is laughing at you.

"Weren't you going to show what happens to someone when they touch your president?" He is standing with his hands on his hips, his smirk standing out in your mind more than anything and you almost see red when he sneers at you. You're winded already, but you can't bear the thought of folding now. You just know that he'll go back inside for another round with Barack and...

You dive after him again and this time you catch his collar. He tries to pull away, but now you've got your claws in him as you grip his arm with your free hand. You spot a stone column of the gazebo behind you and you use your size to your advantage, shoving him against it as hard as you can.

"Now, I swear," you growl, your face just inches from his. "You lay another hand on him and I'll --" But you are cut off by Rahm's lips suddenly pressing into yours, his tongue snaking into your mouth without permission.

The kiss is too harsh. Your teeth are crashing against his and he keeps biting your tongue. You want to pull away, but your body seems to have different ideas and you press your full height against him. His cock is hard beneath his pants; you can feel it against your thigh. But its not until he starts to quickly unbutton your slacks that you push away forcefully.

"What are you doing?" You sputter, your chest heaving for want of air. You resist the urge to spit the taste of him out of your mouth.

"You can't say you've never thought about this," he replies, his smoky eyes poring into you hungrily. "You can't say you've never wanted to fuck me so hard that I wouldn't think twice before touching your president again."

Your mouth opens and closes wordlessly, but already you can feel the blood rushing southward. It has crossed your mind, but you've always written those thoughts off as distant dreams, nightmares.

Meanwhile, he is grabbing your tie, pulling you so hard to him that your knee cracks on the pillar behind him. His lips are back on yours, bitting down in a breathtaking mixture of pleasure and pain. "I'm giving you the opportunity," he's saying into your mouth. "To fuck me until I can't stand. And if you don't take it, I'll make sure that you never get to do the same to him again."

When he says that you can feel something break inside you. It may have been your willpower. But all you know is that you grab him roughly by the collar, turn him around, and slam him hard into the column. His head makes a nasty crack against the stone, but he is grinding against you.

"That's more like it," he moans.

You roll your eyes at his masochism (while trying to ignore your possible sadism), and start to quickly pull his pants down, which proves difficult because you refuse to give him enough room to breathe much less complete the complicated task of pulling his zipper down. While you work, you bite down on his shirt collar, dragging it away from the crook of his neck, where you start to nibble not-so-gently.

When you finally manage to shove his pants to his ankles you begin working on yours, all the while still applying heavy pressure to keep him solidly pinned to the column.

"Got any of that lube?" You ask, hurriedly dropping your own slacks.

"Sorry," he mutters back. "Used the last of it on him."

You throw your weight into him a little more, grinning satisfactorily when he groans, making sure his ribs are grinding against the pillar.

"Fine," you say. "You'll just have to man up and take it."

"Just because you never have doesn't mean I can't."

You growl menacingly at him, but don't waste any time in ramming a finger hard inside him. He hisses at he intrusion, his muscles instantly tightening, but he doesn't speak. You take that as permission (not that you needed any) to continue and so you begin to pump in and out of him, sometimes slow, most times fast and raw. After a minute you add a second, repeating the process.

Its when you add the third that he snarls at you, "Don't get so full of yourself."

"As you wish," is your reply as you retract your fingers. The rain is really coming down heavy now and you tilt your face upwards for a brief moment, before grabbing his cheeks and spreading them. You slowly touch your cock to his entrance, but pause there, catching his earlobe between your teeth. "Rahm," you say as calmly as you can. "You'll not lay a hand on him again." And then you slam into him with the all the force of weeks upon weeks of sexual frustration.

He lets out a strangled cry that belies how much pleasure he's actually enjoying from being so completely dominated. He pushes his hips against you, taking more of you in, and hisses above the thunder of the rain, "You're not convincing anyone."

His hair isn't quite long enough to fist, but you manage to grab some of it, yanking his head back forcefully. You roll your hips once before pulling almost all the way out, thrusting into him so hard that even you see stars as he bounces off the column and back into you. "I swear to god, Emanuel," you growl into his ear. "Every time you so much as touch yourself while thinking about him, I want you to remember this." You thrust again, pushing deeper inside. "I want to remember the feeling of me inside you. Crushing you. Stealing your very breath."

Rahm moans deeply at your words and you can spot a hand snaking down to stroke his cock, but you grab it and press it against the column. "I don't think so," you whisper harshly. "I'm the only one that can make you come."

"So get on with it," is his reply."

You bite him in retaliation for his smugness, whilst sliding a hand down to his thigh and lifting his leg up against the pillar, granting you more flexibility to pound into him with renewed vigor. His head falls back onto your shoulder and it takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to look into his eyes while you fuck him.

But he doesn't let you enjoy your total domination of him for long. "This isn't me, you're fucking, is it?" He's breathing against your neck. "Its him. You've always wanted to slam him against a wall and do this. But no, he's too delicate. He might break. That's why you need me. You need me so you can fulfill your fantasies."

"And if you ever want me to do it again you'll shut your filthy, fucking mouth," you grumble.

"Who says I would want that." Rahm's eyes are twinkling mischievously.

"Oh, you will," you snarl through gritted teeth. And with that you release his hand and grab his dick, jerking him off so forcefully that he emits a tiny whimper that you're sure you'll never hear again. You find a fast but steady rhythm, matching your thrusts with the pace of your hand until finally you feel his muscles contract around you and miraculously, you climax together.

There is no afterglow. You pull away from him as soon as you've gotten your breath and you smile to yourself when you see him sag a bit against the column. You're quite pleased with yourself as you do up your pants and turn your back on the thoroughly fucked Rahm. "Remember," you say, just loud enough that he can hear you over the rain. "If you so much as bump into him in the hall, I swear I'll bend you over my desk and fuck you until you bleed."

You're about to walk away when you hear his response. "Looking forward to it."

/Slut/

Oh President, My President

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 03:00:56 GMT

Title: Oh President, My President
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com)
Pairing: Joe/Barack/Rahm
Rating: NC-17 for glorious, glorious man sex
Summary: Joe notices that Rahm and Barack are awfully close. And he doesn't like it. Second person Joey POV.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum. Also, slut is Swedish for "end." Look it up.
Notes: Idea planted by alicebluegown16, encouraged on by shrinkwrap666, and dedicated to all you lovely ladies who encouraged me after my last fic. I spent most of my day working on this, but it has not been beta'd mostly for the shock value and my supreme lack of faith that it would be well received. Also, I would like to note that for some reason the porn would just not flow unless I forced it (for a few hours I considered just abandoning the porn and post it as a drabble) so if it sucks... blame the boys for not complying with the sexins. And without further ado...

You see him lean in close to the man sitting next to him. You see his lips moving but you are too far away to read them much less hear what he's saying. The man he is speaking to smiles and turns to whisper something back, his lips just a breath away from the president's ear.

Your president.

Hot rage and jealousy starts to boil inside you as you watch them. Your president is now leaning into the other man, their shoulders touching comfortably as they trade whispers regarding God only knows (surely not the report that is being given). All the while you try to ignore them, but your eyes keep straying hopelessly back to their almost disconcerting closeness, and each time you feel yourself come undone a little more.

That was only the first of many cozy moments you've spied them sharing. Rahm would tell a story or joke and Barack would laugh and touch his arm, just as he used to do to you. At staff meetings their eyes would linger on each other a little too long, with that hungry emotion behind their cool facades that you are all too familiar with.

And sometimes Barack would come to you when you're working late at night, throw the contents of your desk to the floor, and pull you atop him, his mouth hot and heavy against your skin. In the afterglow he'd kiss you tenderly and say, "Thanks Joe," as if nothing else mattered in the world.

So you do your best to swallow your jealousy every time they get close, because you still have the scratch marks down your back as proof that he's still your president.

You've almost completely put it from your mind, when you spot Rahm walking rather hastily out of a staff meeting, Barack in tow. His face is deeply red and the pair of them look uncomfortable and anxious. You feel that familiar seething surge and you start to follow them, your mind racing with ideas of what you would like to do to Rahm if you ever got your hands on him.

They are walking quickly and seemingly without notice to anyone (the occasional nod aside). It seems as though they don't even realize that you are trailing them, your eyes fixated on the hurried and awkward movements of your president. After a few minutes of weaving and winding through the halls, the pair duck into a generally unused room, quietly closing the door behind them.

You'd have to be stupid not to realize what is happening now. You don't have to close your eyes to imagine the way Rahm pulls Barack in for a deep kiss, his fingers already exploring the body that you have come to know and love. But you do. You don't have to edge closer to the door to hear the muffled noise of strained pleasure and hurried lust. But you do. You don't have to toe open the door just a crack to know what's going on beyond it. But you do.

The hinges creak when you nudge the door, but neither man seems to notice. And after a quick glance inside you can see why.

Your president is naked from the waist down, leaning against the dusty desk and gripping its edge as if for dear life, his head thrown back in pleasure as Rahm's mouth moves restlessly up and down his cock.

You thought that if you saw this happening you'd be hurt. You certainly thought you'd be angry. But one thing you didn't expect to feel was arousal. But even so, as Barack moves a hand to the back of Rahm's head, guiding and urging him to continue, you can feel yourself grow hard rapidly. Its when Rahm's hand slides up to squeeze the cock in his mouth and the president makes that noise that you shift your weight, your erection now bulging between your thighs. The pace of Rahm's lips moving up and down Barack's length is quickening, and you're starting to entertain the idea of touching yourself when your president's brown eyes spring open in a burst of passion and he spots you hovering behind the cracked door.

"Joe?"

Instantly Rahm stands up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and wearing a grin that only makes your blood boil. "No one saw us did they?"

"Just me," you reply, your angry jealousy plainly evident in your voice as you move inside and firmly close the door behind you. "And by the way, where do you get the nerve -"

"Joe, I wanted this." Your eyes snap to Barack, who is wearing a pleading expression. "There are some things that you - you just don't do. And I need it. And Rahm, god, he's just so --" He cuts himself off there, no doubt at the fire boiling behind your normally sparkling blue eyes.

Rahm, however rolls his eyes at you. "I wouldn't worry, baby," he says to your president. "He was obviously enjoying watching me suck you off." He nods at you and suddenly it becomes clear to you that your erection is obvious through your pants. Too late, you quickly adjust yourself.

"Come now, Joe," Rahm murmurs, smiling coyly. "There's no reason we can't share him."

But its Barack who convinces you. Spying your inner turmoil in trying to decide between jealousy and lust, he sidles over and cups your already throbbing cock in his hand. He captures your earlobe between his lips, kissing softly before whispering. "Take me."

You've never been known for your self control, and this was the moment of all moments to lose it totally. Barack's hot breath on your neck is driving you insane and before you can think, you throw an arm around his waist, pulling him close, and kiss him deeply. You can feel his erection against your thigh and you start to feel dizzy. You know Rahm is watching on curiously, but you don't care as you hold your president against you. When the two of you come up for air, his eyes are twinkling with mischief.

"Lube?" You grunt, the feeling of Barack's warmth against your skin urging you to hasten.

"Got it," Rahm says, fishing in his pocket and extracting a small tube.

You snatch it a little more harshly than you probably mean (what is he doing carrying it around with him?) and quickly disrobe, throwing your clothes unceremoniously into the fast growing pile of clean, pressed shirts and dark slacks.

"Sit on the desk," Rahm tells you and you can't help but feel irritated. "Get yourself ready. I'll prepare him." The look that he gives your president is filthy, but his words send a electric pulse to your cock, so you don't protest.

You squeeze a bit of lubricant over your erection before tossing the tube back to Rahm, who now has Barack bent over the arm of a chair. Unable to look away, you look on as he slicks up two fingers before sliding one easily inside Barack.

The president's head rolls back and his eyes flutter shut beautifully, a soft moan escaping his lips. You feel another pang of jealousy as well as an equal surge of pure need when Rahm pumps the finger in and out, then adding a second and repeating the process. You don't even notice when your hand starts to slide up and down your shaft, matching Rahm's rhythm. The three of you continue on like this, in almost a trance like state, and it is Barack who breaks the silence with a breathy whisper, "That's enough. I'm ready."

His hips are warm to the touch when you grab them, guiding him to your lap. You feel more than hear him draw a deep breath as you touch your cock to his entrance. And then he slides down tantalizingly and deliciously slow.

Stars instantly pop behind your eyes as his muscles reflexively tightening around you. You've never let him take control like this before and though it is still you inside him, this is something you can get used to. He rolls his hips when he reaches the base of your shaft and you let out a low, guttural moan - something at which Rahm chuckles.

"Careful, Joe, you're going to get us caught."

So you bite down on Barack's shoulder.

Your president chokes down a whimper of pain and pleasure, and you like the sound, so you kiss up to his ear, whispering hotly, "Faster."

His head drops back onto your shoulder and he whimpers again, sliding his hips up and back down again, finding a steady rhythm that is making you dizzy. You kiss his neck once more before finding a patch of skin you like and nibbling on it without preamble.

"God - Joe - I need -" Barack is moaning, and you glance up briefly from his flawless skin to meet Rahm's gaze. He nods and lowers himself between the president's legs and out of sight. Guessing what is about happen next, you slide a hand over Barack's mouth, and not a second too soon as he lets out a strangled cry, Rahm's lips sliding once more over his cock.

His hips buck up into Rahm's mouth, so you take the opportunity to thrust deep inside him, eliciting another deep throated moan from him. Your eyes roam down his perfect body to find Rahm staring up at you and you can almost see him grin around Barack's cock. Together, you push hard into your president and Rahm swallows him whole, and finally he loses it, nearly screaming against your hand, seed spilling into Rahm's waiting mouth.

"Just a little longer," you hear yourself murmur through gritted teeth, quickening the pace of your thrusts. In the end, it is Rahm who pushes you over the brink, breathing in your ear, "Finish inside him, Joe." And you do. Your orgasm comes hard and you collapse against Barack's back, still clinging to his waist hopelessly.

When you've caught your breath, Barack slides off you with a shudder and you spot Rahm in the corner - still fully clothed and shaking his head, a smug grin on his features.

"Next time," he says as you start to clean yourself up. "You're in the middle."

Faith and My Two Hands

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 22:22:39 GMT

Title: Faith and My Two Hands
Author: Kerry Ann; thecenterlane@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com
Pairing: Barack/Joe
Rating: PG13
Summary: A private Inauguration Night moment. Barack second person POV.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but it’s awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum. Also, slut is Swedish for "end." Look it up.
Notes: First time, don’t hate. :-/ (That can be read as: I’M SO NERVOUS THAT THIS WILL SUCK PLZ DON’T FLAME ME.) Not very long, written in less than an hour ~~at work~~. Enjoy plz?

You are leaning against your new desk as he thanks and ushers out the last of your lingering aides.

"And let me say one last time," the young intern is saying, smiling toothily. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, thank you. I mean it, thank you." Then the door closes with soft click and you're alone with him.

He turns back to face you, his "politician's" smile still on his lips but its fading fast into something more genuine as his eyes fall on the Oval Office that you will share with him. He crosses the room in a few short strides and joins you in leaning on the edge of the desk.

Your shoulders are touching and even through your thick suit you can feel the warm glow emanating from him. It’s hard to fathom why, but for the first time that night - or even the past several months – you feel somewhat peaceful.

The two of you remain there in silence for a few moments, listening to the activity outside the office slowly fade away. The hard wood of the desk is starting to cramp your thighs, but you are unwilling to move, taking comfort in your companion's close presence.

Finally, he looks at you and you feel compelled to return his gaze. His eyes are twinkling and he looks - for lack of a better description - amazed and amazing. "Well," he says softly. "We did it. We're here."

You gently return the smile, but it is followed through with a heavy sigh. Ever the pragmatist, your mind quickly darts away from this quiet and wonderful moment with your confidante to the deserts of Afghanistan, to the crisis on Wall Street, finally resting on your poverty stricken nation. "Yes," you reply. "But now we have to deal with everything else."

"That's true," he is saying now, his smile softening. "But you've got me to help you. And trust me, buddy, I'll need your help too."

It’s the sincerity in his eyes that chokes you up and it strikes you now more than ever that you made the right choice. He is leaning towards you now, almost imperceptibly - as if he's not sure he should. But you close the distance and for the briefest of moments your lips brush against his, sending an electric pulse through your body.

It lasts barely a second, but even as he pulls away you can still sense his taste on your lips. His blue eyes are poring into your brown ones as he leans his forehead against yours and, god, you never want to look away.

"Can I count on you?" He asks, his breath tickling your cheek.

"Always," you breathe back and you’ve never spoken a truer word.

Slut.

Lullaby (You're No Good)

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 06:42:31 GMT

Title: Lullaby (You're No Good)
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com)
Fandom: Ocean's Eleven
Pairing: Rusty/Tess, heavily referenced Rusty/Danny
Rating: NC-17 for sex and one f-bomb
Summary: While Danny's in jail, Rusty and Tess find solace in each other. Rusty second person POV.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum. Also, slut is Swedish for "end." Look it up.
Notes: I recently rewatched Ocean's 11 and this bunny would not leave me alone. First and most likely last time delving into this fandom. I particularly enjoyed writing this, despite the fact that no one will read it. I dipped into a bit of a different writing style for me. I'm starting to see quotation marks as distracting, so I'm beginning to avoid them all together. If it doesn't work let me know. No, seriously. Oh, and I haven't actually seen the second and third movies in their entireties, so if any of this is supremely not-canon (well, besides the obvious) I claim ignorance. Unbeta'd, written in about an hour after I had gotten out of bed to get it out of my head. So if its crap, sorry. If not, more power to me. And finally the title, theme, and beginning lyrics are taken from the song Lullaby from Shock Treatment. Enjoy!

Oh what a joke;
You feel like choking.
You play for broke,
It leaves you smoking

Romance is not a children's game.
But you keep going back; its driving you insane.

/////

Its a Tuesday night (the 78th of his 120 days in prison) and it's damned hot. The shower is running in the other room, sounding inviting and yet repulsing. A cigarette hangs between your lips, leaving a lazy smoke trail up to the ceiling before dissipating. Stale sweat and come clings to your rippled skin, yet you continue to ignore the thunder of the shower. You take a long slow drag on your cancer stick before finally asking the question that you've been actively avoiding for the last twenty minutes.

What the hell just happened?

You're not quite sure what the answer is anymore, and furthermore you can't tell if this feeling coursing through you now is either guilt or relief.

/////

She is sitting on the opposite end of the couch from where you are perched, clutching a wine glass filled with her favorite blush and wearing a smile that belied the deep, rich laugh she just shared with you. She'd come over for dinner like she had every Tuesday night since the beginning of his incarceration, and like every Tuesday night the pair of you retreated to the den where stories about the old days were told and your own private memories of him were recalled. You had just told a particularly hilarious anecdote involving a nudity, a round of black cat firecrackers, and the hooker who started it all, when she stops laughing, her eyes clouding over with that familiar emotion.

You miss him, you say. Not a question, but a statement you've never had the courage to admit to yourself.

Yes, she replies and when she looks in your eyes you know she hears the unspoken 'Me too.'

Neither of you talk for the rest of the night, seemingly reading each other's minds in that way you were always able to read his. When she nods she saying You love him and that's okay, and when she lays her hand on your arm she's whispering I'll be yours if you be mine. You don't have to ask to know that she means 'him.'

She guides you to your bedroom, slinking out of her clothes with skill and swiftness. It hasn't been so long since last you saw a naked woman's body, but even as you harden beneath your jeans you wonder when it's allure to you had faded.

You don't protest as she undresses you and pulls you onto the bed with her. Your lips never meet; he was never one to kiss while fucking. He was much more into the moment of feeling skin against skin, and often said that kissing was a romantic gesture too civil for the carnal act of sex. She helps you roll on the condom before lying back and spreading her legs, inviting you in.

It's been a long time since you were in this position. With him you were always on your back, your knees hooked over his shoulders and his hand languidly stroking your cock as he slowly and deliberately rocked into you. You had almost forgotten what it was like to look down at your lover, so accustomed you were to staring up at him.

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't realize that she moves your hand to her breast, silently instructing to squeeze. This must have been something he enjoyed doing to her, but lacking breasts yourself he never attempted the same in your bed. You massage gently and when she moans Danny you shiver, remembering your name on his lips and how it almost drove you to the brink.

She's not as tight as he was the one time he allowed you to take control. You knew he was in pain, it was obvious by the expression etched in his otherwise graceful features, but he still had the audacity to time you. You lasted two minutes and thirty-six seconds before you collapsed on top of him, seed spilling from you in a rush. He'd felt exquisite around you, a sensation he'd let you become addicted to but failed to supply the drug since. After you had regained your breath, he immediately pushed into you with such force that it brought tears to your eyes. You can't help but recall the way he dragged his teeth over your earlobe, whispering harshly Remember this.

Her nails scratch down your back and it reminds you of how much he liked to do that; he said the pain sharpened your senses. He was right, of course. He was always right. Her legs wrap around your waist, forcing you deeper, and the stars that pop behind your eyes are all too reminiscent of the ones you saw every time he thrust into you.

When you finally come, you throw your head back and you ride it out, just like you always watched him do, before collapsing on top of her. You're careful not to let your chin touch her skin as you have not shaved. He hadn't been so considerate that first time, when he rolled off you, his stubble scraping across your shoulder. You had shivered and adopted an accusing tone, You're no good. He just smirked back, reaching between your legs to prepare you for a second go-around, murmuring back You're no good.

Slut.

Tomorrow We Can Drive Around This Town

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 01:21:02 GMT

Title: Tomorrow We Can Drive Around This Town
Author: Kerry Ann; thecenterlane@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com
Pairing: Sirius/James
Rating NC-17
Summary: PWP from a second person Sirius POV
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: First, this is a response fic to the Potter storycard that JKR wrote (you can find it here if you haven't read it yet). Second, this was supposed to be just a PG13 drabble but then James got all handsy and it just went down (up?) hill from there. My idea is that it takes place between fifth and sixth year, and (obvs) just before the events of the storycard. Third, the title is a lyric from Gin Blossom's Hey Jealousy which, after the story card, has Sirius/James written all over it. And lastly, its PORN people so if that's not your cup of tea click away now. For everyone else – enjoy!

It is hot out and the air conditioner is broken. The window is thrown open and the hint of a breeze is teasing you just beyond it. The street lamp outside has been broken for weeks now (you may or may not have had something to do with that) so that the only light filtering in is from the nearly full moon. Its positioning in the sky tonight is perfect in that its casting an almost ethereal glow on your lover's sweat drenched body.

He is lying next to you on the bed, unashamedly naked and beautiful, stretched out before you as his chest rises and falls with his deep even breathing. His dark locks are even more unruly than usual after what you just did to him and his hazel eyes are currently half-opened in some sort of post-coital daze. You know he is not asleep because you can feel his fingers trailing up and down your thigh, every now and then threatening to brush over your cock (which is still soft and sensitive from your most recent fuck) and you can't help but wonder at his constant need for you.

You know that in a few hours the alarm under the bed will go off and you'll have to sneak back into your own bedroom to offer the image to your guardians that you are not sleeping with their son. Admittedly, you doubt that they don't suspect already but its best to keep up appearances if you want to continue having nights like these when all is calm and he is available for the taking.

Presently, you gasp as the hand on your thigh moves suddenly to grip your cock, stroking it into swiftening hardness. You flick your eyes to your lover, who is no longer wearing an expression of sleepy bliss but one of mischievous lust.

"Prongs," you breathe, unconsciously pulling him closer to you. "I admire your insatiable desire, but you seem to have forgotten - we've only just had a particularly mind blowing fuck. Surely you're not ready to go again?"

"What's the matter, Padfoot," he whispers back, flicking his thumb over the head of your now erection. "Don't think you can keep up?"

You grunt slightly, the combination of his hand on your cock and his perfect skin pressed against yours is enough to make you lightheaded. "On the contrary," you reply, your voice in a husky murmur. "I just don't want to hurt you."

He snorts and slows the pace of his strokes to a stop. His eyes are locked on yours and an expression you can't name is dominating his features. "You could never hurt me."

Against your own volition, your heart skips a beat and in that moment you know it is impossible to resist.

You crawl atop him, hooking his knees over your shoulders while simultaneously searching for the long since discarded tub of lubricant. Your fingers close over it just as you feel him touch your hand. You look back to him and find that unnameable emotion behind his eyes.

"I don't need it," he whispers.

You arch an eyebrow at this bold statement. "That's ambitious of you. Shall I at least put on a condom?"

He shakes his head at this. "I want to feel you."

You gaze at him for a long moment, wondering what on earth goes on inside that pretty head of his, but you've never been able to deny a direct request. You heave a sigh and position yourself at his entrance, your cock ready for him once more. "You let me know immediately if it becomes too much, alright?"

All he does is nod and take a breath before you press the length of your erection into him without preamble.

His breath catches in his chest and he whimpers just slightly, but he never tells you to stop. You know its hurting him, but, god, he wants this and so you push all the way in, holding for just a moment before rocking back once more, all the while ignoring the stinging of your own skin inside him.

Your instincts are telling you to quicken the pace and hasten the release, but for the moment you are actually enjoying the slow sensuality of it all. With every tantalizingly drawn out thrust you can see the pain etched so clearly on his face that is certainly mirrored on your own, but you're almost glad that it hurts - it makes the experience that much more memorable.

"Sirius," he whispers and the use of your first name somehow strikes you as significant. James was never one to talk during sex; he said it ruined the experience. If he ever needed to address you, he called you by your nickname - as if he was trying to marry the adult things the two of you shared to the childishness of your friendship. But tonight he called you 'Sirius' and your name has never sounded sweeter on his lips.

His orgasm comes first, spilling onto his belly and chest. He is panting for want of breath and his face is red from the pain, but he doesn't ask you to stop - he wants you to finish, he always does. When it finally hits you, you are deep within him, and you can only ride it out and hope that you aren't screaming.

When you are finished he pulls you to his chest and holds you close, ignoring the sticky sweat and come that still clings to his skin. The two of you catch your breath together, taking in the other's recently fucked scent and forever committing it to memory. You don't know why, but the distinct impression that your relationship with your best friend is different now. More mature, more real.

Presently his hand is in your hair and his lips are at your ear. "Sirius," he whispers, and you get goosebumps when he says your name. "Lets go for a drive."

Slut.

This Must Be What Hell Feels Like

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 03:02:21 GMT

Title: This Must Be What Hell Feels Like
Author: Kerry Ann (ohsobulletproof@livejournal.com, FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net, slashxmoose@deviantart.com)
Pairing: Aly/AJ
Rating: PG 13 for lesbian incest
Summary: During the Potential Breakup shoot, Aly notices feelings she didn't have before.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Yeah, yeah. I'm going to hell. I'm saving seats in my handbasket for all of yall who want to join me. Second person Alyson POV. Enjoy. Or at least don't flame me.

Sometimes its hard to remember you're related. Really, you're more like best friends than sisters. You've spent more time with her than anyone else you've ever known. When you were younger you used to fight - as all siblings do - but that bickering turned into good-natured banter as you began to grow up.

And really, its also hard to not get lost in it all. You've spent almost a decade watching, imitating, convincing yourself that if they do it, it must be okay.

So when the director tells you to "be sexy" you can almost feel your inhibitions slipping away and your instincts take over. You're not really thinking when you grab Amanda's shoulders and push her against the wall, perhaps a little too roughly. It doesn't feel wrong when you press yourself against her thin frame and breathe hotly into her ear. In fact you don't snap back to reality until the music stops and the director yells "CUT!"

"Wow Aly," he says, wearing an expression of masked shock. "I'm not gonna lie, I like where you're going with this, but it may be a little too risque for our target audience."

A few chuckles sound around the studio and you can feel yourself flush. "You said to be sexy," you reply weakly.

"Not that sexy," he says, still smiling broadly. "Look, you can do the same thing if you want, just tone it down a bit. Go back and walk up again. We'll take it from the top of the bridge."

As you shuffle back to the starting point, avoiding eye contact sheepishly, you feel Amanda at your shoulder.

"What was that about," she says quietly, an unreadable expression on her face.

You force a casual shrug as the crew around you preps to start shooting again. "I don't know," you say truthfully, unable to look your sister in the eye. "It just felt right."

"I think I know what you mean," Amanda replies with a nod.

The next time you walk forward Amanda plays with you. She grabs your hand and swings it, and for a moment you think that this isn't what you had meant at all, but then she pulls you towards her, wrapping her free arm around your hips.

The director cuts again, saying that maybe this scene should wait until tomorrow.

You're released to go back to your hotel room, which is the first indication you get of the time. Its getting on to midnight, and the day's work finally catches up to you as you throw yourself on your bed. You drape an arm across your eyes and try to relax when the events of the shoot flash across your mind, and suddenly you feel a strange longing urge.

Amanda chooses that moment to use the spare key to your room and let herself in. "Oh," she says quietly. "Were you going to sleep."

"No," you sigh. "I don't think I'll be able to for a while." You sit up to make room for her and when she sits next to you that same urge pulses through you.

"So," she says rather suddenly. "I was thinking we could practice that scene a bit."

"What, you mean practice making it not sexy?" You chuckle at the thought.

"Well sort of," she replies, something of an embarrassed tone in her voice.

You look at her and when she smiles at you, you feel your knees go weak, though you can hardly explain why. "Sure," you respond, still recovering.

"Great," Amanda says, jumping up. "I brought the demo cd...." She crosses to the dvd player and puts in the cds, but its not until the familiar music starts up that you stand.

When it gets to the bridge you walk forward with her, holding hands and trying to smile. It doesn't feel the same as earlier, you think to yourself.

Amanda seems to notice this as well, because she stops walking. "I can't think of any not-sexy things to do."

You can feel yourself swallow hard. "Can you think of any sexy things to do?"

A pause. "Yeah, a couple."

Your heart is pounding in your chest now and you don't know why. "Well lets try those and maybe we can figure out how to tone them down for tomorrow."

She nods and starts the music over. This time when the bridge starts, she grabs you by the hips and pulls your body against hers. Her lips are dangerously close to your ear, her breath is sending tingles down your spine. Her hands slide down a little, pulling your hips even closer and then quite suddenly her lips are on yours.

The kiss lasts just a second, but the effect is astounding. In the few moments that your lips are touching, you feel more deeply connected with Amanda then you ever thought you could, and you instantly become addicted to that feeling. You want to touch more of her, want to stay like this for much longer - but then she is drawing away, looking hesitant.

"I'm sorry," she said a little breathlessly. "Was that bad?"

Your chest is heaving and that carnal urge is coursing through like fire. "No," you reply. "That was perfect. Let me try." And then your brain shuts off, your instincts taking over. You take her by the shoulders and push her against the wall as you did before, pressing your bodies together, this time taking her lips with your own. You vaguely feel her hands at your waist once more, pulling you as close to her as she can manage. The heat of her body against yours is making you dizzy, but Amanda has one last trick on your sleeve.

Quite suddenly, still griping your hips, she pushes herself off the wall. Making sure that her lips never leave yours, she spins around and falls backward, pulling you with her. Its so lucky the bed was there.

The next day your director doesn't see anything wrong with the way you shot the scene, but he did seem to miss all the subtle things that make you go crazy all day long. Things like Amanda's hugs that linger too long, because she is whispering in your ear "Same time, same place."

Slut.

Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 18:56:48 GMT

Title: Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane OR ohsobulletproof (livejournal); slashxmoose (deviantart); FructoseLollipop (fanfiction dot net)
Pairing: none
Rating: PG 13 just cause
Summary: Its Harry's first birthday and everyone's invited, but Sirius and Remus are suspicious that the other is Voldemort's spy.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but it’s awkward when it sucks. I love reviews but I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: So, I decided to turn my Potter fic into a Fall Out Boy songset, this being the second of which. To avoid confusion, they are not all in the same story line, so there really isn't a connection between this one and the last one save the titles are both FOB songs. That said, the whole premise of this story is based off two lines from Prisoner of Azkaban that I've never seen expanded upon, nor is it ever mentioned again in the canon, so I thought I'd explore it a bit. The line:

“You don't believe this... wouldn't Sirius have told you they'd changed the plan?”
“Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter,” said Lupin. “I assume that's why you didn't tell me Sirius?” he said casually over Pettigrew's head.
“Forgive me, Remus,” said Black
“Not at all, Padfoot, old friend,” said Lupin, who was now rolling up his sleeves. “And in turn forgive me for believing you were the spy?”

I just feel in the sweep of the R/S shippers, writers tend to forget that there was a period of time that they suspected each other more than anyone else they knew. This is pretty harsh for a group of friends so close. So that's why this I wrote this. There is no pairing, and it’s as close to canon as I could manage. Please enjoy!

Strike us like matches, cause everyone deserves the flames
We only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame
At least everyone is trying, everyone is shining
Everyone deserves the flames but it's such a shame

-------------------------------------------------------------

James grinned and swung his young son high over his head, his smile widening at Harry's little giggles as he did so.

A year old. It had been a year already. The proud father cuddled his baby in his arms, tickling him slightly with his free hand. It was a shame such a smiling and happy child had to be born in a world so dark and grim. The young couple hadn't known peace in months. They had to move every few weeks, they didn't know who to trust. The birth of their son a year ago had been a bright spot against a life of darkness.

James shook the thought from his mind. Today was supposed to be a happy day, after all, and there was no time to be reflecting about a fate he couldn't have altered. With another fatherly grin, he tossed his boy slightly in the air and caught him with ease, Harry positively screaming with delight.

At that moment the door bell rang and Lily's voice came from the kitchen, asking him to answer it for her.

Swinging Harry onto his shoulders, James skipped happily to the door and threw it open, his eyes falling on his devilishly handsome best friend Sirius.

“Dear God Prongs,” Sirius said, peering up at the boy on his friend's shoulders. “He is a brute, isn't he? He must be the ugliest thing I have ever seen.... He looks just like you!” Ignoring the glare James had just shot him, he reached up and tickled Harry under his chin, who erupted into giggles. “I swear, its fortunate he got Lily's eyes, otherwise there would be no hope for him.”

“What was that?”

Lily had just entered the entry hall, wiping her hands her apron, smiling warmly. She gave a quick hug and kiss on the cheek to Sirius, then gave a disapproving eye to James, who quailed and took the baby down.

“Lily, I can't lie – he's the ugliest baby I've ever seen.”

“Isn't he?” Lily replied happily, taking her child into her arms. “Just like his dad, eh?”

“Lay off you two, will ya!” James said, fighting to keep from smiling.

“Can I trust you to not let James terrorize the baby while I finish dinner?” Lily asked, passing Harry off to his godfather.

“James!” Sirius said, sounding scandalized as he cuddled the baby. “You haven't been showing him your old school photos have you! That would horrify anyone...”

“Only 'cause you're in them, Padfoot,” James shot back.

“Old tosh,” Sirius replied, moving into the living room. “Harry's going to wish that he had my looks when he starts chasing girls.”

“I'd like to remind you that I'm the one with a wife and child, Padfoot,” James pointed out good-naturedly.

“Low blow, mate.”

The pair settled themselves comfortably on the couch, Sirius's gray eyes inspecting baby Harry's face. “It’s amazing,” he said, no trace of sarcasm in his voice now. “Its amazing how much he looks like you already. By the time he's fifteen they'll think you're brothers.”

“I certainly hope so,” James said, adopting a pained expression. “Anything to be compared to a fifteen year old. Do you realize I'll be nearly forty when he's a teenager?” He shuddered at the very thought.

It was at that moment that Lily entered the living room, her eyes flicking to the wall clock. "Merlin, James. Where on earth are the others? It’s after six already and Harry's got to be down by eight."

James glanced to the clock too. "Peter sent a message saying he got tied up with something and he'd be running a late, but I haven't heard from old Moony yet."

Sirius looked up sharply. “You invited Remus?”

James missed the tone and slid off the couch to the floor, stretching out lazily. “Yeah. It’s not like him to be late either. I wonder what's keeping him.”

“Yes,” Sirius said, his expression darkening. “I do too.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

They say, "You want a war? You've got a war."
But who are you fighting for?

-------------------------------------------------------------

Following James, Sirius moved to sit on the carpet, careful not to crush anything beneath him; the floor was positively littered with a wide array of toys and other various baby related things. He made to set Harry in his lap, but as soon as the child's eyes fell on all the available play things he started to whine.

“Give him the broomstick, it’s his favorite.” James said, something of a proud smile gracing his features. “I swear if Lily wasn't so sure that he'd break his neck, I'd have him riding one.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I'm guessing you've already got him his own snitch to play with?”

“Of course!” James replied with a grin. “He's not my son if he can't impress the ladies with his lightening reflexes.”

“No, unfortunately, that makes him your son more than ever.”

James chuckled and stood. "Can you watch the sprat for a minute, Padfoot? Nature calls."

Sirius shook his head and rolled over onto his back, lifting Harry up over his head playfully. "Yeah, yeah. Get out of here you scumbag."

He received a jolly kick in the ribs for the remark and James sauntered out of the living room. For a moment there was silence, save for the Harry's happy gurgles as Sirius waved him around in the air.

"Yeah, you're not so bad," Sirius muttered, plopping the baby down on his chest. Harry giggled.

It was at that point that the doorbell rang and Lily's voice called out from the kitchen, "Will one of you boys get that? I'm having a potato crisis in here!"

"I'll get it," Sirius replied, standing and swinging Harry onto his shoulders as James had done. "But so help me if my potatoes aren't made to perfection then I'm taking Harry hostage."

"Just get the bloody door!"

Sirius chuckled to himself and strode to the door, putting a little bounce in his step to keep Harry interested, pulling it open when he reached it.

"Oh, hello Sirius...." Remus Lupin's tired, gray eyes flicked over the child perched precariously atop Sirius's shoulders then back down again to the man himself. "I didn't realize you were going to be here." He said blankly.

Sirius arranged his face in a sneer. "Of course. I'm Harry's godfather." Presently, he pulled Harry down and cradled him defensively, his eyes never leaving Remus's. "Not that you're one to talk. Isn't the full moon coming up in a few days?"

The other man fought to keep his face straight. "Yes," he replied coldly. "But I wouldn't miss Harry's birthday for the world."

"Moony!"

James appeared behind Sirius, grinning broadly. "Glad you could make it. I know you can't be feeling too good." He gave an unnecessary wink.

Remus forced a wry smile onto his lips. "I'm well enough for this. May I come in?"

"Well yeah," James laughed, starting to lead the way into the den. "We're all here now except for Peter, and good thing too because it sounds like dinner's almost ready."

Sirius hesitated for the briefest of moments, a hidden glare behind his eyes, but then he too turned on his heel and marched stiffly into the living room still clutching baby Harry to his chest.

"So, how've you been?" James asked Remus casually, throwing himself unceremoniously onto the couch. "Heard about that new potion that supposed to cure werewolves?"

"Yes," Remus replied heavily, choosing a seat far from where Sirius was now playing with Harry. "But I'm not optimistic. As far as I've heard the best results they've had with it is instead of turning into a true werewolf at the full moon the victim transforms into a normal wolf." He shrugged. "But even if that is the case, I'll take it. Anything's better than a typical transformation."

"They weren't all bad," Sirius said from his spot on the floor, something of a smirk on his face. "We managed to make the most of them."

"Yes, well, you weren't the one who had to become a monster every month," Remus replied stiffly. His eyes traveled over Harry's small form, then he turned to James. "May I hold him? I haven't seen him in a while."

"No!" Sirius said a little too severely.

James raised his eyebrows at his best friend and Sirius recovered himself. "Harry's my hostage to make sure Lily doesn't ruin the potatoes."

This excuse seemed good enough for James who let out a hearty laugh. "I'll never see my son again," he replied with a grin.

"I heard that!" Lily's voice sounded. "And I'll have you know that the next person who has a go at my potatoes won't get any."

"Thank god," Sirius muttered.

"You want to miss out on the whole dinner?"

The three men shared a long laugh and for a brief moment it almost felt back to the way it was in school. Before the dark times. But then the laughter quietened and left in its wake was an odd silence filled with a palpable tension that James sensed but didn't understand.

The silence lingered a moment longer, each man lost in his own thoughts when once more the doorbell chimed through the house.

"That'll be Peter," James said, heaving himself to his feet. "Sirius let Remus hold the hostage for a bit. He's not dangerous for a few days yet, so I'm not too worried." He smiled cheerily but walked away before he could notice that it was not returned.

Sirius stood and gingerly held Harry out to Remus. "Don't you dare hurt him," he whispered harshly under his breath.

"I would never," Remus replied bitterly. He reached for the child with gentle hands, cradling his small body with as much tenderness as he possessed. In the brief moment during the changing of hands, Harry looked as though he was going to start bawling but he took one look at Remus’s weary face and started cooing happily once more.

Remus smiled his first truly happy smile in weeks. But in the next moment it had twisted into a sardonic smirk as he looked up at Sirius, who was now wearing a resentful expression.

“See Remus,” James said, who had returned with Peter at his side. “He’s not as ugly as Padfoot made him out to be.”

“He’s beautiful James,” Remus replied, setting Harry on his knee.

Sirius rolled his eyes at this. “Moony, you must have lost it. That child is a down-right monster. Isn’t that right Wormtail?”

Peter, who appeared as though he was in some sort of trance gazing Harry in Remus’s lap, started at the sound of his childhood nickname. “Oh yes,” he replied. “He’s James’s son after all.” He smiled hesitantly.

“I hate you all,” James muttered, taking a seat on the couch, but his grin betrayed his feelings.

“I like your new place,” Peter said, whose eyes were now raking over the walls. “It’s very cozy.”

“Yeah,” James replied shrugging. “I’m trying not to get too attached to this one. I know as soon as I start to like it Dumbledore will send an owl saying that we’ve got to pack up and leave again, because Voldemort’s found us out somehow.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “At least you have the opportunity to escape. It sounds like Dumbledore’s got you well looked after.”

“But he’s starting to get tired,” Sirius cut in. “His security is slipping elsewhere. Did you hear about the Prewetts?”

A collective shudder went around the room and for a brief moment even baby Harry was silent.

“Well the good news is that Dumbledore says he’s very close to finding out the spy,” James said, flicking his eyes to Sirius.

However Sirius’s gaze was fixed on Remus’s face, his gray eyes boring into the other man unblinkingly. Remus met the stare briefly, but then busied himself with entertaining Harry. Peter coughed awkwardly.

They were saved by Lily bouncing into the room, very flushed and looking rather pleased with herself. “Okay boys, dinner is ready, and so help me Sirius Orion Black not a word about the potatoes.”

“James!” Cried Sirius indignantly. “You told her my middle name!”

James let out a less than manly giggle and ducked behind his wife. “Save me Lily!”

-------------------------------------------------------------

The tides out, the ship's run aground
We drown traitors in shallow water

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dinner was fairly enjoyable, save for the tussle Sirius and Remus had over who got to sit next to Harry. James thought it was very funny and sat them at the head and end of the table, allowing Lily and Peter to sit on either side of the child. The food itself was a mark of how good Lily was at – well – everything. She had even forced a potato on everyone’s plate, and it was delicious, though none of the boys would admit to it.

Afterwards, Harry was given his birthday presents he sat contentedly in his high chair and banged his various toys around, trying to make as much noise as he could while the adults sat around the table contentedly sipping elderflower wine. It seemed that the evening would end peacefully, if it hadn’t been for Lily cropping up the topic that had been on everyone’s minds whether they liked it or not.

“Did James tell you that Dumbledore found out a little more about the traitor?” Lily had meant it as casual conversation; it was such good news after all. She took the silence that had befallen the boys to mean that they had not heard and so she plowed on unabashedly. “Yes, he thinks that it’s someone in our inner circle.” She cast her eyes around at the uncomfortable expressions. “Not that we think its any of you of course,” she added quickly.

“That’s a very dangerous mentality, Lily,” Remus said quietly. “In your situation you cannot afford to think that way. You must suspect everyone.”

“But surely not you three,” Lily replied, a slightly shocked tone in her voice now. “You’re James’s closest friends.”

“Yes, but Voldemort is the master of lies and deception. Its possible for him to have gained a follower in one of your friends and whoever this false friend maybe, he is now working against you.” Remus paused here and cast his gaze down the table to Sirius. “No matter how close you think you are.”

Sirius's eyes narrowed and it took every once of willpower to hold his face straight. "Well then, I would like to propose a toast," he said, sparing half a glance at James and Lily. He lifted his glass, his eyes locked once more on Remus's. "Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends."

James chuckled good-naturedly, Peter choked on his wine, and Lily merely rolled her eyes.

But Remus's lips curled into a smile that matched Sirius's. "Hear, hear," he murmured and drained his goblet.

-------------------------------------------------------------
Strike us like matches, cause everyone deserves the flames
We only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame
At least everyone is trying, everyone is shining
Everyone deserves the flames but it's such a shame

SLUT (end)

What Could Have Been: The Wine Cellar

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 03:06:31 GMT

Series: What We Don’t Get to See
Title: What Could Have Been: The Wine Cellar
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane OR ohsobulletproof [livejournal.com]; slashxmoose [deviantart.com]; FructoseLollipop [fanfiction.net])
Pairing: Chandler/Monica
Rating: NC-17 for SEXY SEX
Summary: What could have happened had they managed to get the wine cellar to themselves.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen. Not mine. Don’t sue.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex: always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I’m not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: So here's part two of my C/M porn series! I know this didn't actually happen in the canon, but isn't it nice to imagine? Besides writing normal porn gets boring. You have to throw kinks in there sometimes. Anyway, I've gotten a few requests and I promise I'll write them as I get to them, so if you have any ideas throw them my way. Coming next, plane!sex! Enjoy!

Chandler paced the small wine cellar nervously. While he waited for Monica he had done a
thorough inspection of the room and found it an ideal place for the getaway they were seeking.
It was poorly lit and was filed with tall wine racks which cast dark shadows everywhere. There
was even a rickety old chair (which was probably used to stand on when trying to reach the
bottles at the top of the racks) that could be jammed up under the door handle, ensuring they
weren't walked in on. The floor was cement which would be rather uncomfortable but if he laid
his jacket out it would soften it up a little.

Suddenly the doorknob turned and Chandler's heart skipped a beat as Monica slipped inside, a
mischievous grin gracing her features. Her eyes locked on his and never left his face as they
moved closer together.

"Here we are," he said softly. She was within arm's length.

"Here we are," she agreed.

And then they were kissing again, and oh how sweet it was. Their lips met in furious passion,
and they held each other tight, each relishing the feel of the other's body against their own.
Monica's mouth opened slightly and Chandler took that opportunity to slip his tongue inside,
flicking over hers with vigor.

After several moments they broke away, still clinging to each other desperately.

"I missed this," Monica whispered against his lips.

"Mon, its only been twelve hours," Chandler replied, an eyebrow cocked.

Monica blushed slightly, something that looked rather becoming on her. "Twelve long hours. I
don't know why we've never done this before."

Chandler couldn't help but smile. "I know." He slid a hand up her back and found the zipper on
her dress, tugging at it impatiently. "We don't have much time."

"Then lets make the most of it," Monica whispered again, her breath tickling his ear which
caused him to shiver with desire. She shrugged her shoulders and the straps of her dress fell
off them. She offered a lustful smile and turned her back on Chandler. "Unzip me?"

"Just one moment," Chandler replied, his voice a little shaky. He went to the door, and propped
the chair against it, which effectively locked them in. Rather pleased with this outcome he
turned and discovered that Monica must be excellent at getting her clothes off in a hurry,
because she stood nude before him.

"I couldn't wait," she murmured.

Chandler swallowed hard, his eyes grazing over her skin hungrily, finally resting on her feet;
she was still wearing her stilletos. "Wow," he said roughly. "I've never found women's shoes
more attractive."

She smiled and took a step toward him, making sure her heels clicked on the cement floor.
"Maybe I'll just leave them on then." She reached him and pulled on his belt buckle. "Your turn
now."

He couldn't get out of his clothes fast enough. As he stripped, he marveled inwardly at how
many layers he had managed to put on that morning. Jacket, vest, tie, button up shirt,
undershirt, shoes, socks, pants, boxers. He kicked off the last of these hurriedly and pulled
her towards him in a flash, his mouth on hers, kissing wildly.

When the want for air became a necessity, their lips parted again unsurely. As if with one
mind, they sank to their knees, Chandler snatching up his discarded jacket and laying it out on
the floor for her. As soon as he was finished, Monica laid herself across it, pulling him on
top of her.

Chandler shuddered with desire, knowing that there was no time for foreplay this time around.
He kissed her neck, all down her collarbone to her breast where he stopped and sucked on the
nipple, while at the same time feeling around in his pants pocket for the condom he had placed
there (just in case).

Monica whimpered softly, which Chandler couldn't help but find incredibly erotic. For a moment,
he gave up his search for the condom and let his hand wander between her legs, brushing over
her clitoris gently.

At this, she moaned loudly, bucking her hips against his hand, begging him silently to
continue.

And he was only too happy to oblige. His tongue still swirling over her nipple, he teased her
entrance a little further before sliding the tip of his finger inside. He held it there for a
moment before pushing it in all the way to the knuckle, the noises coming from Monica spurring
him on. He pumped his fingers in and out, all the while sucking gently on her breast.
Meanwhile, he snuck a hand back over to the pile of clothes and continued his blind search for
the condom.

When he finally found it, he closed his hand over it and at the same time withdrew his fingers
from between Monica's legs. Somewhere above him, she gasped, "Tease."

Chandler moved his lips away from her breast and arranged his face in the most convincing pout
that he could manage. "That's not fair. Its not technically teasing if I plan on finishing what
I start." He sat back on his knees and tore open the condom, rolling it on without preamble.
When he resumed his position above her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, her stilletos
digging into his back. He moaned softly at this, the sensation not intense enough to be
painful, but just enough to be pleasurable.

He slipped an arm around her shoulder and gripped her hip with his free hand. He found her
entrance easily and hesitated there for the briefest of moments, but she pushed her hips
upwards and then he was inside her.

Monica moaned and leaned her head back with pleasure, using the position of her feet to push
Chandler's hips down on top of hers, forcing him deeper inside.

Chandler gasped, already feeling his muscles go weak. He rocked his hips forward, relishing the
feeling of her warmth around him. He pulled back and paused, torturing himself mostly, before
thrusting hard, his fingers digging into her hip. He smiled at her exposed neck and helped
himself to a nibble, enjoying the way she writhed beneath him. He kissed her skin all the way
up to her ear, matching his kisses with deep thrusts. When he found her earlobe he bit down on
it gently, breathing hotly against her skin.

A whimper formed itself on Monica's lips, and in retaliation she ground her hips upward and
clenched her muscles around him. "Two can play at that game," she murmured, squeezing his sides
between her thighs.

But Chandler had no time to respond. He was already seeing stars behind his eyes, his mind numb
from pleasurable sensation after pleasurable sensation. Presently, Monica's hands were poised
at the base of his neck and she raked her nails down his skin until she reached the small of
his back where her ankles were crossed. He moaned audibly at this, pushing his length as deep
as he could. He knew he would come soon, but he didn't want to leave Monica hanging.

An idea formed itself in his head and soon his hand at her hip was wandering away, down to the
juncture between her legs. He soon found what he was looking for and tickled her clitoris
gently before rolling his hips forward again.

She certainly would have screamed then if she had not the sense to close her mouth over the
nearest thing to it - which was Chandler's shoulder.

Something that was not quite pain flooded through him and without realizing it, he pushed into
her, seed spilling from him in a rush. He could feel his energy draining as he came, but he
sensed that she had not obtained her sweet release. His fingers danced over clit and he did the
first thing he could think of. "Come for me, Monica," he whispered hotly into her ear.

And for the second time in twelve hours, Monica emitted a groan as her orgasm hit hard. She bit
down hard on Chandler's shoulder as her muscles contracted and finally relaxed. She lay her
head back against the cement floor, her breath coming in quick gasps, but a smile on her lips.

Chandler grinned at her and pulled out, rolling onto his back with a sigh. "I'm never gonna
look at wine cellars the same way."

Monica chuckled and propped herself up on one elbow. "We should get back. They might miss us."

"I doubt it," Chandler replied, peeling off the condom and throwing it in a dark corner. "No
one's paying attention to the bridesmaid and groomsman when the bride's locked herself in a
bathroom."

"How long do you think she'll stay in there?" Monica asked, pulling her underwear on.

Chandler shrugged, following suit. "Hours probably." He glanced at her and caught her eye.
"Why, what did you have in mind?"

Monica's sly smile had returned. "Oh, you know."

There's Something About London

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 20:37:05 GMT

Series: What We Don’t Get to See
Title: There’s Something About London
Author: Kerry Ann (thecenterlane OR ohsobulletproof @livejournal.com; slashxmoose@deviantart.com; FructoseLollipop@fanfiction.net)
Pairing: Chandler/Monica
Rating: NC-17 for SEXY SEX
Summary: What we didn’t see in London.
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen. Not mine. Don’t sue.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex: always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I’m not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Hi. I’m very nervous about this. This is my first foray into this fandom AND paring which is a double whammy. I really love C/M but since the show pretty much feeds my addiction, its hard to write/find good fiction about them. But I couldn’t just not write about these two, so I decided to do a series of smutfics since what happens between the sheets with Chandler and Monica is pretty much the only thing we don’t get to see. All that to say that this one is their first time together. I know it’s a bit short and that’s partly because its pretty much PWP, and partly because this is my first time writing them and if I suck, well then at least I didn’t put you guys through 30 pages of crap. Not to mention I really didn’t feel up to writing about all seven times they had sex that first night. Anyway, enjoy and depending on your response you may get more from me. I kinda want to write “What Would Have Happened” if they hadn’t been interrupted all those other times in London (like in the wine cellar or on the plane; come on, you know that would have been interesting). Wah, I’m rambling now. ENJOY!

As soon as the door snapped closed behind Joey, Monica re-emerged shyly from beneath the blanket.

"That was close," she whispered, a strand of hair fluttering down across her face.

It struck Chandler how beautiful she was in that moment. She was right. This wasn't weird at all. He smiled and reached up to brush her hair out of her face, but before he knew it her lips were on his again, kissing furiously. Chandler lent a moment to reconsider what he was doing - she was so very drunk, but he pushed that thought out of his mind and pulled her close to him, his tongue exploring every crevice of her mouth in earnest.

He laid her back gently and he felt himself shiver involuntarily at the feeling of her naked flesh pressed against his. He tore his lips away from hers and allowed them to trail down her neck to her shoulder, kissing all along the way. When he reached the crook of her neck, he was seized with sudden inspiration and he gave her a gentle nibble on a patch of flesh he particularly liked.

The effect of what he had done was both immediate and obvious she gasped and pulled away only slightly, her eyes wild with lust as she threw a calculating look his way. "You're good at this," she whispered, her voice low and seductive.

For a moment Chandler entertained the idea of saying that he had actually never done that before, but decided against it - mainly because Monica had just grabbed his hips and pulled them forcefully atop hers, grinding hard. It took every once of willpower he possessed to control the urge to fuck her into the mattress right then and there, recalling to mind the advice she had given him less than a year ago - though in quite a different situation. "Take your time. Hit them all."

He smiled inwardly at himself as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. With his free hand, he let it roam over her flawless skin, pausing over a breast here or brushing her thigh there. He could feel her shiver beneath him and that only fueled his desire to please her completely. His fingers danced up her torso and found a breast, where he applied just the right amount of pressure.

"God," she whispered, arching her back to his touch.

Chandler smiled against her skin and slowly slid down her body, leaving wet kisses all down her neck and collarbone. He moved his lips over to her other breast and closed his mouth over it, his tongue brushing over the nipple, teasing it between his teeth.

A loud moan escaped her this time, her nails digging into his back. She pressed her whole body against his, her head thrown back with pleasure. "Chandler, please," she whispered through clenched teeth.

He allowed himself to run his tongue across her nipple again before pulling away. He spared only a moment to admire the way her naked body looked beneath him, but another moan from her snapped him out of it.

"Wait a second," he said suddenly, looking around the mussed up covers. "Where's the condom?"

"I think it’s the itchy thing in back," Monica replied a little breathlessly, propping herself up on one elbow and pulling it out from underneath her.

Chandler took it from her and ripped it open. He was about to slide it on when Monica grabbed his hand.

"Let me do it," she murmured, her eyes locked onto his.

A shiver ran down his spine when she said that, and he allowed it to be taken from his hand.

With an expert hand, Monica gripped the condom by the edges and rolled it onto Chandler's erection, making him shudder with desire. She ran her hand down his length, enjoying his reactions to her touch. She tilted her lips up to his ear and whispered, "Now fuck me."

At those words, Chandler was very surprised he didn't lose it. He shuddered visibly again, but otherwise maintained his composure. He crawled on top of her once more and pressed his lips against hers, whispering into them, "Oh trust me, I will." With that he rocked his hips forward and Monica's reaction told him he had hit the right spot.

"Oh god," she moaned again, her hands clutching the sheet around her. "You are good at this."

Chandler allowed himself a grin, but presently focused on the task at hand. He pulled nearly all the way out before thrusting back in again, this time a little bit harder, relishing the gasp of pleasure that escaped Monica. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tilting her chest upwards and he used the leverage to capture a nipple between his teeth. He flicked his tongue over it, and at the same moment pushed deep inside her, his own body betraying how much he himself was enjoying this. With his free hand, he gripped her hip, thrusting harder now.

But Monica still had some tricks up her sleeve. She waited until he was all the way inside and then she clenched her muscles tight around him, grinding hard. Chandler, who was not expecting that in the slightest, emitted a loud groan and could feel his muscles go weak at the feeling the clench had produced. In response, he thrust has hard as he could in her and she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

"Almost," she whispered, biting her lip. "So close."

Chandler didn't feel as though he could hold out much longer, but he wanted to climax with her so he took the knowledge he had learned to push her over the edge. He leaned down and found the slightly reddened patch of skin and began sucking on it, while at the same time giving a few quick thrusts.

It worked. Monica's muscles shuddered around him, which was enough to get him there as well. He held himself up as he came and rolled off of her when he finished, his breath coming quickly in his chest.

For a long moment the two of them lay in silence, not wanting to ruin the afterglow. Chandler pulled off the condom lazily and threw it in the trashcan next to the bed, before rolling over and gazing at the woman next to him.

Monica glanced at him, an air of shyness still hanging about her, her chest heaving.

"I think the word I'm looking for here is 'wow,'" Chandler said and he smiled.

"Likewise," she replied, relaxing a little.

There was a brief moment there, in which they both said nothing and simply looked into each other's eyes, but Chandler once again broke the silence. "Well," he said, sitting up. "I think I'm gonna shower."

"Can I join you?" Monica asked, her eyes wild and hungry.

Chandler's eyebrows shot up, but his shocked expression soon melted into a knowing smile. "You bet."

The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak: Chapter Three

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 01:09:47 GMT

Series: The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak
Title: Chapter 3: Classes
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: The boys start their classes, and something is wrong with Remus....
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Chapter three is here! And no (really) ridiculous time gap! Sure, its been almost two months, but that's how long it takes. At least its not a year, right? *ahem* Anyway, this is the first chapter where I finally get some real plot points in. Unlike the first two, this one isn't ENTIRELY introductory. While it still does introduce the classes and certain characteristics about the boys that may not have been apparent before, Chapter three actually addresses some things that are prevalent in later chapters, books, and the original series. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. :-/

Chapter 3
Classes

James was awoken by a pillow to the face.

Somewhere above him Sirius, who was holding the pillow down, said, "Get up mate! Don't want to be late to your first day of classes, do you?"

James tried to say "get off me" but it surely must have come out as a garble because Sirius just laughed and replied, "What was that? Can't hear you! You seem to have something in your mouth -- OOF!"

Sirius tumbled off the bed, having just been kicked in the stomach.

The boys made their way down to breakfast, making sure to use some of the shortcuts that they had discovered the night before (mainly to prove that they remembered that they knew where they were and where they led). They were just sitting down at the Gryffindor table when Professor McGonagall moved toward them handing out course schedules.

"We've got Charms first," Remus said, his eyes sliding down the page.

"Charms?" Sirius replied around a mouthful of toast. "Sounds easy."

It was easy. The Charms teacher, a tiny little man by the name of Professor Flitwick, had set them to practice the light charm. Within fifteen minutes both James and Sirius had mastered the charm, had helped Remus and Peter master it as well, and were working on the despelling charm. At the end of the double period (after having spent nearly three quarters of an hour in boredom) they were told by a beaming Professor Flitwick that it would not be necessary for the four of them to complete the homework that was given to the rest of the class.

Professor McGonagall was not so lenient. Even though James and Sirius had managed to transfigure their matches into needles, she still gave them the regular amount of homework (although, that might have been because they had started poking each other in sensitive areas with their needles while the other wasn't looking).

After lunch was the most boring class in the history of magic, which -- coincidentally -- was the History of Magic. The class was taught by a ghost, and although that sounds very exciting, he had a voice that Muggle-borns compared to a dull vacuum cleaner, and after about ten minutes of this more than half the class was asleep.

Following History of Magic was Herbology, and though it wasn't exactly thrilling, it did have fanged plant-life that nipped your fingers if you weren't paying close enough attention.

And that was just the first day!

Tuesday added two more classes to their course load, both of which, James found, came surprisingly easy to him. Even Potions was a breeze, which, he had to admit, had never been his forte (he remembered all too well the incident in his childhood when he had "helped" his mother stir up a potion by exploding her cauldron which had been full of a concoction that turned his skin blue, but that's for another story).

After that came Defense Against the Dark Arts which was all about curses and mummies and things of a -- usually -- sinister nature. The class was taught by a young woman straight out of the teaching academy called Professor Summers, whom James and Sirius made fun of at first but took to soon after she put Sirius in a full body bind to get him to shut up.

Then, on Fridays, there was flying lessons which, you can imagine, was great fun for the four friends, except for Peter who was terrified of heights. And of course Astrology which was similar to History of Magic in its tendency to put everyone to sleep. Not that it was boring, but more because it took place at midnight.

But while James and Sirius found ease in their classes, another member of their group appeared to be having enormous difficulty. And it wasn't Peter.

Remus seemed to be getting paler and paler as the days slipped by, as though he was losing sleep over the spells he hadn't learned. James had awoken many a night to hear the poor boy muttering to himself. And although James could never hear discernible words, they sounded like instructions. Stranger still, Remus did perfectly well on all his homework, often attaining full marks, but by the end of their second week at Hogwarts he appeared to be close to a nervous breakdown.

That Saturday morning, while James and Sirius were threatening Remus that they were going to test the rumor that a giant squid lived in the lake by throwing him in it if he didn't cheer up soon, Professor Dumbledore himself approached them wearing an oddly blank expression.

"Good morning boys," he greeted, nodding to them before turning to Remus in particular. "Mr. Lupin, if you'd be so kind, I need a word with you in my office."

Remus swallowed hard and followed Dumbledore out of the Great Hall, looking weaker than ever.

"What was that all about?" James wondered aloud.

"Dunno," Sirius replied, turning back to his bacon. "Maybe Dumbledore's going to talk some sense into him. Tell him he's a right smart bloke and to bloody well get a grip on himself."

"Maybe Dumbledore heard what you said about throwing him in the lake," Peter said, his eyes wide. "Maybe he thought you were being serious."

James laughed but Sirius looked puzzled. "We weren't being serious?"

~~**~*~**~~

Remus didn't show up again all day. And to make matters more disconcerting, a fourth year girl showed them a newspaper article at dinner that certainly got their attention.

"LORD" VOLDEMORT LASHES OUT
Simple politics erupted unexpectedly to violent
war today in an event that surely will not be
the last of its kind. The wizard calling
himself Voldemort, widely known speaker against
Muggles and the so-called "impurity" of
Muggle-born witches and wizards, broke into
the home of a well known Muggle-born wizard
and brutally murdered him. Sadly a suspicious
neighbor came to investigate and upon finding
his friend dead, Voldemort allegedly turned
his wand on him as well. Ministry of Magic
officials say that in both cases the
Unforgivable Avada Kedavra curse was used,
causing unblockable and instantaneous death.
Witnesses say that Lord Voldemort was
accompanied by a number of cloaked persons who
have been deemed "Death Eaters" by their
master. After extensive questioning, Ministry
officials say that witnesses were unable to
identify any of these individuals due to
large masks and thick black cloaks that were
worn when the crime was committed, presumably
to conceal their identity. The public is
strongly encouraged to be wary of anyone who
sports this "Death Eater" attire. Furthermore,
the Daily Prophet urges its readers to keep a
special close eye on our friends of Muggle
descent. Thank you and be safe.
***In consideration of the victims families,
their identities will not be disclosed.

Sirius looked at James. "Maybe that's what happened to Remus," he whispered. "Maybe his mother was..." he lowered his voice even further. "...killed."

James frowned. "No," he said slowly, thinking hard. "Remus has been acting strange all week. If she died today it would have come as a shock, right? Unless there's something ELSE that's wrong with him."

"Come on," Sirius said, still speaking softly for some reason. "Let's go upstairs. Maybe Dumbledore sent him back to the common room or something." But when they reached Gryffindor tower one look told them he wasn't there and after an inspection of their dormitory it was apparent that Remus hadn't been in it since the four of them left together that morning for breakfast.

They spent the rest of the evening by the fire in the common room discussing various theories on what had happened to their fourth companion. However, all around them the talk was about Voldemort.

Near Sirius's shoulder they heard Cady Stanton say in a voice that was not like her own, "My mother's met him. She's in the Department of Muggle Affairs at the ministry. She said that once they had a row in the middle of the office because he wanted her to cancel her speech on why we shouldn't use magic against Muggles. Who's to say this... Voldemort--" a shiver ran through her already quavering voice. "is going to limit himself to killing only Muggle-borns. What about those who want to speak up for Muggles? For all I know my mum could be next on... You-Know-Who's list...."

James and Sirius exchanged dark looks. They sat in silence for a little bit longer, and after a while Sirius got up and began to console Cady. James remained still, staring at the fire for a long time until Sirius shook him out of his stupor. They were the only ones left in the common room. Peter was snoring in his armchair. Remus hadn't come in.

An apprehensive feeling settling over them, the three boys went up to bed.

James didn't have a very restful night. He spent the first few hours merely dozing, every now and then pinching himself awake and glancing across the room at Remus's bed, as though he expected to see its owner there. When he finally got to sleep he had disjointed dreams that were more flashes of scenes than anything, ending with an image of a baby boy who looked just like him when he was a child except that his eyes were green....

~~**~*~**~~

There was a despondent air among the remaining friends the next morning at breakfast that ended quite abruptly when Remus plopped down next to Sirius looking haggard (but less pale than when they had last seen him) and acting as though the past twenty four hours had never occurred.

For a moment no one said anything; the three just stared at Remus as though a stranger had just sat down with them. And if Remus himself noticed the silence he ignored it and simply pulled a plate of toast towards him and began to eat feverishly.

The others waited until after he had gotten through the second piece before they all burst out at once.

"Where have you been?

"What was yesterday all about?"

"Are you going to bloody stop pouting now?"

Remus actually choked in surprise on a bite of his third slice of toast as they suddenly exploded with questions and had to receive a few good wallops on the back from Sirius before he could speak again.

"Slow down," he said with a cough. "One at a time."

To which of course the other three merely bombarded him with inquiries again, each wanting their own answered first.

"Right!" Sirius nearly shouted, slapping his hand on the table loudly. "Just tell us where you were all bloody day yesterday."

"Oh... uh," Remus said slowly, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "My - my mother got really sick, and, uh, they wanted me to come home and see her... just in case... just in case...."

James and Peter nodded sympathetically, but Sirius was wearing a quizzical expression.

"How'd you get there and back so quickly?" He asked with an air of suspicion.

"Floo powder," Remus replied simply, shrugging casually.

There was a collective "ahhh" sound from the other three boys and there was a pause while Remus wolfed down three more pieces of toast.

Sirius lifted an eyebrow, suddenly disenchanted with his own breakfast. "Hungry?"

A nod was his only reply.

"Wait," James said suddenly, turning back to Remus. "So why were you acting weird all week then? We all thought you were losing it over classes."

The pink tinge that had started to fade from Remus's cheeks came back in full force. "Oh... well, Dad had been writing to me saying that Mum wasn't feeling well and then that she was getting worse. I guess I was just really worried about her."

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the other boy. "I don't remember you getting any post this past week."

Remus blushed more furiously than ever but was spared from having to answer by the sound of whooshing feathers, a soft flump, and then coughing and sputtering noises from James.

They turned back to look at James and found his face dripping in porridge and a parcel sitting in his cereal bowl.

"YEAH, THANKS JARETH!" He yelled angrily at his retreating owl. He grabbed the robe of an onlooker who had laughed at him and used it to clean his face off before turning to the package.

James looked it over and found a small note in his father's print folded neatly under the bow of the string. He tore it off and read:

James,
I would prefer if you kept the content of this package
a secret limited to yourself (and maybe a few friends).
Your mother and I would feel more comfortable if we
knew that this was at your disposal during these dark
times. I pray that you never need this for its
intended purpose, though I suspect you will find
other uses for it. Stay safe and try not to get into
too much trouble.
Love Dad

Ps: A little mischief isn't that bad, but don't tell
your mother I said that.

James looked at Sirius, who had - naturally - been reading over his shoulder, his eyes wide with excitement. "If this is what I think it is...." He murmured, feeling the package thoroughly.

"What? What do you think it is?" Sirius asked, starting to get antsy over James's awed reaction.

"What did he mean by 'dark times,'" Remus inquired on James's other side.

"You know," Sirius began distractedly, taking the parcel from James and giving it a feel. "The nutter that killed all those people yesterday."

A pause, then, "What are you talking about?"

Both James and Sirius stopped in their preoccupation with James's present and stared at Remus in surprise.

"You mean you didn't hear? You didn't pick up a newspaper or turn on a radio once yesterday?"

Remus reddened. "Well, I was a little busy with other things...."

But the other two had already launched into a hurried explanation of what they had read the day before in the newspaper and everything else they heard about the incident.

"So, do you know what's in the package?" Remus said at the end of it, his eyes wide after receiving the news.

"Well," James replied slowly, his eyes running over the plain brown paper packaging. "I have a hunch. But if it is what I think it is I can understand why he would want me to keep it a bit of a secret." He licked his lips before saying, "Come on, lets go upstairs and open it."

The four of them abandoned their breakfasts (Remus not without taking another piece of toast from the stack) and tried not to rush too quickly to their dormitory.

When they arrived and were all inside with the door shut and locked, James ripped the paper apart feverishly, and out fell something silvery that seemed to pool on the ground.

"Yessssssssss," James breathed, taking it off the floor and holding it up for his friends to see.

An Invisibility Cloak.

J'Adore

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 03:52:23 GMT

Title: J'Adore
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Jean Girard/Ricky Bobby
Rating: R for language
Summary: Ricky doesn't know why he's so angry.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Yes, another. This one's weird and it cuts off at the end unexpectedly simply because I could not think of what possibly could be said. This fandom keeps sucking me in like a vortex, its hard not to want to fic it. Enjoy? I guess....

Ricky Bobby gritted his teeth as the side of his car scraped loudly against the wall. He merely ignored it and slammed his foot even harder against the gas pedal.

Meanwhile, all the spectators were agreeing on one thing: the Southerner hadn't driven this badly since his first race with Jean Girard. But why, they asked themselves. Ricky Bobby should be breezing through this race now that the Frenchman had quite unexpectedly retired.

The driver himself didn't know why he was so pissed off. He was just *angry.* Every little thing seemed like a threat, every indirect comment was a personal attack. Subconsciously he could feel that whatever plagued him there was something much deeper than just a bad day.

A sharp jolt from the driver's side of the car brought Ricky out of his thoughts and back into the race. He glanced to his left and met the eyes of Brian Wavecrest, who seemed to be determined to wreck Ricky.

The Southerner's anger flared up even more than before. He jerked his steering wheel to the left in retaliation to the bump, ramming hard into his old Wonderbread car. Which, of course, turned out to be a terrible idea.

As the vehicles collided, Ricky could feel his control on the wheel slip. He tried desperately to steer the car in the right direction again, but they were simply moving too fast and had hit with too much force.

He spun wildly, feeling the car connect with Wavecrest, the wall, and Wavecrest again before screeching to a stop. As the smoke settled, he had just enough time to realize that the nose of the car still pointed forwards before he mashed his foot down on the pedal and, somewhat to his surprise, shot forward. As he picked up speed, Ricky could just barely see the Wonderbread car off to the left, upside down and not at all driveable.

"Asshole," he said irritably as he crossed the finish line.

/////

"Nice job, pal." Cal slapped his friend on the back, grinning. "When you rammed him I thought yall were done for sure."

Ricky only grunted in response. He couldn't explain why, but it didn't really feel like a victory. It was too easy, too simple to be real. There was no challenge to it. After something like that the drunken antics that normally took place after a win just didn't feel right.

He sighed deeply and backed away from his partying friends, heading towards the parking lot. He just wanted to go home, take a shower, and bid this day fucking adieu. It is safe to say that he didn't even notice Susan sidling up next to him and squeezing his butt playfully.

The Southerner jumped at the touch, his temper already rising with his unsuspecting girlfriend. "Yes, Susan?" He asked, a harsh tone to his voice. That should have been enough for Susan to get the hint, but apparently it wasn't.

"I was just hoping that I could come over to your place tonight," Susan said, with a mischievous grin. "I know of a way we can celebrate your win."

Ricky dragged a hand through his hair, fighting to not raise his voice. She didn't do anything, really. "Susan," he said as calmly as he could. "Leave me a-fucking-lone." He turned his back on her and continued walking towards his car, not giving a second thought to the fact that he probably hurt her feelings.

When he reached his car, he threw himself in the front seat roughly but did not start the engine for several minutes. What was wrong with him today? He was touchy and angry and it felt as though a part of him was missing, but for the life of him he could not think of what it could possibly be. He folded his arms over the steering wheel and laid his head on them, trying to force himself to feel better. Needless to say, that didn't work very well.

For a while he just drove. His home wasn't very far from the track, but every time he found that he was following the familiar route he immediately changed direction. A couple people that recognized his car honked and wave, but he simply nodded in their direction. He was too lost in thought to even ignore them like he normally would have done in such an terrible state.

*Okay, think Ricky.* He told himself. *What the fuck is wrong?* He tried hard and finally he was able to trace his angry mood back to Cal's look of surprise earlier that day when he asked why Jean's car wasn't in the garage.

"Didn't you hear?" Cal had raised his eyebrows in amazement. "Girard turned in his resignation right after Talladega. Said something about how since he was no longer the best there was no point in racing anymore." He frowned at Ricky. "I'm surprised you didn't know."

Ricky had stayed quiet while his friend spoke, the memory of the conversation he and Jean shared at the Frenchman's home flooded his memory. He had quite forgotten about Jean's promise to quit racing once he was beaten. That's exactly why he worked so hard to win Talladega. To get that damn Girard out of his hair.

He hadn't expected his rival to actually leave. But he did. He was gone.

After what must have been over an hour, Ricky suddenly became aware that he was no longer driving. In fact he had already turned off the car and taken the key out of the ignition.

But he wasn't at his house.

He focused his eyes, trying to get his bearings. He was on a street that he had only ever been on once before, in front of a house he had only ever been to once before.

Without sparing another thought, the Southerner got out of his car and walked up the driveway to the front door, almost as though he had a purpose. Ignoring the fact that it was well past midnight he approached the door and leaned on the doorbell, not releasing it until he as satisfied the resident of the house could not avoid it. He wanted several minutes until he got what he wanted.

A very sleepy Jean Girard answered the door, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand and yawning very widely. "Ricky Bobby?" He said, trying - and failing - to suppress the confusion in his voice. "To what do I owe this very late surprise?"

Ricky's heart pounded as his eyes slid over the Frenchman in front of him. Jean was wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, that hung loosely over his waist and no shirt at all. His lean frame wasn't impressive by any definition of the word, but it seemed so uniquely right. His olive skin was perfect, unblemished and smooth. For some reason, Ricky wanted to touch it. He opened his mouth automatically to speak. "Race me."

Jean's eyebrows lifted just barely in confusion, but he did not question the request. "When?"

"Now." Ricky paused then, remembering the hour and amended it to, "Soon. Tomorrow."

The Frenchman scratched his face, studying his formal rival with sleepy yet piercing eyes. "What time?" He asked quietly.

"Whenever. Noon. At the track."

Jean let the quiet linger for a few moments, his eyes boring into Ricky's, as though trying to pry the answer from his brain. "Until tomorrow then."

Ricky turned and began to head back to his car when Jean's voice caused him to turn.

"I don't suppose you are going to let me in on the secret of this very bizarre visit?"

The Southerner let his eyes feast on Jean's lanky body again and he swallowed hard. "If I knew, I'd tell you."

/////

Ricky drew several deep breaths in an attempt to slow his heart rate. He had been at the track since seven that morning, running a few test laps in one of the rental cars that he and Jean were allowed to use for their race. It had taken some convincing to be able to use the cars, and even more to persuade the owner of the track to not tell anyone. "If I see one person watching, its off," he had threatened. "I'll use a different track." So far, the owner had kept his word.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Bobby."

The Southerner whipped around at the sound of the voice, relieved to see that Jean didn't have any friends or husbands in tow. "Mornin'," he replied thickly. He remained silent a moment, all words lost to him, as he drank in the sight of his rival. The image of him standing there was - for some strange reason - intoxicating. Ricky could hear his heart pounding in his ears. "Um," he said after some time. "Ten laps. Both from the pole. We're not using our own cars so we can't wreck each other again." He paused her for significance, but Jean did not respond. "Do you wanna run some test laps?"

Jean shook his head. "I'm sure the cars drive the same."

Ricky frowned. "That's awfully trusting of you."

"Do I have a reason to act otherwise?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "You would not sabotage me on purpose, would you?"

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, each probing the other's eyes with his own. "Let's just start this thing," Ricky said softly.

If anyone had been there to witness it, they would have said it was simply amazing. Although it was very short, it was groundbreaking. Ricky and Jean managed to match each other's skill perfectly, neither one able to gain the slightest lead over the other. Finally in the last lap Jean was able to coax a little more speed out of his car and pulled ahead by a full three seconds. It had been close, but even Ricky knew that he had once again been beaten.

Once their cars had come to a stop, Ricky crawled out of his car, ripping his helmet off and stomping towards the other vehicle, obviously very angry. Once he reached it, he ripped the window guard off and pulled Jean out with ease. He pushed the Frenchman roughly against the side of the car, ripping his helmet off hatefully.

Jean's eyes looked up into his, empty of emotion, his face expressionless.

Ricky seethed quietly for a minute, staring into Jean's blank eyes, thoughts and feelings he didn't even know he harbored coursing through him. Before he realized what he was doing, his lips were on the other man's, kissing him almost furiously.

The Frenchman winced slightly under the forcefulness of the kiss, but Ricky ignored him, his tongue tracing over unfamiliar lips, begging entry. He should have been hardly surprised when he was granted it. He pushed the kiss deeper, afraid to let it go, afraid it may never come again. He pressed the length of his body against Jean's, using the car for support, just barely hearing the other man's whimper beneath him as they clutched each other desperately. Ricky started to see stars.

They finally broke apart, Jean tossing his head back, his chest heaving as he nearly gasped for air. Ricky trailed his lips down the Frenchman's chin to his neck, finding a spot he liked and nibbling on it, not as gently as Jean would have liked. Soon the patch of skin was thoroughly bruised and Ricky sucked on it, rather pleased with himself.

For a moment neither of them dared to move, leaning against the side of the vehicle, Ricky's face buried in the crook of Jean's neck, both breathing heavily.

Slowly Ricky could feel the Frenchman's arms wind around him, one hand raking through his unruly blond hair.

"Why did you do that?" Came the heavily accented voice finally.

The Southerner pulled himself to a standing position, one of Jean's arms still draped around his waist. He studied the other man a moment. "You left me," he murmured simply,pushing a lock of curly hair away from the Frenchman's questioning eyes.

Jean frowned. "I thought that was what you wanted."

Ricky smiled. "You shouldn't have left me."

More confusion. "Why is that?"

"Because now I'm in love with you." Ricky leaned forward and pressed another kiss into the other man's lips. "I always fall for the ones who leave me."

Those Eyes That See

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 02:21:30 GMT

Title: Those Eyes That See
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Ricky Bobby/Jean Girard
Rating: PG13 for slash and one f-bomb
Summary: Ricky only closes his eyes when he kisses Jean.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Yes, I wrote another one. So sue me. This fandom keeps sucking me in. I blame Sacha for being so damn ficcable. Its weird but true. Seriously, watch the Kiss and tell me that you don't have at least one plot bunny jump in your head. Maybe its just me....

He always told himself that he didn't close his eyes when he kissed Carley because she was so damn hot.

He always told himself that he didn't close his eyes when he kissed Susan because he liked watching her face.

But he could not explain away just how easily his eyes had fluttered closed when he kissed Jean Girard.

~~**~*~**~~

Ricky Bobby had grown up with the idea in his head that when you kissed someone you really cared about you closed your eyes. If you didn't then you came off as wanting the kiss to be over as soon as possible.

This strange notion of Ricky's was brought about by years of watching his mom try to date different men. At the the end of each date, the poor fool would walk this mama up to the porch and make his move. Ricky, who always watched from a window, never saw his mom so much as blink when they kissed her. Neither of them saw any of the men again.

~~**~*~**~~

Susan smiled from across the table, lifting her glass of wine to her lips and taking a long drink.

Ricky had to admit that she looked striking. Her pretty red hair was swept back in a graceful bun and she opted to forgo her glasses and instead wore contacts that added just the right amount of glimmer to her green eyes. Her dress was navy blue and sparkled so bright that you hardly noticed the color. It hugged her body in all the right places and was delightfully revealing yet still left some things to the imagination.

They were having a private celebration of Ricky's win earlier that day, that took place only two weeks after the events at Talladega. Susan had not once brought up the kiss her boyfriend had sprung on Jean Girard, which Ricky was extremely grateful for. He had enough trouble keeping his mind off the Frenchmen without the reminder that Ricky's tongue had been down his throat only a fortnight ago.

Because, of course, Jean had kept his word and quit his job at Dennit Racing. He didn't race today, just like he promised.

Ricky thought he would be thrilled to race again without that annoying green car in front of him. However, he discovered that he performed even worse without that constant on the track. He had managed to snatch the win with only a last second's concentration.

Suffice it to say he didn't much feel like celebrating.

The night ended, much to his relief, and he drove Susan home without delay. He hardly even noticed the way Susan's hand was trailing over his thigh suggestively. He didn't much feel like fucking either.

He walked Susan to her door, dreading the inevitable invitation that he most certainly wanted to turn down before she even asked it. And surely, here it came....

"You want to come upstairs for a bit?" Susan's eyes sparkled.

Ricky considered her a moment. she looked so beautiful, the moonlight reflecting off her shimmering form. She had done so much for him, even before they were together. It wasn't her fault that he was a hard man to get accustomed to. He opened his mouth to accept when an image of himself kissing Jean Girard flashed across him mind.

"Uh, Susan, I don't think I'm up for it," he stammered out, still reeling from the memory of Talladega. "It was a tough race today and I'm really tired." He smiled kindly at her. "You're too much for me to handle."

She nodded her understanding and stood on her tiptoes to receive her kiss.

Ricky bent slightly and gave it to her, but found, with a stab of annoyance, that he was staring at her nose. He just couldn't close his eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity Susan broke away and let herself inside, and Ricky was allowed to return to his car, running his fingers through his hair.

He didn't go home.

For a while he just drove on auto-pilot, thoughts chasing each other endlessly in his mind. Finally he realized that he had pulled into the parking lot of the race track, though hardly surprised he had ended up there. He made his way to the track itself and then waited there a moment, his breath just barely visible in the chill night air.

This was his sanctuary.

Then he turned and began walking, giving no thought to the time and the fact that he was still in his dinner things.

He didn't know how long he walked on the track. He didn't feel tired or sleepy, he only continued on, his head erect and his eyes sort of glazed over as he reflected.

After some time, Ricky became dimly aware that there was someone walking about ten feet behind him. He had heard a snatch of footsteps that were lighter than his own, and a new shadow had joined his stroll.

He shrugged to himself. If they wanted to walk, let them walk. They weren't bothering him. He attempted to sink back into his thoughts.

A few minutes later, however, it was apparent that he could not concentrate with someone following that closely behind him. He tossed an irritated glance over his shoulder to find out who was intruding on his solitude.

It was Jean.

Ricky stopped altogether and turned around, his eyes never leaving the Frenchman, who continued to approach him.

Jean's hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his dark blue jeans, a cigarette between his pursed lips, and a nonchalant expression gracing his features. He stopped a couple feet in front of Ricky, and took a last drag on his cigarette before flicking it away. The two stared each other down a moment, then he broke the silence. "You look nice."

The Southerner suddenly remembered that he was still in a three piece suit. He reddened lightly (thank God it was dark) and half wished he could tear off the suit and be wearing something casual underneath. "Cut the crap, Girard," he said a little more harshly than he intended. "What are you doing here?"

The other man's eyebrows lifted. "I might as you the same question. You see, I've been walking here every night for two weeks."

A frown came to Ricky's lips. "Ever since --"

Jean held up a hand to stop him. "Talladega," he finished, with a sigh. "Will you walk with me, Ricky?"

So they walked on for a while in silence, each one stealing glances at the other every so often, but neither of them noticing. When the quiet between them became uncomfortable, Jean broke it again.

"I've discovered that I miss racing more than I thought I would when I first arrived here."

Ricky shot a look at his companion, who continued to look straight ahead, his eyes slightly misted. He waited for the rest of the sentence, but when it did not come, he cleared his throat and replied, "So?"

A small chuckle emitted from Jean's lips. "You must have missed it while you were away? You can relate."

He would have liked to say that he didn't, but Ricky knew that wasn't true it all, though he didn't say so. "But what does this have to do with me?"

A pause. "Ricky, I made you a promise that once you defeated me I would retire and leave you to the bliss of never seeing me again." Jean looked into Ricky's eyes, a strange emotion playing across his face. "I'm asking you for permission to return."

Ricky stopped walking, his mind racing. He could have his constant again. At the same time, though, that meant inviting his losing streak back. But, whether he won or not, he would race *better* if he had Jean there to strive against. Without him there, racing was almost boring. Too easy. To buy himself thinking time, he asked,
"Why don't you go back to Formula One?"

They came to a bench and Jean threw himself on it, delaying his reply with a hint of embarrassment. "Well, I realized that I miss racing so much because of YOU." He rushed on before Ricky could interrupt. "There is something exciting about you, Ricky Bobby. Something that those pansies over at Formula One could never possess." Ricky snorted and Jean smiled, continuing. "You are more than a challenge. You are a thrill. A rush. A pleasure that I have never known before." He stopped, very red in the face. It seemed that he had wanted to get that out for some time now.

The Southerner was still trying to process it all, when something occurred to him. "What about your husband? What does he think of you coming back?"

"Ah." A sad smile touched Jean's lips and he stood again, resuming their walk. "Gregory and I are getting a divorce. It seems he did not much like me kissing another man on national television."

Ricky frowned. "I'm sorry, Jean," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to break y'all up like that."

Jean shook his head. "It has been a long time coming. Our marriage wasn't born out of love, but rather spite for those who said we couldn't do it." He gazed over at Ricky. "I thank you for giving me a reason to end it."

The two of them came to the exit of the track that led back out to the parking lot. Ricky still had not answered Jean's request, but the Frenchman did not seem to want to press him about it.

"Well, Ricky Bobby," Jean said as they approached the exit. "I have thoroughly enjoyed your company this night. If you ever want to take another midnight stroll, you know where to find me." He began walking towards the parking lot.

"Jean, wait," Ricky called out.

The other man turned, an unreadable expression on his face.

Ricky's heart was pounding. "Do you mind if I try something?" And without waiting for an answer and most definitely without thought or reason, he closed the distance between them and kissed Jean with as much passion that had in him.

His eyes were closed.

He could *feel* Jean's surprise beneath his lips, just like that first time at Talladega. And, also like the first time, Jean's arms slipped around him and held him tight. Their lips started to hurt from being pressed so hard against one another until Jean parted his slightly.

Ricky's tongue took advantage of the opening and darted into the Frenchman's mouth, probing, caressing, exploring every crevice. He found his companion's tongue and roamed his own over it, sparks flying behind his eyes.

And that's when the pieces of reality came screaming back together.

Ricky stumbled back, panting slightly, his eyes flashing.

"Well then," Jean whispered.

~~**~*~**~~

"Honey, are you alright?" Susan's concerned eyes swam out of the fog of Ricky's thoughts.

The two of them were having breakfast at his house, and, as one would expect, Ricky was having a hard time focusing on anything but the memory of last night. He had closed his eyes. Kept them closed. He had slipped his tongue inside Jean's mouth. To top it all off, he couldn't tell himself truthfully that it felt... *wrong.*

"Sweetheart?"

Ricky trained his eyes on the woman in front of him. Maybe he was just in a funk. This was Susan. She cared about him and had sacrificed a lot for him. He loved her... he thought. When he opened his mouth to reply, he meant to say "I'm fine" but what came out instead was, "Susan, can you do me a favor and kiss me?"

Susan looked puzzled.

"Please just do it. Like you really, really mean it."

Still sporting the look of confusion, she scooted close to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed a tender but passionate kiss into his lips.

He tried. He really did. He forced his eyes closed and told himself that this was right, but no sooner than the thought drifted across his mind his eyes were open again, looking around the room impatiently.

And as she pulled away, Ricky came to terms with the fact that he couldn't close his eyes with her because he didn't love her. It was that simple. It had been the same with Carley and every other girlfriend he ever had. But there was one person who was different.

"Susan, I have to go."

~~**~*~**~~

*This is crazy,* Ricky thought to himself as he walked up the driveway to Jean's elaborate home. *What am I supposed to say to him? Hi, Jean, I know you're going through a divorce right now but I thought I'd stop by and see if you're okay with me having feelings for you.* Even in his head, the words sounded ridiculous.

He didn't have time to rehearse a proper speech however because before he realized it, he had come up to the porch and leaned on the doorbell. He could hear the dogs barking frantically.

After a few moments, Jean came to the door, holding one of the German Shepherds back by the collar and looking mildly surprised. He was still wearing his white silk pj's. "Good morning, Ricky. Come in!" He stepped back, ushering his guest inside.

Ricky cleared his throat awkwardly, casting a look at the dog. "Is, uh, Gregory still here?"

Jean let go of the dog, who immediately jumped up at Ricky, attempting to lick his face. He led the way into the kitchen and picked up the cup of coffee that he had apparently been enjoying before the doorbell rang. "Not at the moment," he said in response to Ricky's question. "He took some essentials and flew home for moral
support." He rolled his eyes. "Just like him. Trying to milk the situation for what its worth. Anyway, he'll be back later this week to get the dogs and the rest of his things." He cocked an eyebrow at Ricky. "Why?"

The Southerner could not think of a response, so opted instead to throw himself at his host, pulling him into a deep kiss. But somehow, this one was different from the one at Talladega and even from last night. It was like a jolt of electricity running through each of their bodies, focusing on where their lips connected.

When they pulled back for air, Ricky leaned his forehead against Jean's. "I think I might be in love with you," he whispered with only a trace of embarrassment.

Jean's face broke into a wide smile and he stole a small kiss. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

They shared another passionate kiss, trying very hard to ignore the dog that was yapping around their feet.

This time when they broke apart, Jean was grinning. "Does this mean I get to race you again."

Ricky only laughed and took him in his arms. "Anything for you." He didn't care about anything else; he had his constant again.

Just Like a Drug

Wed, 20 Dec 2006 23:24:05 GMT

Title: Just Like a Drug
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Will Ferrell/Sacha Baron Cohen
Rating: PG13 for implied sexual sitution, slash, and one f-bomb.
Summary: While filming Talladega Nights, Will struggles with the idea of kissing Sacha.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Uh. Don't laugh at me. I promise you my muse wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this. Really! That I wanted some good W/S slash and it just doesn't exist. So I wrote some myself. Seriously. Don't laugh at me.

He hadn't been nervous when he wrote it. In fact he was more proud of it than anything he had ever done, creatively speaking. Of course in the foreground it was supposed to be funny. People would laugh at the immediate joke and most of them wouldn't understand what he had really meant by it, and he was okay with that. As long as one person GOT it, it would have served its purpose.

He hadn't been nervous when they were trying to cast the part. He knew exactly who he wanted. He wouldn't let Adam talk him into getting anyone else. It had to be him.

But when Sacha walked in, nailed the formal audition, and officially got the part, Will started to get nervous.

Now, there were three things that Will thought the world should know about Sacha Baron Cohen.

The first, and most obvious, was the fact that he was British. Thus he was mild mannered, polite, and had that quiet way about him that was just so attractive. And yes, he had the accent that made girls swoon.

The second was that he was very quietly hilarious. He possessed a very different type of humor than most of the other actors in the movie. Oftentimes when the cast members would go out to dinner, Will, Adam, and John dominated the jokes. However, every now and again, amidst the raucous laughter, Sacha would pipe up with something terribly and yet appropriately clever.

The third and most important thing was that he was a master of his craft. He had based his entire career off of not knowing what other people's reactions would be. He had a reply, retort, witty comeback for everything anyone could throw at him. All this he did without breaking face; not so much as a glimmer of that handsome smile shown through.

THAT was what made Will nervous. Sometimes, when he knew they would botch a take, he would make it his deliberate purpose to get Sacha to laugh. He became addicted to the way Jean Girard's face slowly melted away to reveal Sacha's nearly embarrassed grin. His heart gave a little jump when a giggle pushed its way through. It was like a drug.

At first Will thought he was doing it because he felt threatened by Sacha's enormous comic presence (it may have even started out that way) and he felt terribly ashamed by that idea. But then he caught himself forgetting his other friends in social settings and focusing all talk, interaction, and thought on the Brit.

Not that Sacha himself minded. He simply worshiped Will since his Saturday Night Live days (he particularly enjoyed the James Lipton impressions) and had privately rejoiced for days when the call for the audition came. He took to Will instantly and the attention he was being paid by the star only fueled his liking for him. He was laughing and smiling easier and felt more comfortable around Will than anyone he had worked with prior.

The pair began spending a lot of time together. Sacha was thrilled because he was getting a chance to befriend one of his favorite comedians, and Will was extremely pleased due to his ever-growing attachment to Sacha's lips and teeth.

However, with that pleasure also came that gnawing nervousness that Will had begun to feel ever since Sacha signed on to the movie. Though, as the days dissolved into weeks and months, the two became close friends, but it was the thought of a certain day of shooting that made Will go a little bit crazy.

The Kiss. yes, the one thing he had been most proud of was now a source of nearly constant anxiety for the actor. He had, naturally, imagined himself kissing Sacha -- as Jean Girard, of course (Will coughed nervously to himself) -- and the display of affection still seemed appropriate for what Will was trying to portray in the film. Indeed he wasn't even daunted at the idea of very passionately kissing another man. No, what made his heart jump was the fact that the other man was SACHA. And he didn't know why.

Presently, there was a knock at Will's hotel room door that shattered his train of thought and caused his heart rate to inexplicably quicken. He knew exactly who had come calling.

For the two of them had taken to meeting in the other's hotel room alternately to talk over and rehearse upcoming scenes they had together. Unfortunately for Will, there was only one left.

Sacha looked magnificent, as usual. Will really did not understand why the man insisted on hiding behind... well, ugly characters. He could be the new teen heartthrob if he only played on his stunning good looks a bit.

"Hallo Ricky Bibby," Sacha-slash-Jean-Girard greeted. He kissed Will on each cheek very effeminately before bounding in the room.

Will took a few moments to marvel at the Brit. Of course he spared a nano-second to appreciate how well Sacha stayed in character always, but most of the star's thought went to how damn good the other man looked.

Sacha, trying to shy away from the Borat look for fear he would be recognized, was sporting worn and loose (but not too loose) blue jeans and a casual t-shirt that clung tantalizingly to his well built chest and arms. He, naturally, caught his friend staring at him and, as Will's luck would have it, he was bending over at the time.

"Checking me out, Ricky Bibby?" Sacha-slash-Jean asked, wiggling his butt playfully.

Will snapped out of his reverie and swallowed thickly, almost forgetting to put on his Southern accent for the reply. "I'm just trying to figure out what is the best angle to kick your ass from, Girard."

Sacha straightened from tying his shoe, and still remarkably in character said, "Don't be such a sour puss, Monsieur Bibby." He dropped the act after that, a frown cutting through his normally pleasant features, for Will had become lost in thought again. "Seriously, Will, are you alright?"

It was the accent that brought Will back this time and not without a little flutter of the heart. "Yeah, I'm fine...." He trailed off for a moment, trying to remember exactly what had been on his mind. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

The other man seemed to understand at once and forced a weak smile that really looked more remorseful than happy. "Ahh, yeah. Last day of shooting together, huh? No more of these fun little team huddles."

Will smiled in spite of himself. "We might as well enjoy it, yeah?"

And so they launched into their normal routine: dissecting actions and dialogue that were not expected to be improvised too badly, going over what Will expected out of the scene as the co-writer, producer, and close friend of the director, and eventually doing a rough rehearsal.

So, the night wound down with no mention of The Kiss, much to Will's relief. The scene would be tragically underdeveloped in comparison to the rest of the film, but he was actually willing to pay that price if it meant delaying the inevitable act of claiming Sacha's perfect lips with his own less than stellar ones.

However, Will's hopes of ending the evening scot free were dashed as Sacha smiled up at him from where he was sitting on the floor and said casually, "So we're pretty much finished except for one last thing." He grinned sheepishly. "The big snog on the lips."

Will could feel the color draining from his face. He quickly tried to get out of it, ("I'm too tired." or "It doesn't need rehearsing.") but Sacha insisted ("Come on, its one of the most important scenes in the whole movie!"). Throw in one of the Brit's smiles that made the other man go weak in the knees and it was a done deal.

They first discussed the set up to The Kiss, which you better believe Will dragged out as much as possible. They rehearsed the two lines of dialogue, actions, and reactions directly before The Kiss until it was better than perfect. Once they could practice it no more, Sacha said the one thing that made something inside Will explode.

"So, how do you want to kiss me?"

All the color Will had lost at the first mention of The Kiss came back so forcefully that he was sure that if he looked in a mirror he would be purple. In reply to the earth shattering question, however, he only spluttered something that barely sounded like English, much less a cohesive sentence.

Sacha frowned. "Those weren't even words, mate," he said, a trace of a laugh behind his obvious confusion. "Why don't you just show me?"

Will felt lightheaded now. He could feel himself swaying slightly on the spot in a daze. After a moment Sacha was much closer to him than before, though Will was quite sure he hadn't moved himself.

The actor shook himself mentally, attempting to get into character. In his mind's eye he envisioned exactly what he wanted to scene to be. For a moment he felt bold enough to do it. He grabbed Sacha's arms, pulled him close, went in for the kill, and... shoved himself away from the Brit, visibly trembling. "I... I can't do it," he whispered heavily.

Sacha sighed, looking a little... disappointed? Then, without a word, he shoved Will onto the bed hard and began undressing himself.

"Wha - What are you doing?" Will asked nervously, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I don't know how it got into you head, but it seems like you don't think you have it in you to kiss me. So, I'm just going to relieve some tension." Now totally nude, Sacha discarded his clothes unceremoniously and then went to work on Will's pesky garments.

To cut a long story cruelly short, the sex was mindblowingly amazing. No matter what weird emotional attachment Will had to the other man, he knew that not a single sexual encounter he had thereafter could ever DREAM of measuring up to Sacha's prowess in the sack.

However, as they lay back to enjoy the post-coitus, Sacha leaned over to steal a kiss, but was unpleasantly surprised when Will jerked his head away. The look on his face was melted from one of satisfaction to one of sheer disbelief. "Will," he said softly. "What is it? we just fucked and you can't kiss me on the lips? You know, generally people do it the other way around." He kept trying to catch Will's eye, but the other man was clearly avoiding his gaze. "What? What is so wrong with my face that you can't bear getting that close to it?"

Will whipped his head around to face Sacha at once. "No! Its not like that!" He paused, trying to hastily collect his thoughts. "Its just that there's something about your lips --" He stopped at the expression of genuine hurt that had surfaced on his friend's face. "No, Sacha, its not like that!"

But it was too late. Sacha had rolled out of bed and was putting on his clothes. In what seemed like ten seconds, he had gotten dressed, collected his things, and left without a word, all the while showing no sign that he heard Will's feeble protests.

As the door slammed shut, Will slumped back against the pillows, mentally chastising himself for everything wrong he had done that night. It felt like he lay there for hours without sleeping, without blinking, just remembering.

He remembered Sacha's face the most. But what was odd about it was that he wasn't even thinking of that smile that made him crazy, like he normally did. No, instead his mind kept flashing back to the few, but piercing expressions that his one-night lover had worn throughout the night.

Will threw an arm across his eyes, as though trying - and failing - to block out Sacha's regretful, then despondent, then honest-to-God hurt face. The three, all caused by something he had said, ran over in his head like a painfully short slide show. He felt like he was missing something important. Some vital hint that he couldn't quite grasp.

He didn't have a very restful night, as one could imagine. Which might have been the cause of his poor performance the next morning. He couldn't keep his mind on his character at all and he didn't even argue back when Adam was yelling at him for what must have been the fiftieth time that day.

Sacha hadn't spoken an out-of-character word to him since the night before, though a couple of times Will found that the Brit had been looking at him, which would prompt a quick turn of the head in the opposite direction from the other man.

Will was so wrapped up in what it all meant that he didn't even feel a hint of nervousness (okay, maybe a hint) when Adam announced they would be doing the Kissing scene next.

So there Will stood, still swimming in confusion, when Sacha approached him silently, seemly resigned and somewhat sad, ready to do the scene. Then their gazes connected and there must have been something behind the poor actor's eyes, but suddenly it dawned on Will: Did Sacha want to be kissed... by him?

He didn't even heard the word "action." All he knew was that he was reciting lines automatically, though his stomach was doing somersaults. He couldn't do it. He said the last line. He couldn't do it. He was reaching for Sacha. He couldn't do it. Pulling him close. *He wants you to do it.*

And then it was as if all the wasted time caught up with him and he was kissing Sacha so forcefully that he stumbled backwards. It took a moment but finally Will could feel the other man's arms around him and they were holding him tight.

He never wanted it to end. He dipped Sacha a little, still clinging firmly to him, not daring to let their lips part. Pure, unadulterated heaven.

For the second time that day, Will couldn't hear the director's instructions. By the time the two actors were pried apart Adam had shouted "CUT!" no less than twenty seven times.

As the crew prepared to do the shot again from a different angle, Sacha shot Will a quizzical look, still slightly winded from the kiss. "What happened?" He whispered. "What about my messed up lips?"

Will shook his head, grinning.

"Take your positions, guys!"

They were in each other's arms again. "What I meant to say was that your lips --"

"And!"

"-- are perfect."

"ACTION!"

And then he took Sacha again. And again. And again.

Slut.

The Placement of Hands

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 01:41:39 GMT

Title: The Placement of Hands
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Peter/Susan
Rating: PG13 for incest
Summary: The way Peter holds Susan doesn't describe siblingly love.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: This song was heavily inspired by the song We Belong by Pat Benatar and particularly the Sacha Baron Cohen/Will Ferrell kiss from Talladega Nights. Yeah, don't ask. I listened to the song 41 times and watched the video about the same amount whilst writing this so I must credit the both of them for the inspiration. Anyway, again, its kind of on the weird side in terms of writing style but I hope some of you like it. Its a happy fic from me for once!

As most of us know, there are two different kinds of love. There is the strictly platonic kind of love that you share with family members and friends, and then there is the other kind of affection that is reserved for your lover. One that transcends all feelings, thoughts, differences, and obstacles. It is the greatest emotion, in my opinion, that one can feel.

When displaying these radically different forms of love, there is a certain amount of body language that signals which kind is taking place. For example if you are brother and sister, and you are embracing or kissing each other you generally keep your arms and hands below the shoulders but above the waist. Never touch the other's head, face, or hips for these are indications of lovers' love.

You might have noticed this if you have ever witnessed a couple who are deeply in love and kissing. They tend to place their hand on the back of the other's head, applying gentle pressure, and - with their free hand - pull the loved one closer to them via the small of the back or the hip. The recipient of this kind of smooch might wrap their own arm around the other's neck or shoulders. They become so entangled in one another that it might be hard to tell who is who any longer. You never see that when a brother and sister embrace.

Susan Pevensie knew this well, of course, but it was becoming clear to her that Peter Pevensie did not.

He started it, the ignorant prat. He had just returned from one of his many raids on the Northern lands, and a particularly long and dangerous one at that.

The whole time that he had been gone Susan was simply out of her mind with worry and anxiety of another kind. She couldn't describe it but he occupied her thoughts more than normal. All she wanted was for him to return home and never leave again because she presently didn't think that she would survive being parted from him for so long again. Was that normal?

So when the day finally arrived that the young queen heard the trumpets that signaled the High King's return her heart leapt into her throat and she ran with as much speed as she could muster down to the entrance hall of the castle.

And there he was, just barely inside the hall, greeting the familiar heralds and servants with his usual grin and hearty tone. Not much had changed about him save for the scruffy facial hair that he developed and apparently ignored. His clothes were splattered with mud from the ride but he seemed glad to be home. Then he spotted his sister.

Susan smiled as he broke away from his conversation with the manservant and headed straight forwards, a dazzling smile gracing his features. She met him halfway and as she made to wrap her arms around his midsection she found that he had pulled her towards him by way of her waist. Before she could say anything she was being pressed closely to him, one of his hands moving up her back to her neck.

All words that she had planned to say died in her throat. This felt different. This wasn't her older brother Peter that was embracing her in such a fashion. Yet his voice was the same as the one that had left as he whispered in her ear, "Oh Susan, you haven't any idea how wonderful it is to see you again."

Susan leaned back, but could not do much else because one of his arms was still curled tightly around her hips. It was such an strange and unfamiliar sensation to be held this way by her brother, but Susan had to admit that it didn't feel out of place. She still found that her voice was out of commission so instead she stood on her tiptoe and pressed a kiss into his lips.

It was meant to be one of those platonic brotherly-sisterly pecks, but Peter's hand at the back of her neck kept her from pulling away and he held the kiss a little longer, adding a little bit of pressure before he broke it himself. He was positively beaming.

What did it all mean?

That was the question that repeated itself like a broken record in Susan's head over the next three days until she was nearly mad with wonder. She often found herself stealing long glances at him as though trying to pick his brain for the reason of his actions that first morning. And every time he caught her looking he simply threw a terribly sweet smile her direction that was filled with an emotion that she thought familiar but could not name.

She also realized that they were spending a lot more time together than before he left. Not that she minded; Peter was her favorite sibling and they understood each other more than anyone ever had. But that didn't discount for the fact that whenever they were together Peter laughed louder at her jokes and kept taking her hand in his, intertwining their fingers together. "I never want to be without you again, Sue," he often said when he did this.

Now a week had passed and Peter's behavior didn't go unnoticed by the younger members of the family. Susan had accidentally overheard Edmund and Lucy talking excitedly in the library.

"Do you know if Peter's told her yet?"

"Nope. Every time I ask him he just pretends that I don't know what I'm talking about. As if we wouldn't notice."

"I don't know why Susan won't get the picture. I've heard the things he says to her."

"I know! Sue's eighteen AND a girl, she's supposed to understand these things. Even I know what's going on."

But that was all Susan heard before she had hurried on, lost in her thoughts. What WAS going on? What big secret was she missing out on that Edmund supposedly knew all about? What was so obvious that had just flown over her head.

Susan's course of direction changed abruptly, an expression of resolve on her face. It was just those questions that she was going to have answered, never mind just WHAT those answers might be. She didn't like the idea of being the only one out of the loop, especially when it concerned Peter.

She found her brother in his study poring over a long piece of parchment, Oreius standing near the desk giving a report. As they both caught sight of her, Peter jumped up and shot a look to Oreius who immediately understood and left the study without a word.

"Susan," Peter said cheerily, moving around the desk and towards her, his arms outstretched. He took both her hands in his and gave her a tender kiss on the cheek. "What can I do for you."

Susan only stared hard into Peter's eyes, searching for the answers just to save her from asking.

"Sue?"

The queen pulled her hands away, drew a deep breath, and said shakily. "Peter what aren't you telling me?" When he merely gave her a quizzical look, she continued. "You've been acting strange ever since your return home and I just feel like you're keeping something from me. Something that even Lucy and Edmund know." She looked him directly in the eye, a hint of sadness behind hers. "I thought we were close."

Surprisingly, Peter grinned from ear to ear. "I had a revelation while I was away," he said in an excited tone. "You see the whole time I was on the raid, there was only one thing I was thinking about. I was thinking so hard on it that I couldn't focus on anything else. I was making poor decisions and I daydreamt and I'm afraid I wasn't a very good leader." He reached up and stroked her cheek gently. "Do you know what I was thinking about?"

Susan shook her head.

"Coming home... to you."

"But," Susan replied, frowning a little. "What does that have to do with a revelation? And it still doesn't explain your behavior."

"Oh Susan," Peter said with a small chuckle, a blush creeping ever so slightly into his face. "I realized that... that --" Now there was a definite redness in his cheeks and he cast his eyes to the ground in embarrassment. "We belong... together." He looked back up at her. "I love you Susan." Then he reached for her.

And if there was any doubt in Susan's mind just what kind of love Peter was referring to, the placement of his hands soon solved that puzzle. At first they
were gripping her arms as he held her to him, but moved, once again, to her hips and neck. His tongue traced over her lips softly and he dipped her slightly, holding her tight.

Susan's mind emptied as all this happened except for the initial repulsion at the unnaturalness of it. But soon even that melted away and she felt one of her hands clasping the back of Peter's own neck, the other tangling itself into his hair. By the time they broke away for air, Susan gave no thought to the social repercussions of what had just happened.

Peter was beaming, though slightly winded and pink. He didn't have to ask if she reciprocated. There was something about the way she held him that gave it all away.

Guided By Fate

Sun, 03 Dec 2006 08:05:15 GMT

Title: Guided By Fate
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Peter/Susan
Rating: PG13 for incest. Obviously. ;P
Summary: After the scare with Maugrim, Peter realizes how precious Susan is to him.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: This is my first foray into the Narnia fanfic fandom. I've always wanted to have a go at Peter/Susan, and after I started re-reading the books my muse has been jabbing me in the head to get this written out. Just a word to the wise, this is based more off of the book than the movie, though I drew from elements of the film as well. Also, I apologize that its too long in some places and too short in others. I further apologize that the writing gets a little wonky but I do hope you enjoy parts of it and maybe I'll be inspired to crank out something different later on. Thanks. :)

Whether guided by fate or entirely coincidental, it didn't matter; their lips had met.

The incident with the wolves was just too sudden, too real, too close for comfort. As soon as danger had passed Peter and Susan were in each other's arms, trembling and holding the other tight.

It started with a small kiss on the shoulder from Peter. Soon he was wandering up her neck and onto her face, giving her nearly frantic kisses on every inch of skin he could reach. Warm breath and the soft feel of Susan's plush lips told him he was receiving the same treatment. And then very suddenly their kisses connected.

It was like a bolt of electricity running through his body. He pulled back from Susan and saw that her cheeks were very flushed. They embraced again, this time not letting go for a good while.

That had been several hours ago but the scene had been flashing through Peter's brain all day. It was now sunset and he was standing on a high rock that overlooked their normally busy camp. However the several able bodied men who had been sent to look for Edmund and had not yet returned. That fact coupled with the events of the morning (not to mention that Peter could not stop remembering exactly how intoxicating Susan's lips felt and tasted) clouded the young king's mind.

It should not have surprised him, then, that after an hour or so of standing and brooding he felt warm hands caressing his back and strong but comforting arms surrounding him.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Susan's soft voice said in his ear.

Peter leaned back in to her embrace, his eyes fluttering closed and he could feel himself being rocked very gently. "I've got more thoughts than you've got pennies handy, I'm afraid."

Behind him, Susan smiled. "I'll let you off the hook this time."

But the older boy only sighed and broke away from her, not meeting her gaze. He took a few steps away, kicking at a particularly large clump of grass before throwing himself on the ground and leaning against a rock. "I dunno, Sue," he said distractedly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "I just think I've got a little too much on my plate."

Susan gave him a sympathetic look and took a seat next to him, taking his hand in hers. "I know Peter. I'm worried about him too."

"Its not just that," Peter replied distractedly, casting a look over the camp again. "This morning... if anything had happened to you..." he broke away and looked her in the eye, his face full of emotion. "I don't think I would be able go on living."

The young queen bowed her head and without a word crawled into his lap, nestling her face in the crook of his neck.

Peter didn't know how long he sat there, cradling Susan in his arms and thinking very heavily on everything that had passed since they're arrival in Narnia. Edmund's betrayal, fleeing from the Secret Police, Father Christmas's "tools," meeting Aslan, and Susan's... close call.

Presently deep, even breathing told him that Susan was long since asleep and he felt it was time to take his sister to bed. It had clearly been several hours. There was dew on the grass and a little distance away he could hear a bird's song. Dawn was breaking.

He lifted Susan easily and carried her back down to her tent where Lucy was sleeping very soundly. Once she was snug in her bed (he had managed to do it without waking her) he gave her a long look. The way her hair spread out on the pillow was very picturesque and beautiful, the rise and fall of her chest fascinating.

A strand of her dark locks was splayed across her cheek. His hand reached up automatically to brush it off her face and as he did so he leaned down and gave her the most loving and tender kiss he could muster.

When he came back up he bit his lip. It had suddenly and forcefully occurred to him.... "I... I love you, Sue," he whispered, his voice shaking.

Susan stirred in her sleep, settling her face into Peter's cupped hand on her cheek. "I love you too, Peter." But she was not awake.

Peter smiled sadly and stroked her cheek with this thumb. Minutes passed before he tore himself away, giving her sleeping form another loving gaze and pushing himself out her tent as though he regretted nothing more in the world.

The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak: Chapter Two

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 16:52:04 GMT

Series: The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak
Title: Chapter 2: Lions, Snakes, Badgers and Eagles
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: The sorting, the headmaster, and the first prank.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: I just realized its been nearly a year since I posted the first chapter. Which is funny because this chapter has been completed for most of the time gap. Has it really been that long? Time flies I guess. Anyway, I've almost finished the first draft of the third chapter and will be begging for beta testers probably within the week. As I said in my most recent LJ post I really do love this fiction and even though it seems as though I have abandoned it, I haven't at all. I'm writing at my leisure at the moment and until you guys start kicking my ass into doing it faster, I will continue to be this way. Anyway, I'll stop rambling now and get on with the show.

Chapter 2
Lions, Snakes, Badgers and Eagles

It seemed like ages before James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter stepped off the train (another unfortunate downside to sitting in the last compartment). When they finally did, James saw that the crowd of students had separated into two different directions. He was about to ask Sirius if he knew why, when a loud, booming voice answered his question.

"You lot firs' years? Firs' years over here! Righ' now, you all follow me."

The owner of the voice was a huge man who almost tripled James's own height and was another three times as thick. A tennis racket sized hand was holding a lantern that shone on a face that was mostly covered in untamed hair, and cast shadows on shoes that were at least four feet long. He was waving the first years along behind him, in the opposite direction that the older students had gone.

"Excuse me," Sirius asked, catching up the giant (which was a quite a feat, considering that for every step the giant took, Sirius took three). "But, who are you?" The giant chuckled. "The name's Rubeus Hagrid, but you can just call me Hagrid -- everyone else does -- and I'm the gamekeeper at Hogwarts." His voice was gruff, but kind.

"And, er, if you don't mind me asking, but where are we going?" Sirius was now positively jogging to keep up, James and the others straggling on behind.

Hagrid smiled. "Got a bit of a treat fer you lot," he said. "Firs' years traditionally sail across the lake on their firs' day."

The group rounded a bend and several "oohs" and "ahhs" were heard.

Directly in front of them was the lake, which was so still that it looked like black glass, and beyond that stood the Hogwarts castle, its many windows twinkling like stars against the night sky.

Hagrid was smiling broadly. "Beau'iful, innit?"

The students murmured their agreement.

Hagrid chuckled and then assumed a very business-like attitude. "Righ'," he said, clapping his enormous hands together. "Like I said, we'll be sailin', so you lot get in groups o' four and pick a boat." He gestured toward a small armada of boats floating at the bank that James had not noticed.

After everyone had clambered awkwardly into their boats, Hagrid double-checked to make sure that no one had been left behind and then they set off towards the castle, the giant gamekeeper leading the way.

They cut straight across the lake, sailed underneath a rocky overhang, and finally came to a harbor that was right underneath the school.

Hagrid oversaw the disembarking of the boats, counted heads, and led the students up a rocky slope to a set of stone steps at the top of which was two large oak doors.

The first years followed Hagrid up the steps eagerly. When they reached the doors, which were about twenty feet tall, Hagrid knocked three times, the sound echoing across the grounds.

There was a pause -- then the doors creaked open ominously. In the doorway stood a severe witch in her late forties, wearing dark green robes and a pointed witch's hat. She was giving off a very stern that was quite contrary from Hagrid's cheery one.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said in a crisp voice that suited her very much. "I will take them from here." She beckoned the first years after her, leading them into the entrance hall, straight past the vast room where -- James managed to glimpse -- the rest of the school was waiting, and into what appeared to be an unused classroom.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the witch said, surveying the students over the top of her square-framed glasses. "My name is Professor McGonagall and I will be your Transfiguration teacher. Now, before the term starts, all new students must be sorted into their houses, which will be something like your family during your stay at this school. You will eat with your house, sleep with your house, and attend classes with your house. And while your achievements will earn your house points, any misbehaving will lose them." She paused here, looking at them as though daring them to break a rule in front of her. Then she continued with, "The four houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, each with their own admirable qualities. When you are Sorted, you will be judged to see which house suits you best. Now I do believe they are ready for you in the Great Hall, so if you'll follow me...." And with that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the classroom and into the Great Hall, the first years trailing behind her nervously.

The Hall was magnificently huge, with a ceiling enchanted to look like the sky outside, so that it felt as though there were not one at all. There were four long tables where the students sat with their respective houses and at the front of the Hall was the staff table, which faced the students.

Professor McGonagall led the first years between the two center tables and lined them up parallel to the staff table, facing a rickety old stool on which a very old wizard's hat was sitting.

As the first years came to a halt the rest of the school quietened. There was a moment's silence and then the hat began to sing:

Another year has begun
And an interesting one it will be
So come along young first years
And put your faith in me
For when I was young and thoughtless
(Indeed very much less smart)
Four friends came together and dreamed
That they, a school, would start
Separately, they sought out those
Whom they thought were best
Then they put some brains in me
And put me to the test
Centuries later, it is still up to me
To put you where you belong
If you'd like to try and guess for yourself
Then listen to my song
Hufflepuff is your house if
You're honest, brave and true
Or if you're brave and daring
Then Gryffindor's for you
Perhaps you belong in Ravenclaw
Where they prize the sharpest minds
If not, then in Slytherin
Where the cunning find their kind
So step right up, don't be shy
Forget about all your fears
Just put me on and I will shout
Your house for all to hear

As the Hat's song drew to a close, the rest of the school behind them broke into applause, while the first years simply stared in awe.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. "When your name is called, sit down on the stool, put the Hat on your head, and wait to be sorted." She unfurled a roll of parchment. "Avery, Clayton."

A skinny, dark-haired boy stepped out of the line. He sat down gingerly, as though afraid the stool would burn him, and placed the Hat on his head. The Hat seemed to consider him a moment, and then -- "SLYTHERIN!"

The table on the far right applauded as their new House member scampered off to join them.

"Black, Narcissa."

"Cissy" seemed to tip-toe to the stool. The Hat barely took a second before screaming "SLYTHERIN" once again, to her apparent relief. She followed Avery to the Slytherin table, where she took a seat next to her sister.

James spared a glance at Sirius. He seemed to be bristling, preparing himself for the worst.

"Black, Sirius."

Sirius took a deep breath and slowly approached the stool. When he turned to sit down, James saw that he looked faintly green. Then the Hat slipped over his eyes.

James watched Sirius's expression intently. His face contorted restlessly, so he was difficult to read. A few minutes passed, as the school awaited the verdict.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Somewhere to the right, the Gryffindor table exploded with cheers. James felt himself join the applause, clapping hard.

Sirius looked amazed. He took off the hat and walked towards the Gryffindor table in a daze.

"Good one," James muttered in his ear as he passed.

Sirius grinned broadly. "See you there, mate." He scurried over to his new House table, keeping the seat next to him saved.

Meanwhile a "Carter, Mary-Ellen" had been sorted into Hufflepuff, followed by a Ravenclaw by the name of "Davis, Dominic."

After them came a long string of girls. The red-head in front of James ("Evans, Lily") became the first female Gryffindor. Then "Finch, April" went to Hufflepuff. Garvin – Gryffindor; Gaynor -- Ravenclaw; Gregor -- Hufflepuff.

Following the girls came a set of twins ("Hardy, Jason and Patricia") who both went to Ravenclaw, "Jones, Alice" went to Gryffindor, and then more twins (both girls) who were sorted into Slytherin this time, another Slytherin girl ("Little, Catherine"), and then it was --

"Lupin, Remus."

For a minute Remus didn't respond at all. Finally, James nudged him hard in the ribs and he stepped forward hesitantly.

The Hat took almost as long with him as it did with Sirius. Likewise, Remus's facial features contorted compulsively as the Hall waited in silence.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Remus's face paled, but he was smiling so hugely as he took off the hat and trotted off to sit with Sirius that James hardly recognized him.

There were less than half now. A pair of Hufflepuffs -- "McCloud" and "Morton," "Nelson" -- a Ravenclaw... Newt... Oliver....

James was so nervous by the time they reached the Ps that he hardly noticed when Peter Pettigrew, the fourth member of their Hogwarts Express quartet, became a Gryffindor.

"Potter, James."

James rushed forward. Realizing how foolish he must look, he slowed down and adopted a bit of a swagger instead. He sat on the stool and slipped on the Hat, chewing his lower lip nervously.

"Potter," a voice said in his ear, chuckling slightly. "I have no doubts about you. You're definitely in GRYFFINDOR!"

Grinning, James tried hard not to run to his table, swaggering again and feeling rather stupid. In any case, he was glad to reach the chair Sirius had saved him, which he flopped unceremoniously into.

"Nice strut, mate," Sirius muttered.

James pinked slightly, and ignored the sniggers of the other students in the Hall.

The Sorting was winding down now; there were only seven students left now.

"Remmington, Candy" became a Ravenclaw; she was followed by a very greasy looking boy named "Snape, Severus" who was placed in Slytherin. Then came "Stanton, Cady" who turned out to be the year's last Gryffindor. "Stramp, Jack" went to Slytherin, and the remaining two boys rounded out the Sorting by both becoming Hufflepuffs.

When the last of the applause from the Hufflepuff table died away, their Headmaster -- Albus Dumbledore – stood and looked over his students with pride.

"Another year beginning, another boring speech from your befuddled old headmaster." Here, he paused to let the laughter flare up and quieten again. "I must inform all new first years -- and perhaps remind a few older students – that the Forbidden Forest is just its name: forbidden. As is the use of magic in the corridors. Save wand use for your classes. I must also make a point to advise you against straying too close to the newest addition to our grounds, the Whomping Willow. I shall not describe the nature of its epithet, but I trust you all will put your little noggins to the test and discover how it got its namesake yourself." His eyes twinkled. "Now, I think that is everything of importance, because -- unless I'm muchly mistaken -- I think I hear a few stomachs rumbling, mine included. Happy feasting!" And with that, he sat down again, promptly pulling a magically filled dish of potatoes toward him.

The feast was delicious and the atmosphere was warm and inviting. The first years chatted happily about their new classes while older students groaned at the thought of going back to them. James laughed and talked with his friends and new classmates, affirming that Hogwarts had exceeded his expectations.

The evening ended joyously; another first year, Cady Stanton, even managed to embarrass Sirius by slipping a plate of chocolate pudding into his chair when he was standing up to get more treacle tart.

"I'm depressed," Sirius muttered to James after casting a very hasty cleaning charm and threatening to hex anyone who laughed.

James raised an eyebrow. "Er, why?"

"Because someone pulled the first prank of the year before me!" Sirius replied desperately. "This means war!"

The feast wound down and a fourth year boy had just mentioned how tired he was when Dumbledore stood up again.

"One last reminder," he announced sleepily. "I love socks. Off to bed with you!"

Chuckling at their Headmaster's bizarre parting words, James and Sirius -- followed closely by Remus and Peter -- traipsed after their fellow Gryffindors up several flights of stairs and through a few secret passageways (which James was sure to make note of) and finally stopping in front of an enormous portrait of a fat lady.

One of the prefects wrestled his way to the front. "Okay everyone, the new password is 'atticus' and be sure not to forget it!"

The fat lady in the portrait smiled, and the picture swung open, as though on hinges, and behind it was a wide hole in the wall -- enough for no more than two people to scramble through at a time -- about three feet off the ground.

The prefect led the way into the Gryffindor common room, which was full of tables and chairs, straight-backed and armchairs alike, and a fire was roaring in the fireplace on one side. There were two sets of stairs on either side of the room, leading off into different directions.

After a quick look around, James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter followed the other boys up the left hand staircase, but left them at the door of their first year dormitory.

Someone had brought their trunks up. James recognized his at the foot of a large four-poster bed that stood to one side of a magnificent window.

"Do you realize," Sirius said, jumping on his own four-poster, which was right next to James's, "that we have this whole dormitory to ourselves? All year, for seven years?" His eyes were glinting with excitement.

James grinned and launched a pillow at his new best friend.

The Sorting Hat had said during its song that it was going to be an interesting year. It didn't know how right it was.

If Only I Could Kiss Her

Sat, 07 Oct 2006 22:21:09 GMT

Title: If Only I Could Kiss Her
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Cloud/Aeris
Rating: PG
Summary: Just a ficlet.
Disclaimer: Two words: Didn't happen
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: I've been playing too much FFVII. This takes place in the Shinra headquarters after they've all been caught and placed in holding cells. And yes, I call her Aeris with an s. So sue me.

"Can I ask you something?"

Cloud looked up. It had been hours since anyone had said anything. He had assumed they had fallen asleep or at the very least lapsed into their own thoughts.

"...Cloud?"

He pressed his ear against the wall. "Yeah?"

A pause. "Why did you come here?"

Cloud smiled faintly. "I'm your bodyguard. I fulfill my half of the contract so I can get paid."

A longer pause this time. "I'm serious."

He turned towards the wall. "So am I." When he received no reply, he continued. "You do know I'm holding you to the promise of a date."

Silence.

"Also...." Cloud heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "I don't know. I have to know you're safe. I don't want anyone on this goddamn planet to touch you. You're too precious to lose. Not because you're the last Ancient but because...." He sighed again, struggling with his thoughts and feelings. "Well... because you're you.... I just.... I have to have you with me."

He could just barely hear sniffling on the other side of the wall.

For a while she didn't say anything. Cloud wondered if he had said too much.
But after a while her meek voice came again drifting through the godforsaken piece of metal that separated them. "Cloud?"

"Yeah?"

"I wish you were in here with me."

Cloud leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, picturing her. "Me too."

The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak: Chapter 1

Tue, 20 Dec 2005 00:15:16 GMT

Series: The Marauders and the Invisibility Cloak
Title: Chapter 1: The Scarlet Steam Engine
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Upon the Hogwarts Express, four different boys meet. The beginning of an interesting year....
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes:Er, I'm very nervous about this. I've never written novel-length HP fic before so I'm nervous to see how it turns out. The Marauders are my favorite characters in the books and since it is clear that JKR is not intending to write a series about them, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I'm trying to make it as canon as possible. I spent months researching this time period and several times reread any parts of the original series to make sure I kept in character AND had three beta testers proof read this chapter. Please go easy on me, I'm very nervous, but most of all enjoy! Chapter two is completed and about to be sent out for beta-testing so it should be up soon. Enjoy!

Chapter 1
The Scarlet Steam Engine

The Hogwarts Express bore no signs of activity whatsoever as it sat quietly in the deserted magical train station. The gateway onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters would remain sealed for a few more hours yet.

If one who was more accustomed to seeing the train and this platform teeming with life were to stand in the empty station, he or she might have said it was eerie.

The abandoned train would not remain that way for very long, however. Soon there would be so much magical activity going on on this platform that one might wonder how the magical world had managed to stay hidden for so long.

Students, parents, friends, and relatives would be coming and going; cats and rats and owls would be meowing and squeaking and hooting at each other; and excitement would be the popular emotion.

A solitary ray of light shone on the train: the sun was just coming up.

And by the time the sun fell again, this train would be gone, depositing its occupants at the legendary school of witchcraft and wizardry, Hogwarts.

~~**~*~**~~

James Potter burst through the barrier onto the Platform Nine and Three Quarters, very flushed and out of breath. He caught sight of the scarlet steam engine ahead of him and he almost forgot to breathe. He was so caught up in his excitement that his mother and father walked right into him as they came through the barrier.

"James, you might want to step out of the way," Mrs. Potter said, smiling at her son's wonderment.

James only half-heard her. He could not remember a time in his life that he was more excited than he was at this very moment. The stories he had heard about this train before him and the mystical place the tracks led to were enough to make a young child anticipate his or her eleventh birthday more than humanly possible.

After all, James had grown up listening to such stories: tales of mischief, mayhem, and magic. And finally, after what seemed like centuries, it was his turn to take part in it.

"Come on, son," Mr. Potter said, prodding James. "Let's get you a nice compartment."

But James had no interest in boarding the train just yet. He wove in and out of his fellow students, who were milling about, chatting unconcernedly, some already changed into their school robes. He spotted a few of his childhood friends climbing onto the train and waved cheerily at them, but his overwhelming curiosity of the events happening on the platform prevented him from joining them.

All around him people were swapping stories of their summers with their friends, showing off new gadgets and things, talking about the school year ahead and the magic they wanted to learn. Even Mr. and Mrs. Potter seemed wrapped up in the goings on of the platform.

It was only when the train whistled loudly and last minute stragglers were boarding did James allow himself to be shepherded onto the train.

"Have fun, dear," his mum said, her eyes oddly overbright.

"Write us once in a while," his father said, beaming up at him.

"Study hard --"

"Don't get in too much trouble, not for first term at least --"

"Richard!"

Grinning wildly, James waved at his father, blew his mum a kiss and disappeared as the train began to move.

Fifteen minutes later he was presented with a problem....

Well, this is what I get for lollygagging, he thought miserably to himself. He was nearing the end of the train and every compartment he had passed was full. There were just two left now.

He pulled his trunk forward a few feet, panting a little and cursed himself once again for fooling around on the platform. There's gotta be one that's not empty, he thought desperately.

"Oy!"

James turned.

A boy about his age was moving slowly towards him, also dragging his trunk behind him. As he drew closer, James saw that he had shaggy black hair and stormy gray eyes. He was wearing a set of black robes that had a family crest -- presumably his own -- embroidered over his heart.

James's eyes lingered on the crest. It seemed oddly frayed around the edges, as though someone had desperately tried to remove it, to no avail. The crest itself stirred something in James's memory, but he could not remember for the life of him where he might have seen it.

The stranger came to a stop when he reached James's trunk, shaking his hair out of his eyes and offering James a smile. "I take it that you've had the same luck I have. That, or you're so desperately dull that you've already been chucked out of a compartment."

James wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.

Taking no notice of James's awkward silence, the boy stepped forward and peered into the left-hand compartment. His lip curled in distaste at once. "Slytherins," he said, his voice full of dislike.

James smiled. As a born Gryffindor, he wasn't fond of Slytherins either.

The boy watched the occupants of the left-hand compartment disgustedly for a moment, then scoffed and turned his attention to the right. His expression lifted at once. "We're in luck, mate!" He said brightly to James. "This one's only got one person."

James let out a sigh of relief. He really didn't fancy the worst case scenario: sitting on his trunk in the walkway until the train arrived at Hogwarts.

The boy threw open the door, flashing a charismatic smile to the occupant of the compartment. "Mind if my mate and I sit with you?" He asked. "There isn't enough room to swing a kneazle everywhere else."

A vulnerable and haggard looking boy stared back at James and the dark-haired boy with what appeared to be a hopeful smile on his face. "I don't mind," he replied, his voice soft.

"Brilliant!" the dark-haired boy exclaimed, heaving his trunk into the compartment and beckoning to James, who followed suit.

Finally settled in, James looked at his two companions. "I'm James Potter, by the way," he introduced. "I'm a measly first year."

The dark-haired boy grinned. "So am I! The name's Sirius Black."

James instantly remembered where he had seen Sirius's family crest. The Blacks were a well known, ancient pure-blood clan, with a reputation as dark as their name.

"Ah, I know what you're thinking," Sirius said, his grin fading and assuming the disgusted look again. "The famous Black family, obsessed with blood; the whole lot of them into really dark magic? I think it’s a load of bollocks." He paused, lost in his thoughts. "In any case, I don't consider myself a Black by morals. Just by name." He suddenly grinned again. "I'm hoping to be in Gryffindor."

James smiled widely. "That's my house!" he exclaimed. Then he added, sheepishly, "Or at least I hope so. My whole family was in it. Though I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad...."

Sirius nodded his agreement. "What's your house," he abruptly asked the other boy.

Their third companion had shyly reimmersed himself in "A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration," which he had apparently been reading before James and Sirius came in. However, when spoken to, he slowly dog-earred the page he was on and closed the book. He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again. He smiled apologetically. "I'm not sure...."

Sirius cocked an eyebrow. "What's your name?"

"Remus Lupin."

"Hmm, that doesn't really ring a bell." Sirius glanced at James for help, who had none to offer.

"I can't say I've heard of any Lupins...."

Sirius directed his attention back to Remus. "Are you a Muggle-born or something?"

Remus pinked slightly. "Half. Mum's a Muggle." He paused. "I might've heard Dad say something about Gryffindor..."

James and Sirius grinned at this statement, just as the door slid open.

A short, pudgy boy was standing in the doorway, very pink in the cheeks and wheezing. "D'you mind - if I - sit here?" He asked breathlessly. "Everywhere else - is full."

Sirius glanced at James, who shrugged.

"Sure, come on in."

The boy looked delighted and started to tug his trunk inside. When it was safely in the luggage rack, he flopped down next to James, mopping his sweat face.

"Thanks," he said, still slightly winded. "I'm Peter Pettigrew."

"Pettigrew..." Sirius repeated, thinking hard. "Mainly Hufflepuffs in your family, right?"

"Yeah," Peter replied appreciatively. "How d'you know that?"

"Ahh, see, when your family is as blood-obsessed as mine is, they start shoving useless information about other families' lineage down your throat."

James, who had begun to detect a dangerous note of bitterness in Sirius's voice whenever he talked about his family, hastily changed the subject. "Any of you follow Quidditch much?"

The rest of the afternoon was fairly enjoyable. Talk wandered from Quidditch, to expectations of the school, to how much magic they had learned already. James and Sirius dominated the conversation mostly, though Remus piped up every now and then, while Peter simply listened in awe.

Meanwhile, James was liking Sirius more and more. It seemed that both of them were fond of pulling pranks, both were exceptionally gifted in Transfiguration, and they even liked the same Quidditch team.

Their pleasant afternoon was punctured only by the arrival of someone who instantly explained why Sirius disliked his family so much.

The boys were laughing and sharing the candy they had bought from the food cart, and there was talk of playing Exploding Snap with James's deck, when the door opened again.

In entered a tall, thin girl who had dark hair and even darker eyes that James suspected had nothing to do with their color. Accompanying her was a younger girl with blonde hair and a pale complexion. Both were wearing haughty, holier-than-thou expressions.

"Sirius, I've been looking all over for you," the older one said. "I told you Cissy, Lucius, Rodolphus, and I were saving a seat for you down near the front."

The laughter died from Sirius's face at once. "And I told you," he replied indignantly, "that I would rather kiss an acromantula."

Her lip curled at this statement. "How dare you? You should be grateful that I would even consider helping guide you after all the heartache you caused your dear mother. And yet you choose to fraternize with this --" her eyes lingered on James, who she undoubtedly recognized as a Potter, and Remus's shabby robes. "-- filth."

"That's right," Sirius replied coolly. "So you can save your 'guidance' for someone who gives a damn."

A shocked silence fell over the compartment. The older girl stood there furiously for a moment, then said, "Come, Cissy," and left, slamming the door behind her.

For a few minutes no one said anything....

"Who was that, Sirius," Peter asked timidly.

"My cousin Bellatrix and her sister, Narcissa," Sirius said in a deadly tone. "I'm supposed to be setting an example for Narcissa 'cause she's a first year too." He let out a laugh that was more like a bark than anything.

The uncomfortable silence lingered a bit more.

James cleared his throat noisily. "So about that Exploding Snap game."

Sirius gave a very forced smile, his cousins' visit still occupying his mind. "Deal 'em out, mate."

They played several entertaining rounds of cards and were on the verge of starting a betting pool, when Remus's quiet voice took their minds off the game.

"We're nearly there."

Remus was peering out of the window, his pale face reflecting off it.

No one spoke while they each changed into their school robes and packed away their things, and Sirius had taken to pacing his way around the small compartment when the train finally began to slow.

James looked excitedly at his other companions and was a little surprised to see that they did not share his sentiments: Peter looked as though he wanted to vomit, Remus was (if possible) paler than ever, and even Sirius had lost the confident glint in his eye.

James smiled weakly at them all and the train came to a stop.

When the Rain Comes; Chapter 1: Fever

Thu, 05 May 2005 02:34:59 GMT

Title: When the Rain Comes; Chapter 1: Fever
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: mild Charlie/Claire and one sided Sawyer/Claire
Rating: PG13
Summary: Everything falls into place after Claire's baby is born, but someone is hiding something....
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: This idea was sparked from a very very innocent Sawyer/Claire exchange in one of the early episodes of the season. For some reason it struck a chord with me, and every since then I've harbored this very odd attachment to this unconventional and most definitely unpopular Lost pairing. I still worship Charlie/Claire, but something made me want to write angst, and thus this was produced. :-/ Also, the starred line is taken lovingly from one of my favorite books, Ella Enchanted. And lastly, this was written before tonight's episode (Greater Good), so I have taken some creative liberties. Enjoy?

It had occured to him early on that she was attractive. She had an infectious smile, dazzling eyes, and an air about her that was appealing to the eye. She commanded attention wherever she went perhaps because of the looming bulge of her stomach, but it also might be due to her quiet yet contagious personality. Why he hadn't taken notice of her beforehand astounded him. He supposed he was just more distracted with other... matters.

All unresolved issues with certain other females on the island that had a horrible tendency to sexually frustrate him aside, he definitely saw something in the bubbly Austrailian that he didn't notice before.

She certainly was a changed woman now that the baby had been born. The stress of the prenancy had lifted the dark shadow over her that she so desperately tried - and failed - to conceal. And now, even though dark circles appeared under her eyes and she seemed constantly exhausted (no doubt due to the late nights and non-stop attention being paid to the baby), her smile appeared to be much brighter than anyone ever remembered seeing.

She had resolved three things: to keep the baby as healthy and happy as can be, to lose the weight she gained during the pregnancy, and to achieve as much normality one could ever hope for whilst stranded on an deserted jungle island.

The baby was damn cute as well, come to it. Three days after his birth Claire announced that she was naming him Adam (she felt that the first boy born in their twisted form of Paradise should be named as such). The child looked remarkably like her: the same curly blond hair and shocking blue eyes. A few differences lingered around the nose and shape of the eyes, but the lopsided yet energetic smile was her own.

After the initial fatherly affection had died down inside the menfolk of the island, Claire settled into a happy routine - watched ever closely by the overly eager Charlie. The pair of them seemed as happy as can be, sharing the responsibilities of parenthood between them as normally as one could possibly manage.

Charlie was especially enthusiastic, appearing to have finally gained the affections of the woman he so obviously adored. He took on the babysitting and diaper-changing duties without the blink of an eye; in fact the idea of watching the child while Claire took a nap enthused the ex-rocker beyond belief.

All seemed well between them; a - most certainly weird but functional - family unit. As the others began to be accustomed to the new baby and its needs, Sawyer realized he had no choice but to put Claire out of his mind - no matter how much more of an attractive option she was over that cock-tease, Kate.

Sawyer sighed and tried once again to immerse himself in his book. He had conveniently forgotten to put on his makeshift spectacles and already a dull ache presented itself in the center of his forehead. He knew within ten minutes the pain was going to be unbearable. A quick glance around told him that everyone was more occupied with their own activities to be concerned with what the resident pack rat was wearing on his face. Reluctantly he drew out the glasses and placed them gently on his nose.

Ah, much better, he thought to himself. He settled back against the trunk of his tree and resumed reading. **Against my will I took a step. I stopped, and the --

"Hey, do you know where Jack is?"

Sawyer jumped and immeadiately ripped the glasses off his face, stuffing them out of sight before giving any more acknowledgement to the uninvited interruption.

It was Charlie who was distractedly cradling Claire's restless baby in his arms.

Sawyer glanced at the bundle of blankets which were rustling about uneasily. The child wasn't crying but rather making erratic whimpering sounds and twisting about in discomfort. "Can't say that I do, Bon Jovi," he finally replied, one weary eye still on the baby. "Why, what's up?"

"There's something wrong with Adam," Charlie muttered, his full attention remaining with the infant. "He won't sleep, he won't eat, he won't even cry, and he just won't sit still."

Taking an unusual interest in the matter, Sawyer sat up and asked innocently, "Can I see him?"

Charlie hesitated for a brief moment but then sighed with the air of one who had tried everything else and crouched down next to Sawyer, shifting the baby in his arms cautiously. "Be very careful with him," he warned. "I swear, if you drop him...."

"Chill out, Incredible Hulk, I'm not gonna drop him," Sawyer retorted, taking the wad of blankets from Charlie with surprising gentleness.

Almost at once the child stilled, staring up at this new face with wide eyes. Sawyer caught and held the gaze, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then the baby broke into a huge smile and pointed up at Sawyer with a confidence that only infants possess.

Sawyer grinned; Charlie looked astonished.

The Southerner dipped his hand down and allowed the boy's tiny palm close around a finger, and without ever tearing his eyes away from the child asked, "Do you have a binkie or something for him?"

"Oh, yeah, here," Charlie replied, still sounding rather dumbstruck, and handed Sawyer the binkie he and Claire discovered while looking for spare diapers.

Sawyer started to pull his hand away to take the binkie but as soon as Adam felt the absence of a finger in his grasp he began to wail desperately. Startled, Sawyer immediately twitched his hand back inside the blanket and let the infant's tiny fingers flex around his thumb.

"Uh... you do it," Sawyer suggested awkwardly, trying to make himself comfortable with his right hand still helplessly captured by the baby in his arms.

Charlie, who had finally recovered, leaned forward and gently pressed the binkie against Adam's lips, who sucked it into his mouth contentedly, a drowsy haze appearing to overcome him.

Sawyer settled back against his tree, one arm cradling the sleepy baby, the other nestled inside the blankets. "I can take it from here, Hoss," he said unable to look up and away from the already snoozing Adam.

Charlie stood up, his eyes lingering protectively over the two for a few moments. He then abruptly about-faced and marched purposefully back to Claire's tent, disappearing inside the blue folds.

Well now what, Sawyer thought. The ability to hold a book now rendered useless, the Southerner found himself with nothing to do. He dare not move for fear of waking the child, but watching the rise and fall of Adam's tiny chest as he slept would not entertain him forever.

His boredom did not last long however because just minutes later he glanced up to see Claire power-walking towards him, Charlie at her heels.

"I don't believe it," she said half-breathlessly when she reached him, dropping to her knees and peering down at her child. "How did you get him to settle down?"

Sawyer grinned at her. "I guess he just likes me."

"Oh yeah?" Claire gave him an appraising look. "Well, how would you like to be my on call babysitter?" Somewhere behind her, Charlie made an indignant noise.

Sawyer grinned at this, returning his attention back to the mother. "Honey, not all great things in this world come free."

"Is that so," the Aussie replied, sitting back on her knees. "Okay then, name your price."

Sawyer chanced a look at Charlie who was wearing a very put-out expression, and the mean streak inside him couldn't help but ask, "Got any free time?"

Claire smile was bemused. "Maybe. What's it to you?"

Sawyer smiled. "Think you can spare some of it for?"

She was definitely grinning now, as she made to stand up. "I'll see what I can do." She brushed the hair back off her son's forehead, kissed his cheek, then took her leave.

Charlie remained just a moment longer, an irritated and - was that jealousy? - look on his face, before a "Hey, Claire, wait up!" formed on his lips and he jogged away from Sawyer's tree.

The Southerner dropped his gaze down to the sleeping infant, whose fingers still desperately grasped Sawyer's thumb. She may be his yet.

To be continued....

Mon, 27 Dec 2004 08:54:13 GMT

Title: Melt in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid
Rating: NC-17 for cursing and man-sex
Summary: Sayid's thoughts on chocolate, Sawyer's thoughts on sex, slight bondage, and the sharing of a cigarette
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Ummmmmmmmmmm. Yeah. So if we want to get technical, this is my second Lost fic, but its the first one that I've put up. Personally I think its kind of crap, but eh. Whatev. Tis second person Sayid POV. Enjoy maybe?

You can't seem to remember the scent of chocolate. Sure, when the plane first crashed and you were rummaging through the wreckage, discovering only peanuts and candy bars you got sick of it pretty quickly. But now, months later, you really do miss it. It was once one of your favorite luxuries but now it only seemed like a dream. A dream that made your taste buds tingle and your mouth water for a glass of milk.

You sigh and shift your weight from your shoulder blades to your waist, actually relaxing a little while you bask in the sun (not that you need to be any tanner). You can't remember why you started thinking of chocolate. Hell, you can't even remember why or when you got to be laying about on the beach, digging your toes into the sand and remembering the days that have long since past and may not come again.

Looking back, you don't even remember long you had been laying there, napping and ignoring the blaze of the sun. What you do remember is waking up when something was casting a shadow over you, blocking the sun from your face.

You open one bleary eye and stare up at the offender of your privacy.

It was Sawyer.

You close your eye again and settle a bit deeper in the sand. "May I ask why you opted to annoy ME today?" You ask coolly, not really in the mood to put up with his arrogance.

"You looked bored," the southerner replies, feigning innocence.

"I was napping," you contradict with a note of finality, making it clear that you wanted none of his company. There was a few moments of silence and then the rustling of sand as if someone was walking away.

You open your eyes and glance over in the direction that Sawyer had just been standing and saw, thankfully, no one.

"Over here, Mohammad."

You turn your head to the right and find Sawyer sitting cross-legged next to you and lighting up a badly rolled cigarette (he started rolling his own after he had run out, a month ago). You sigh and sit up, brushing the sand out of your hair. "What do you want, Sawyer?" You ask irritably.

Sawyer shrugs. "Someone to do." You almost didn't catch the innuendo, and when you finally do Sawyer laughs.

"Come on, five damn months on this island and you're not in need of a good fuck? I highly doubt that." He takes a drag on his cigarette. "Five months and Anna Hand just aint doin' it for me anymore." He casts you a look you can't quite decipher. "If you know what I mean."

You do know what he means, but you don't know what his sexual desires have to do with you. "Does this conversation have a purpose," you ask, praying he'll find someone else to verbally harass.

He ignores you. "I'd almost do anything to get laid. Hell, I'm so desperate I'd suck a dick or two just so I have something to fuck." He sends you another sideways glance and you're starting to catch on.

"I almost wish I had an audio recorder for that one," you say, smirking. "Allah knows you might get a taker or two." You're pretending to be amused, but in your mind you're actually almost considering his offer.

Sawyer grins, seeming to see your inner battle. "Come on," he says, puffing out a billow of smoke. "I know you need some, just like I do." He lowered his voice and leans in close. "Hell, I'll throw in a free hand job." You can feel his breath on your neck. "Just give me what I want and I'll give you want you want."

You can't stand it anymore. The idea of getting your cock sucked is making your hard. Its been so long.... You lurch towards him, pushing him in the chest so he lands hard on his back in the sand. You crawl on top of him and kiss him fiercely, your tongue pushing deep in his mouth, exploring every ridge and crevice.

Suddenly without warning, in a whirl of sand and a clash of limbs, Sawyer flips the two of you over so he is sitting on your waist. You can feel him grind against you, sending waves of arousal throughout your body, and he pushes your wrists into the ground. He leans over and kisses you twice as hard, biting down on your lower lip. "Not. Here." He whispers harshly, your lip between his teeth. He pulls himself off you, with some degree of difficulty it seems, and almost drags you by the wrist into the jungle.

When he decides that you are far enough away from the beach, he slams you against a tree, dropping to his knees and tugging your pants down with him. You bite your lip, blood surging towards your cock, and he pulls down your boxers.

He wastes no time in taking you in his mouth, his tongue swirling over your hot skin, and you can feel yourself go weak in the knees. Its been too long, too long since you've been with someone. Too long since you've felt someone's hot mouth surrounding your hardness and -- oh god, fuck, yes -- hitting that spot that you love.

He pulls your hips closer to him, his lips sliding over your complete length and you melt into his mouth, your orgasm hitting hard. You feel your legs finally give out and you slide down the tree, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Sawyer lets you regain your breath before pulling you up by your arm. "Don't forget your end of the deal, Mohammad," he growls. He bends you over and grabs both your hands, pulling them around the tree. From his pants pocket he pulls out a long shoelace and ties your wrists together, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow at him.

"You don't think this can hold ya," Sawyer asks, flashing that cocky grin that he's so fond of and tying the bond deliciously tight. "Go ahead. Try and get loose."

You do try. The flimsy shoelace holds. You lift your eyebrows approvingly at him. "You'll have to teach me that one later," you say.

"Why?" Sawyer says, bending over so that your faces are barely inches away from each other. "So that you can use it on me next time?" He kisses you again before you get to wonder what he means by "next time."

His lips leave yours and then he is gone from your sight.

You hear the rustle of clothing and Sawyer saying, more to himself than to you, "Ahhhh yes, been saving this for just this type of occasion."

There is a few minutes of silence and then you feel a cold, wet finger slide into you. You bite down on your lip to keep from screaming, as the finger pushes deep inside you. You let out a low moan, a second finger joining the first, the unfamiliar feeling making you dizzy with pleasure. The fingers pump in and out of you, curling and twisting - preparing you.

Sawyer removes his fingers and you can't help but feel empty; you crave his cock inside you. Your chest is heaving and your cock is hardening again. You tug at your bond a little, but it doesn't give way, and in spite of yourself you grin.

The next thing you feel is Sawyer's cold fingers grasping your waist and his throbbing cock pushing into you. He slides all the way in without stopping and you let out a short scream, your eyes watering with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He pulls almost all the way out and rolls his hips forward, thrusting into you slightly, making you whimper with need.

His grip tightens on your hips and his thrusts again, this time a bit harder, then again, each time hitting a deeper spot inside you. You clamp your eyes shut as he establishes a slow rhythm, starts popping behind your eyelids.

As he thrusts harder and faster, he reaches around and grabs your cock in his hand, stroking in time with his pumping inside you. You cry out, grinding your hips subconsciously backwards into his, your cock fully hard again and in dire need of a second release.

"Almost," Sawyer grunts his pace speeding up. "Almost." His grip on your erection tightens slightly and that is too much for you, a scream escaping your lips as seed spills from you. And with a second burst of pleasure, you feel Sawyer's orgasm hit and he comes hard inside you.

When he's finished he reluctantly pulls out and collapses to the ground next to your tree, resting his back on the ground, his arm groping around for his pants. When he finally finds them he pulls out another cigarette and lights up.

You wait a few moments before saying, "Um, Sawyer. Do you mind."

"Not at all Mohammad," he says grinning. He laughs at the surely infuriated look on your face before reaches up and unties you.

Your knees buckle beneath you and you drop to the forest floor next to him, closing your eyes, a small pile of leaves serving as a pillow.

For a few minutes the two of you lay there in silence, basking in post coital semi-bliss. Then you wordlessly reach over and remove the cigarette from between his lips, taking a nice long drag on it yourself.

He glances over at you. "If you wanted one, you could have asked." His eyebrow is raised curiously.

You take another drag then hand the cigarette back to him, exhaling the smoke slowly and soothingly. "Maybe next time," you say.

The Hallway

Mon, 04 Oct 2004 07:12:09 GMT

Title: The Hallway
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Clay/Simon
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clay's gonna get him some, god dammit.
Disclaimer: Two words: didn't. happen.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: Um, wow, haven't done this in a while. Its been a long ass time since I wrote any fic, so if it sucks please keep that in mind. Its second person Clay POV. PWP. So yeah. Hope you enjoy?

Sometimes you're not sure whether you love him or hate him. The way he'd push you up against an abandoned hallway wall and stick his tongue in your mouth, grab your cock through your often times too tight jeans, and make you whimper with pleasure, only to walk away moments later, leaving you horny and begging for more. Yeah, those parts weren't fun.

You were taller, maybe stronger if you really put your mind to it. If you really wanted to, one of those times when he's got you against a wall you could easily switch your positions and fuck him into oblivion right then and there. But no. You couldn't do that. You were the innocent, little angel that couldn't possibly have dirty thoughts about another man. You were the sweet baby boy that five year olds and fifty year olds could both appreciate. Fucking ANYONE into oblivion was out of the question, much less a man who was nearly twice your age.

That’s probably why he does it. Because he knows that you love it but you won't do anything to get more. He loves to see the agonized, needy look on your face when he pulls away, puts a cigarette to his lips, and walks down the hall without another backward glance.

The man drives you in-fucking-sane. Some days you just wanna say fuck all and sneak into his dressing room, smoke one of his cigarettes, and lay about naked on his couch, waiting for him to come and screw your brains out.

So you can hardly wonder how you ended up in his dressing room one evening, what with those thoughts chasing themselves about in your head.

You take another drag on your cigarette, not at all enjoying the taste or the effect, but enjoying the look he will get when he walks in and sees you laying completely nude on his couch, blowing smoke from your pursed lips. He won't be able to say no. You just have to wait.

The boredom doesn't last long. Within five minutes of you stripping down and lighting up, he walks in, keys in one hand and a cigarette of his own halfway to his lips. He stops dead when he sees you, the door shutting loudly in the thick silence. His eyes roam over your smooth skin, down your pale and perfect torso, to the juncture of your legs and he swallows roughly.

You smirk and finish off the cigarette, leaning over and putting it out in the ashtray on the table next to the couch. You turn over on your side, hitching your leg up so he gets the full view. "Hi," you say nonchalantly, as though you frequently laid around in older men's dressing rooms ass-naked.

He swallows again, never taking his eyes off the space between your hips and thighs. "What -- what are you doing here?" He asks with difficulty.

You almost laugh. "What am I doing here?" You repeat. You stand up and take a few steps toward him, a seductive glare in your eye. "You can't tell me you never wanted this. You can't tell me you never thought about this while you tongue fucked me in the hallway." You close the distance between the two of you, and you cup his quickly hardening erection, whispering hotly in his ear. "So here I am. Waiting for you to just live out your fantasy. Who are you to say no?"

"Don't talk about my fantasies, Aiken," he replies, with a hint of laughter in his voice. "If you really want me to fuck you, then you should be prepared to do whatever I say."

You hadn't thought of this. What if he was into S&M or something weird like that. But you can't back out now. Feeling his bulge beneath your fingers is making your own cock stiffen with surprising swiftness. You can't just put your clothes on and walk out of the room feeling like a total idiot. Its your turn to swallow. You make your decision. "What. ever. you. want." You say slowly, flicking your tongue over his earlobe.

"Excellent," he mutters and then he suddenly shoves you back onto the couch. Hard.

Oh fuck, you think. He is into that pain shit. You have no more time to debate the subject however, because he's shedding his shirt and pants faster than someone whose clothing is on fire.

He picks up your discarded t-shirt off the floor where you unceremoniously tossed it and shreds it into strips. "Lay back." He commands and you hurry to oblige, reclining back on the couch. He finishes undressing and straddles your hips. You get one fleeting glance at his bulging erection before he ties one of the strips from your shirt over your eyes.

You groan softly, as he lifts your hands over your head and ties them together, making sure the bonds are deliciously tight. You shiver with anticipation. As long as he didn't pull a whip out and start thrashing you with it, this actually wasn't all that bad.

His weight is lifted from your waist and you let out a moan of displeasure. This only lasts for a moment, however, because seconds later you nearly let out a scream of ecstasy as you feel his lips slide over your inexperienced cock.

You can hear him chuckle around your erection in his mouth and he moves a lips down another inch, making you positively writhe with pleasure. When he reaches the base of your cock he pulls his lips almost all the way off, and then swallows you whole again, causing you to buck up hard into his mouth.

The heat of his mouth leaves you. "What the fuck, Aiken, are you trying to bloody kill me?"

All you can do is whimper.

His lips resume their place over your erection, and this time he starts to suck, softly at first but slowly working its way harder, so that it makes you think that he's trying to suck a golf ball through a garden hose. You feel his tongue flick over the head of your cock and you cry out, his expert mouth already pushing you to the brink of release.

Just when you think that you can handle no more pleasurable sensations, you feel a cold, lubed up finger lingering around your ass. There is only a moment's hesitation before he slides the finger inside you.

You have to bite down hard on your lower lip to keep from screaming, as you arch your hips again, seed spilling from your cock. You can feel him swallowing and when you're finished, he slides his lips off you and you can almost FEEL him smirking at you.

"Now don't think for one second just because you've blown your load on a silly blowjob that we're finished here. Not remotely finished in fact." He pumps his finger in and out of you, jolts of pleasure straight to your cock. After a few moments he adds a second finger, repeating the same process, then adds a third. "For good measure," he smirks.

He thrusts his fingers deep inside you, causing you to make soft whimpering sounds that is none too becoming of a 24 year old man. He removes his fingers and resumes his position on your lap, straddling you.

He leans over and brushes his lips across yours, at the same time running a hand up the inside of your thigh. You shiver involuntarily, knowing that it gives him just an extra reason to smirk. "You ready for this, Aiken?" He mutters with the air of one not really caring what the answer is because he's going to do whatever anyway. He lifts his hips a little and slides into you with ease.

He must of known that you were about to scream because he quickly slides a finger in your mouth, stifling any noise you might have made.

You would have liked to glare at him, but the make-shift blind-fold prevented you from doing so. You settle with biting down on his finger hard, which makes him shudder but not retract the finger.

He slowly starts to pump in and out of you, his free hand roaming over your chest and torso, down to your thigh and over your cock. Which each thrust you make soft whimpering sounds around his finger, the blindfold and bonds tied around your hands making the whole experience that much more sensual.

His fingers slowly slide around your erection and he starts to stroke, matching the rhythm of his thrusts inside you.

Your mind in is reeling. The combination of his cock inside you and his fingers wrapped around your length seem to cause the room to spin around you. You want more. You want to feel him come inside you. A wicked idea forms in your head. You slowly start to suck on the finger in your mouth, giving you a fleeting sense of satisfaction when he grunts, "Fuck, Aiken."

You continue to suck on the finger, flicking your tongue over the tip occasionally, whimpering slightly as he starts to thrust harder, each time reaching a new pleasurable place inside you.

"Fuck, Aiken," he mutters again, this time a little weaker. You can sense his orgasm coming. You suck harder on his finger, trailing your tongue along it, trying to push him over the edge.

It works. He thrusts a few more times and then you can feel his body shudder as his orgasm hits.

The feeling you feel at that moment is like nothing you've ever felt before. Mind-numbing ecstasy beyond anything you could possibly comprehend. The feeling of him coming inside you causes you to orgasm a second time that evening.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing heavily; both of you very sticky; both of you too drained to say anything. After a few moments of this post-coital semi bliss, he reaches up and unties your hands and removes your blindfold, restoring your vision.

He is a little red in the face, his hair damp with sweat, a satisfied expression in his eyes. He moves off of you and allows you to sit up as he reaches for his discarded pants and pulls out his cigarette case. He takes out two cigarettes and hands one to you, lighting it for you.

You both recline back on the couch, puffing on your respective cigarettes, saying nothing because no words are needed in this moment.

Finally, he leans across you and puts out the cigarette, then stands up and stretches. Without turning back to face you he says, "See you in the hallway tomorrow?"

You grin mischievously. "Wouldn't miss it."

Slut.

Like a Game of Spin the Bottle (part 1)

Mon, 03 May 2004 22:50:00 GMT

Title: Like a Game of Spin the Bottle (part 1/?)
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Multiple/Developing
Rating: PG13
Summary: AI3 High School AU
Disclaimer: Two words: didn't. happen.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: There is a lot of back story that goes along with this story that I really don't feel like explaining at the moment so if you have any questions feel free to ask. Thank you.

The moment Jon stepped into his new class, his eyes swept the room, taking in as many details as he could. There was a group of girls standing at the front of the room, chatting away. A heavy-set guy had h is head down on his desk, already snoring. At the very back of the room, a pink-headed girl was sitting on the lap of someone who was clearly on the football team. They were both talking to a sort of chunky black girl. Next to the black girl was a black boy who was wearing glasses and reading a book, adding to the conversation beside him every now and then.

Jon took his seat in front of this group, feeling somewhat vulnerable. Behind him he could hear the pink haired girl say, "Hey! is he new?"

"Must be." The black girl replied. "Haven't ever seen him before."

"Yeah Amy, he seems just your type. You always did go for shorter men."

A slapping sound. "Matt!"

Matt had no time to reply, however, because the bell was ringing and the teacher was strolling in, sitting down at his desk, his eyes glancing over his class almost uninterestedly.

He was young, about 25, possibly older. He had black hair and tan, muscly arms, accented by dark skin tight t-shirt. When he opened his mouth, he spoke with a British accent. "Welcome, class, to Senior English and your new home room." He paused, his glittering eyes falling on Amy, who slid off Matt's lap and into her own chair. "My name is Simon Cowell, Mr. Cowell to you lot, and for 50 minutes of every day for the next year you are going to dedicate your time to learning the beauty of the English language and how it was developed and used throughout History." Another pause and sweeping glance. "Listen, I didn't have --"

He was interrupted by a blond boy rushing into the classroom, books under one arm, eyes darting about the room.

Mr. Cowell raised his eyebrows at the boy. "Glad to have you with us today." He stood up and circled him, inspecting him closely, the whole time the boy's eyes trained on Jon. Jon returned the gaze, somewhat confused by it, but intrigued nonetheless.

Finally, Mr. Cowell asked, "What’s your name?"

The boy smiled, not taking his eyes off Jon. He could hear Amy giggle from somewhere behind him. "Ryan Seacrest."

"Mhmm," was Cowell's reply. "And what's your mother's name?"

A raised eyebrow from Ryan and more audible giggles from Amy. "...Connie...."

"I see," Mr. Cowell murmured. "Do you think that's relevant?"

"No, not really," Ryan replied.

"Smart boy. Have a seat."

The look on Ryan's face all the more confused, he shuffled to the back of the room, taking a seat among Amy's and Matt's group.

Jon let out a breath. Ryan hadn't been staring at him after all; just his friends directly behind him. He probably looked like some sort of idiot stalker now....

"As I was saying before I was so pleasantly interrupted," Mr. Cowell continued. "I know you guys are hoping and praying that this will be like every other first day of school, where each class is filled with learning each other's names and 'getting to know you' bullshit." He waited for the shocked gasps to die out. "Please," he scoffed. "Show me one person in this school who has never heard a curse word before in their life and I'll show you a liar." He took his seat again, kicking his feet up on his desk. "Quite frankly, I don't care to get to know you and I don't have anything planned for today, so how about you guys do what you want and tomorrow we'll pretend to know each other."

Somewhere behind Jon, Ryan let out a loud laugh, followed by the word, "Awesome!"

The class burst into laughter, but Mr. Cowell said nothing.

The noise level grew steadily over the next five minutes, each group of friends breaking off into their own conversations. Jon, still alone and quite friendless, sighed and pulled out a sheet of notebook paper and started doodling, his mind drifting to the life he left behind in Idaho....

"Hey you!" A sharp poke in Jon's ribs made him whirl around to the group behind him.

The poker had been Ryan, who was perched atop his desk, leaning forward so he could jab Jon's ribs. Amy's feet were kicked up in Matt's lap, who was tickling her knee caps. The black girl and boy were both giggling and playing thumb war rather violently.

Jon lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"What was the deal with you staring at me a few minutes ago?"

Idiot stalker indeed. Jon shrugged. "I thought you were looking at me."

Ryan nodded. "So, you new here?"

"Yeah," Jon replied, shifting in his seat. "Just moved in from Idaho."

"Man, that sucks..." Ryan said, almost sympathetically. "Having to move before your Senior year. So uh -" he swung his legs around so he was fully facing Jon. "You made any friends yet?"

Jon tried not to smile, wondering why on Earth he would grin about not having made a single friend yet. "Nope, but its only my first day. We'll see what happens."

Ryan grinned, and jerked his head back towards his friends. "Why don't you come join us, eh? Make us an even number?"

Jon smiled brightly. "Sure!" He jumped up from his desk and walked around the next row, imitating Ryan and sitting on another desk.

"So, what’s your name?" Ryan asked, popping his knuckles.

"I'm Jon Peter Lewis," Jon replied, his whole name spilling from his lips. "But I go by Jon...."

"I'm Amy Adams," the pink-haired girl said, who had started paying attention. "But everyone calls me Amy." She giggled like she had made the funniest joke ever. "And this is Matt--"

"Her boyfriend," Matt cut in protectively. "Matt Rogers."

"I'm Jennifer," the black girl introduced. "Or just Jenny if you want."

"The name's George," chimed in the other black boy, nodding his approval.

"And I'm Ryan Seacrest," Ryan said. "But I assume you know that considering you couldn't take your eyes off me at the beginning of class."

The group laughed and even Jon grinned, blushing. He had made friends with a fun group of people, it seemed. It was going to be an interesting year.

~~**~*~**~~

Meanwhile, in the Freshman Algebra homeroom, another story was unfolding....

Diana DeGarmo sighed, pulling her cell phone out of her purse and checking the time. She hated being the first one in class, it always made her feel so square. Oh well, soon she would find out if Jasmine or John would be in her class....

The warning bell rang and Diana crossed her tan legs as students began to file in.

John came in before Jasmine. He paused at the door, his eyes searching for a familiar face. Diana waved and John grinned at her, making his way over, his orange head bobbing over the other students. "Thank God," he said when he reached Diana, throwing his books on a desk. "I was afraid this would be another repeat of last year."

Diana nodded, her eyes scanning over the new people that walked through the door.... "Oh NO!"

"What?" John asked, turning his head around to see what Diana was groaning at.

Leah Vladowski had just come into the class, shaking her flat-ironed brown locks and making sure her high heels clicked the floor as she walked. He face was caked with make up and her skirt was FAR to short to be bearable to look at.

"Ew," John said, wrinkling his nose but never taking his eyes off Leah, who had already begun deploying what John, Jasmine, and Diana called her "whore tactics."

"Don't look so happy to see me," came a familiar voice.

Diana and John turned their heads. Jasmine stood there, setting her books down, her eyes combing the room.

"Here." Diana grabbed Jasmine's chin and turned it in Leah's direction.

"Fantastic," Jasmine muttered, rolling her eyes. "OH! Camile, I forgot!"

Camile smiled weakly at the other two, who attempted to grin back.

Once her back was turned, however, John and Diana exchanged worried glances. Camile hadn't gone back home for the summer like they'd hoped. Not that they didn't like Camile. She was a nice enough girl... but there was something about her that was just... awkward.

They didn't have much time to dwell on that, however, as their new teacher ambled in.

"My name is Randy Jackson," he announced to the class. Mr. Jackson was a large black man with a laid back tone and a kind smile. "And I'd like to be the first to welcome you to your new high school." He grinned at the class who had scrambled for their seats when he walked in. "Freshmen, eh? This is going to be a fun year."

John, Jasmine, and Diana looked at each other. "Fun" didn't seem to be the right word. More like, this was going to be an interesting year.

TBC....

Save the Last Dance (part three)

Sat, 27 Mar 2004 12:13:28 GMT

Title: Save the Last Dance (part three)
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Simon/Paula, Ryan/Simon
Rating: PG13
Summary: Paula's plan falls into place.
Disclaimer: Two words: didn't. happen.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: I'm really tired. Don't ask me for notes right now.

Parts: 1, 2

"Okay, he's watching," Paula whispered, leaning in to Ryan.

Ryan swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. He attempted to smile casually, flirtatiously teasing Paula.

The giggle she emitted was enough to make him want to gag. He stole a fleeting glance at Simon, who was staring at them inquisitively. Oh god, Ryan thought, feeling slightly sick. What have I gotten myself into?

~~**~*~**~~

"What is she doing?" Simon asked out loud, more to himself than to anyone else who might have heard him.

Simon chuckled under his breath. "Paula, Paula, Paula," he said. "Its so obvious what you're doing." A mischievous grin crept across his face. "Well two can play at that game."

~~**~*~**~~

"He's coming," Ryan whispered to Paula.

"I know, " Paula replied quietly.

"Ryan!" Simon said loudly, his arms outstretched. "What are you doing with this silly old hag?" He smirked at the offended look on Paula's face. He put his arm around Ryan's waist, staring triumphantly at his ex-girlfriend. "Why don't we lose the female and go get some drinks?" His hand found the hem of Ryan's shirt and slid under it.

Ryan shivered at Simon's touch, already aching for more.

Paula was doing her best to look disappointed. Her face was contorted with mock anger mingled with glee. Simon was following her plan beautifully.

Simon smirked at Paula, ushering Ryan toward the exit, little did he know that he was setting himself for sabotage.

~~**~*~**~~

Ryan bit his lip, trying to sip his scotch casually. He was watching Simon, who was watching Paula over Ryan's shoulder, who was trying to act innocently lonesome.

Ryan cleared his throat and Simon's eyes snapped back to him. "Who do you keep looking at over there," he asked, taking a drink.

Simon scoffed. "No one important."

Ryan's mind was racing. How was he supposed to lure Simon into bed with him at this rate? He sighed and checked his watch. It was 9:30 already. "Well Mr. Cowell," he said, forming a half-baked plan in his mind. "This has been fun, we should do it again sometime."

"Sure whatever," Simon replied, his eyes locked on Paula again.

"Right," Ryan said softly. "Well I really have to be going." He stood up, picking up his jacket off the back of the chair. He started to walk away but stopped when he caught the look of confusion on Paula's face. "Hi Paula," he bubbled loudly, glancing at Simon. "Hangin' in there?"

Paula looked at Simon too, starting to catch on. "I think I might be," she replied. "Why don't you sit down and have a drink?"

"You know, I'd really love to Paula, really," Ryan said. "But I really must be going."

"Ryan Seacrest, you are NOT leaving this building until you have a drink with me." Paula grabbed his arm, staring at him intently. "I insist."

"Actually -"

Both Ryan and Paula looked over at Simon.

"Actually, Paula, he's with me." Simon stood next to Ryan, sliding a hand in his back pocket. "Ryan, how about staying at my place tonight."

Paula's mouth fell open. "You're NOT serious," she said quite convincingly.

"I'm totally serious," Simon replied simply.

"Show me that was serious."

Simon grinned impishly. "Okay then." He reached over and turned Ryan toward him, pressing his lips into Ryan's with surprising gentleness.

Ryan gasped into Simon's mouth, the kiss taking him by surprise.

Paula's mouth was hanging open, genuine shock plaguing her face.

Simon pulled away, smirking. "Serious enough for you?" He asked.

Paula nodded wordlessly.

Simon's smirk only grew. "In that case - Ryan, are you ready to go?" Without waiting for an answer, he guided the younger man outside.

~~**~*~**~~

Simon leaned back, lighting up a cigarette. "So," he said, taking a long drag. "Was it good for you?"

Ryan managed to nod, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He collapsed onto a pillow, closing his eyes, just wanting to fall asleep and relish in the evening's events. As he was starting to drift off to sleep, he remembered Paula's plan. Yes, that's why he was here, after all. For Paula. "Simon," he said, his voice sleepy and muffled.

"Yes?"

"Why did you do this?"

"To get back at Paula."

Ryan rolled over and propped his head up on his elbow. "To get back at her for what?"

Simon reached over at put out his cigarette. "Why do you care anyway? I just gave you the best night of your life and now you're bothering with questions about that woman. Don't make me regret my decision, Seacrest." He laid down and pulled the blanket over his naked arms.

Ryan bit his lip and for a moment there was nothing but silence. "Simon, do you still love Paula?" He blurted out suddenly.

Simon didn't reply for a while. Then after a long thoughtful pause he whispered his answer. "Yes."

To be continued.

Save the Last Dance (part two)

Sat, 27 Mar 2004 12:04:19 GMT

Title: Save the Last Dance (part two)
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Simon/Paula, onesided Ryan/Simon
Rating: PG13
Summary: Paula hatches a plan....
Disclaimer: Two words: didn't. happen.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: My brain has no control over this fic. I'm not quite sure what is dicting this. Maybe its actually Paula and Simon....

Parts: 1

Nothing seemed out of place to the others at first.

Paula and Simon arrived at the studio in seperate cars (as was their custom). Paula got there early to give a pre-show pep talk to the kids. Simon arrived late for his own personal reasons. Paula was all smiley and giggly. Simon was all scowls and sarcasm.

Nothing seemed out of place. No one noticed the pained glances exchanged between two ex-lovers.

~~**~*~**~~

"Great show everyone!" Was the stage manager's shout as soon as the cameras were off.

Randy got up and stretched. "Man oh man," he groaned.

"You're telling me," Simon scoffed, standing up as well. He glanced at Paula breifly, but looked away before someone suspected something was wrong.

Paula remained at the desk, resting her forehead on her arms. She had a pounding headache and the thought of going back to her old house to stay alone made her heart ache. She missed Simon already, but it was too late now. If she went back to him this soon, everything he was surely thinking she would prove right."

"Long day?"

Paula's head shot up.

Ryan, in all his flaming glory, was sitting on the edge of the desk, a friendly smile streaked across his face.

Paula sighed. "A long day, I have a headache, the kids were terrible, Simon and I-" She caught herself just in time. She wasn't sure if she was ready to tell anyone yet.

Ryan lifted an eyebrow. "Simon...?"

Paula sighed again and dropped her head on her forearms. "Ryan, I'm so confused," she said, her voice muffled.

Ryan moved to sit in Simon's chair. He put a comforting arm around her slim frame. "Paula, you can always tell me anything you know."

Paula sat up again, her eyes unfocused. "I broke up with Simon," she whispered.

"Ohh," Ryan said, clearly shocked. "Why?"

"Because... I'm not sure who he loves more: me or his pride."

Ryan bit his lip, unsure of how to react to this situation. He really shouldn't get involved, especially with his open crush on Simon.... "Is there anything I can do?"

Paula turned and studied him, her eyes roaming over his facial features. "Actually... I think you can."

Ryan looked surprised. "How?"

Paula grinned. "Simon knows you're madly in love with him right?"

Ryan turned bright red.

"He knows you do. He uses it against you all the time. I think its like a security blanket for him, knowing that your feelings for him are always there."

Ryan's blush deepened. "I don't see how this helps any."

"I think that he might open up to you," Paula said slowly. "But... you're going to have to sleep with him."

"PAULA!" Ryan shrieked, his voice squeaking.

Paula giggled. "You're so cute, Ryan."

"But now, how does that help you," Ryan stammered. "Won't you be jealous."

"We're broken up now." Paula said, shaking her head. "Besides, I've always wanted to see if anything would happen between you two."

"Paula," Ryan said, embarrassed. "I think I love you."

Paula giggled again. "Okay so, here's the plan. You are gonna flirt with me alot and I'm going to pretend that you're my new flame. Simon will see right through it and think I'm just trying to make him jealous. He'll come out right in front of me and start hitting on you. He knows you like him and that you'll ditch me in a second if he asked you. He'll probably take you out for drinks. I'll follow him to the bar, to ensure that he keeps up the littl e show. Then its just a matter of him taking you to a hotel and screwing you into the mattress."

Ryan appeared ready to die.

Paula smiled. "That's where you come in. Act ignorant. Act like you think that he really likes you. He's bound to say something."

Ryan sighed. "But, how do you know he'll do all that stuff?"

Paula stood up, starting to get ready to leave. "Trust me. I've known him for two and a half years, been with him for one. I can read his mind like a book." She kissed Ryan on the cheek. "Tomorrow." She walked off.

Ryan slumped in his chair, the prospect of sleeping with Simon making his heart race.

He admired Paula's trust and courage. She had to have alot of faith to entrust the task of getting information out of Simon to him, Ryan Seacrest, the one who has been in love with the older man for two years.

The question now lie within Ryan. Would he really be able to give Simon back up to Paula after this was all said and done with?

TBC...

Save the Last Dance (part one)

Sat, 27 Mar 2004 11:58:11 GMT

Title: Save the Last Dance (part one)
Author: ohsobulletproof
Pairing: Simon/Paula
Rating: PG13
Summary: Paula and Simon have a fight. So it begins.
Disclaimer: Two words: didn't. happen.
Feedback: Feedback is like sex. Always satisfying when you get some, but its awkward when it sucks. I'm not partial to flames. Please keep them to a minimum.
Notes: I'm not quite sure how the inspiration for this fic came about, but it happened during school. ...Maybe I'm just weird.

"You're a bad liar, you know," Paula said, plopping down in her chair.

"Oh?" Simon replied, not looking up from the paper. "What makes you say so?"

Paula smiled and moved to sit on the arm of Simon's chair. She grabbed his chin and turned his head to look at her. "Tell me you don't love me."

Simon's stoic expression didn't stir a ripple. "I don't love you."

Paula grinned and kissed him slowly, slipping off the arm to sit in his lap.

Simon didn't move, letting her violate him with her tongue. She broke the kiss and curled into him, and Simon continued reading the newspaper around her, as if nothing had happened.

"Anything new in the news?" Paula asked, yawning and snuggling closer to her boyfriend.

"Britney Spears is in therapy because she won't take her wedding ring off," Simon replied uninterestedly, turning the page. "Silly bint. Don't say 'I love you' unless you know how."

Paula giggled. "You're one to talk."

They sat for a moment in silence, Simon reading the newspaper and Paula staring thoughtfully into space.

"Simon?"

"Mmm?"

"Why don't you ever say 'I love you' to me?"

Simon looked down at Paula, who gazed back up at him with her large brown eyes. Simon broke the connection and straightened out the paper, continuing to read.

"Simon!"

"What?!" Simon threw the paper down on the coffee table and stared at Paula.

"Why don't you say 'I love you?'"

"Why?" Simon shouted back.

"Well... I'm curious."

"No, I mean -" Simon stood up, Paula sliding off his lap. "Why do you care all of a sudden."

Paula shrank into the chair, as if cowering from Simon's shouts. "Well a girl likes to know that her boyfriend loves her."

Simon sighed. "Paula, you know I do."

Paula shook her head. "I want to hear you say it."

"I'm done talking about this," Simon said loudly, snatching his cigarettes and lighter off the coffee table. "I'm going to go smoke." He strode towards the door quickly.

Paula stood up. "Simon!" She yelled after him. "Tell me you love me!" The door slammed and she crumpled into the chair, tears falling feely.

Maybe he wasn't lying, she thought. Maybe he doesn't love me.

~~**~*~**~~

The first thing Simon thought the next morning (begrudgingly) was that it was it was Tuesday. Another day of hearing Ryan Seacrest's cheesy jokes. Another day of listening to mediocre singers sing mediocre. Another day of cameras in his face and few cigarette breaks. Another day - he smiled - to tease Paula.

He opened his eyes and rolled over, expecting to see Paula lying there, sleeping like a baby.

Instead, she was sitting in a chair across from him, fully dressed and reading a book.

"Morning sunshine," Simon said, smiling and leaning up on his elbow. "You're up early."

"Yeah, I guess I am." Paula sighed and stripped off her reading glasses. "Simon," she sighed again. "I'm leaving."

Simon seemed nonplussed. "Where are you going this early in the morning," he asked.

Paula shook her head and stood up, putting her glasses and the book she was reading in her purse. "No, Simon. I'm leaving you."

Simon’s forehead crinkled. "Why?"

"Because you don't love me."

Simon sat up. "Paula you know I do. I know you know I do."

"Well after last night, I'm not so sure," Paula replied coldly. She slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her suitcase. "Listen Simon, if you really love me like you say you do, let me know when you can straight out tell me." She kicked open the door and started to walk out. "I'll see you at work," she said softly and then she was gone.

For a while Simon sat in bed, staring at the open door. Nothing in the house stirred. It was like a wind moved in and swept everything away and he was alone. His home had become a house. A desolate building where he ate and slept. The substance of his life just walked out the door. He could have stopped it. But he didn't.

After what seemed like hours, he spoke aloud to himself. "She'll be back." His own hideous voice rang in his ears. "She can't resist me. She'll be back."

Even his own echo didn't sound convinced.

To be continued....