there's a danger here

I'm baaaack!

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 07:33:26 GMT

Took me long enough to get over RL mumbo jumbo, but I think I can just barely make a few challenges this month then begin NaNoWriMo and continue on my personal projects (CASA and the Color Series, which you shall see what it is).

Any requests to inaugurate my return? I will also check the old requests and crank 'em out if possible.

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 11:05:13 GMT

I have been extremely honored and proud to be nominated for two very excellent awards, in which I have tremendously talented company. I'm frankly just flabbergasted but highly happy.

"The Art of Picking Up Faith" was nominated for Rare Femslash Pair for the Fang Fetish Awards.

"Sweet William's Poetry" was nominated for an Indigo Crypt award.

I'm dancing on air. In celebration, in addition to your regularly scheduled HP chapter this week, there will be a special Buffy fic. Any member of my flist who would like to suggest pairings, characters, kinks or plots is welcome to do so.

Oh, and just for the halibut - more April Bleach fic coming soon... though hopefully those of you who have friended me for "Nails" have a broad palette, because I believe my next will be either Yoruichi/Soi Fong femslash (because that's so incredibly hot) or possibly center around Mayuri... because he's so amazingly, awesomely evil it just sounds like fun to write him. In anything.

Plus... original fic. Oh yes. Though that may be in May.

Sweet William's Poetry

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 23:48:28 GMT

Title: Sweet William's Poetry
Pairing: Angelus/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: comestibles, hot wax, dominance/submission, whipping, restraints, explicit m/m sex, quill pen/ink play.
Notes: The introduction is an homage to the fantastic writer Steven Brust, who is the first person I know of to use this particular (laundry note) trope. This is complete PWP, just the setting and the sex... (the way Angelus likes it.)

Mssr. Angelus -
We have enclosed the payment previously deferred for the laundering of [2] mens' shirts, white, [2] mens' waistcoats, one crimson, one black, [1] pair mens' trousers, brown, [1] pair silk stockings, white, [1] silk cravat, white. We humbly beg your pardon, but the damage to the clothes was so extensive that the means at our disposal simply would not restore them to proper form.

We found hardened beeswax on the trousers' belt band, which left a shine on the fabric. One shirt was drenched in whiskey and the other bore rust stains on the cuffs. Both shirts and waistcoats bore stains from zabaione, sugared peaches, India ink, and blood. There were deep blood stains on the cravat. The stockings were rust stained. There were gentlemens' stains on the trousers, which were removed, but these were also stained with ink and with minute drops of blood, which did not wash clean after several washings and rinsings...

"I cannot believe you're eating that, William."

"What?" Spike looked up, sticky sauce dripping from the halved peach in his hand. It mingled with the frothy custard the peaches were dipped in, which sat mostly in the bottom of the bowl. A satisfying crunch sounded as he bit into the confection, dribbling sweet juices down the side of his sculpted jaw. A quick swipe of his tongue got most of it off his lip, expertly avoiding nicking it on his fangs. "A man craves sweet every now and then, and not in the swishing about in a skirt variety. And since the ladies have taken it upon themselves to go seduce schoolboys- or whatever it is they're off doing- I felt I'd drown my sorrows in some peaches a la princesse.*"

Angelus made a noise somewhere between disgust and amusement, shaking his head. His mane of dark curly hair was nearly free of its ribbon, the casualty of a spirited chase of a governess earlier that evening. He sat down beside the younger vampire with deceptive calm, slipping a hand behind the boy's neck. "You are my princess, William," he said sardonically. Then, in a movement as fast as a great cat pouncing, his head came in and a long swipe of his tongue caressed Spike's chin and jaw.

Angelus raised an eyebrow as he pulled away. "Mm. Not bad."

Spike stared at him for a moment, fingers still dripping as they wrapped around the next peach. "Er, would you like one?" he hazarded.

Angelus laughed. It was that low, fingertips-up-the-spine, hair-at-the-back-of-the-neck-raising, I'm-having-such-a-good-time-I-might-just-split-you-in-two laugh, and it went straight to Spike's loins in a way he felt sure nobody could ever quite imagine. Hang the peaches.

"Not at this moment, but why don't you be a good lad and fetch us some whiskey?"

'Lad' rankled, but Spike's groin wasn't in the mood for a fight. It was in the mood for a fuck, and the best way to ensure one and not the other was to not challenge Angelus until Angelus was at least in the same mood. Once he locked in, anything Spike said was only likely to make it better. For now, he'd get the whiskey.

He returned with it, as well as ice, to find Angelus stretched comfortably on the bed, boots still on, apparently reading through some once-crumpled papers. It took a moment for Spike to realize what he was doing, and then he blurted: "Don't read those."

Angelus looked up at him, ignored the comment, and extended his hand. "Hand it here, then." His Irish accent usually hovered just at the edges of his speech. Angelus was a bit of a linguistic chameleon, good at mastering languages quickly and typically taking on the manner of speaking of those around him. When the Irish crept back, it meant he was either in a very good mood or a very dangerous one.

Spike handed him the bottle. Angelus uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, sending a shard of the glass top flying to the floor. He took a swig and returned it to Spike. "You still write poems about flowers of May? Tacky, human. Also, it's only April."

"Well, you try rhyming 'April'," Spike muttered.

Angelus smiled. If Spike considered that his blood still ran, it might have run cold, or run straight to his genitals. It irritated him that Angelus could do this to him, but it also contained an excitement he never found anywhere else.

Angelus swung his legs out of bed, walked over to his trunk and swung the lid up. "I suppose," he drawled, "I have the time to give my boy an English lesson." Twin sets of heavy iron manacles dangled from his fingers as he lifted them out of the trunk.

Spike swallowed.

Angelus casually swung Spike on to the bed, attaching the manacles firmly to his wrists and ankles, and looping the chains in such a way that Spike was positioned almost kneeling on the bed, shoulders back and spine arched. Spike moved slightly, testing the manacles, which seemed to be solid. The chains had some slack to them, but not much.

"Now I tend to the whip and carrot technique of teaching," Angelus continued. "In this case the carrot will be your peaches, and the whip... well..." He chuckled again, the sound like a cat’s purr, as he withdrew a long three-tailed affair of knotted leather from the trunk.

Angelus laid the whip along the edge of the bed and the bowl to the other side, and unbuttoned Spike’s waistcoat and shirt slowly, his fingers cool as they, possibly unintentionally, stroked the exposed flesh of Spike’s torso. He spread the shirt wide and turned to the desk, where he returned with ink and a pen. Undoing Spike’s belt, Angelus placed the inkwell in the unbuttoned waistband, and dipped the quill.

"Now," he said. "Your assignment is to write a sonnet about blood and/or killing, and it is to be set no later than April."

"But I can’t rhyme-"

Angelus lifted the whip and lashed it downward across Spike’s right shoulder. His body arched at the sudden stinging pain. "And no back-chat, if you please."

Spike concentrated. "Er. It is not, for the creatures of the night..."

Angelus gave him a pained look. "Stoker?" The whip whispered along the bed sheets as he lifted it again. Three tiny red lines etched across his chest, just barely missing the erect, pale nipple.

"Ah! ‘For the night’s dark champions...’ "

"Better." Angelus released his grip, fingertips caressing the heavy haft of the whip, and lifted a peach half to Spike’s mouth. It smeared and dripped along Spike’s jaw, the messy juices as Spike attempted to eat quickly from his grandsire’s hand mingling with the newly glistening crimson of blood. "That looks delicious," Angelus commented, and bent to lick a mixture of the liquids. "Mmm." He looked up through a fallen lock of dark hair. "Go on."

"It is not, for the night’s dark champions, as sweet to taste the pale blood of the vine..."

"Not half bad." Angelus took the last bit of peaches and smeared it up and down across Spike’s throat, finally lifting it to Spike’s mouth and biting into it from the other side. When they had finished together, it was a kiss, rough and deep. Angelus’ fingers closed in Spike’s hair and his mouth lowered to lick and suck all across Spike’s throat, growling occasionally against the pale veins there.

"Uh..." Spike was beginning to fear for the safety of the inkpot. His erection was undoubtedly going to overturn it some time soon. He had, in fact, no idea why Angelus had placed it there, as this examination seemed to be... deliciously... oral.

"Go on," Angelus whispered against his throat.

"As the darker blood of... oh damn it all!" Spike realized with helplessness that he’d placed himself in a very bad situation with his first line. "How the hell am I going to rhyme ‘champions’?"

Angelus laughed. It was such a sweet, amused laugh it was chilling. "Shall I give you one or two strokes to improve your rhyming skills, sweet William?"

A negative answer would have done nothing. Angelus lifted the whip and lashed it, sharply, across Spike’s chest and ribs. Each subsequent lash was harder and drew a deeper, more guttural noise from Spike. His body was on fire, and it was nearly impossible to concentrate on rhymes. His body began to rock in the chains, head back, gasping.

"May I– may I start over?" he managed, when the whip was becoming too much and he felt he would faint from the power of his hardness if there was not some stimulus besides the slick top of the inkwell against it.

Angelus rolled his eyes. "Oh, I suppose. Teaching you is thirsty work, you know." He took another swig of whiskey, rolled up his sleeves, and placed the whip on its side of the bed, clearing the bowl, which now was mostly full of zabaione and juices. "What would you like as your reward this time?"

"Touch me," Spike replied.

"Compose decent poetry," was the response.

Spike tried. Unfortunately, it was completely impossible to concentrate. Either Angelus’ whip was tearing at him, setting him alight with pain-pleasure, a wash of impossible sensation, or Angelus was touching him, fingers teasing his weeping erection until Spike thought this was even more torturous than the whip.

Eventually Angelus bored of the game. He unmanacled Spike’s wrists, though not his ankles, and laid the younger vampire forward on the bed, the starched sheets sending a sudden burning ache across his flayed chest until it quickly subsided. Angelus slipped Spike’s shirt off entirely.

"Let’s try a new method," he said. Angelus straddled Spike’s legs and leaned forward, and Spike could just see out of the corner of his eye, the quill dipping into ink. Then he felt a curious scratching across his skin, deep enough to be seductively painful, but not so rough as the whip.

Spike moaned. He had never been more conscious of the long loops and jagged depth of Angelus’ handwriting. His body twitched as every line etched across his skin, nail-scratch hard or caressingly fluid.

Then Angelus said, "There’s not enough light." His tone did not betray the lie, but it was ridiculous. Angelus could see perfectly in this dimness. He reached over to where a pure beeswax candle shed light and its warm honey scent through the room.

Spike felt the fire draw near to his skin, and began to make soft noises, squirming his hardened erection against the mattress as burning wax anointed his sensitized skin, trailing and pooling over the words Angelus had written.

"Please," Spike heard himself gasp against the sheets. "Just fuck me, Angelus. You’re all bloody lead-up."

"Oh, am I?" Angelus leaned down and began to lick and bite at Spike’s throat, paying particular attention to that one spot that Spike wished he’d never found, that made him make kittenish noises and shiver whenever it was exploited. Angelus also pulled Spike up, moving off his legs, and slipped the trousers down. He parted Spike’s thighs and casually leaned over, taking the whiskey bottle.

The bottle upended across Spike’s back, soaking Angelus’ clothing in the front. The elder vampire ignored this and opened his own shirt and trousers, pulling free his own erection. He worked the stinging liquor deep into Spike with his fingers. Spike reached down and started to slowly stroke himself as Angelus worked deeper and deeper inside him, stretching him only a little.

Then Angelus yanked him up on to his knees by his hair, and Spike moaned as the blunt largeness of Angelus’ cock nosed its way inside him, first finding the position, then slamming into all-out fucking, deep rough thrusts coming so hard and fast that Spike could barely stroke himself, barely do anything except lose himself in the incredible wash of passion and sensation as he was invaded, conquered and probably pillaged.

Burned from inside by it, he leaned back into each thrust, helping the rhythm accentuate and tightening himself around Angelus. He heard the deep answering noises of pleasure in his ear and smiled, his lips pulling open and moan after moan emerging as he was taken further and further along the path of need by each rougher and deeper plundering.

Angelus’ teeth sank into the side of his shoulder and Spike came, violently, his fingers barely touching but his body feeling cold and if it hung for a moment in a place of trembling euphoric oblivion until the long orgasm finally stopped.

Seconds later he felt Angelus come inside him, and heard the purr as he pulled free.

Spike fell on to his stomach. He looked up slowly at Angelus, who was standing, licking crimson from his mouth and smiling.

"What did you... write?" Spike murmured, letting afterglow mix with the dull throb of so much beautiful pain he was nearly hard all over again.

Angelus dipped his fingertip in the remnants of confection in Spike’s peach bowl. "There once was a whore from Whitechapel..."

"You didn’t!" Spike had just enough energy to be horrified. "You bastard..."

Angelus slapped him casually but hard across the bare buttocks. "Say what you like, William, but at least I finished my poem.**"

*In case anyone wanted a taste of this after seeing it dripping all over Spike's naked body (like I did), here is the recipe:
Peaches a la Princesse
Halve six fine peaches, not too ripe, and place in saucepan with concave
side up. Take one peach, peeled, and mince with a dozen macaroons,
adding the yolk of an egg and half an ounce of sugar (one tablespoon).
Mix all well together and with this fill the half peaches. Moisten all with half a
cup of white wine and sprinkle with sugar. Bake in a hot oven ten
minutes and pour over zabaione and serve.
Zabaione
4 large egg yolks
4 Tbsp. sugar
8 Tbsp. dry Marsala wine or Moscato d'Asti (can get in supermarket or replace with port wine)
1. Using an electric hand blender beat the egg yolks with the sugar in a medium sauce pan until fluffy and light yellow. Use the medium-high speed. It is also possible to beat the eggs with a wire whisk, but it is much more difficult.
2. Add the Marsala wine without stopping to mix the batch.
3. Immediately after mixing in the Marsala set the sauce pan in an other pan with simmering water or on the top of a double boiler. You should never stop mixing from when you start until it is ready.
4. Beat the sauce for about 10 minutes while holding the saucepan in the water. Remember, the water doesn't have to boil.
5. The zabaione is ready when the cream has doubled in volume and it is fluffy and soft.

**Angelus' limerick goes:

There once was a whore from Whitechapel
Who stopped up her cunt with an apple
When asked why, of course
She said 'twas for her horse
For a good tonguing goes with a Dapple.

Of Nails and Nailing

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 00:11:13 GMT

Title: Of Nails and Nailing
Fandom: Bleach
Pairing: Byakuya/Kenpachi
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit m/m sex, rough sex, frottage, violence.
Notes: for the inauguration of sex_me_taichou .

To say 'we will blame it on the rain' would be a terrible irresponsibility. There was rain. It fell like a storm of arrows, individual droplets so concentrated it seemed a sheet of water. Within seconds the heavy silk of their shihakusho were soaked to their skins, and the bells in Zaraki Kenpachi's hair glistened brightly with captured droplets and rang again and again, soft melodic chimes amid the whispered roar of the rain.

It would have been natural to duck and run for the nearest building, standing under the eaves until the rain passed. Neither of them moved. Kenpachi's bandaged chest began to run with reddish water, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Conspicuously, the iron weight of his reiatsu occasionally sparked electrically over Byakuya’s skin, crossing spiritual blades with the icy sharp explosion of Byakuya’s own half-controlled energy.

They did not look at each other. Both of them kept their eyes fixed upon the horizon. Byakuya was trapped in the moments of the past and could not escape a feeling of helpless defilement, as if he had been stained forever by the choices and promises that had created such a maze in his mind. He stood, glittering in the rain. Kenpachi sat, his scored and chipped zanpakutou naked before him. His thoughts were possibly on the fights he had survived and the fights to come, for just this once a sense of greater tranquility hung over Zaraki than Kuchiki.

Then Zaraki spoke, his gravelly tones emerging from the edge of a crooked smile. "I heard you lost. First time, huh? I hope he was gentle."

"Silence." Byakuya did not move his head. His frozen dark eyes were focused on the horizon, where the sun still struggled feebly against the crumpled gray clouds.

He was answered by a low chuckle and the sound of Zaraki moving, levering himself to his feet. Byakuya relished the irritation he felt, hoping that the large shinigami would push him just a little further. Kenpachi liked to test the waters, to provoke a fight to see which was best. It had always sparked a bit of dormant curiosity in Byakuya. For years, this had been the only thing, save perhaps the obvious and pointless ambitions of his fukutaichou, that had added any spice or interest to the emptiness of Byakuya’s life.

"The thing I can’t figure is..." Kenpachi scratched absently at the hair pulled tight over his skull, his thumb rubbing carelessly over a strap of his eyepatch.

Kuchiki was not interested in anything he might be wondering. He did not turn.

"Are you some kind of pain junkie?"

It had not been expected, and Byakuya’s eyes widened, then narrowed. "What?" he growled.

"See, I’ve been accused of it myself," Kenpachi drawled, hoisting his zanpakutou up against one shoulder. The damaged length shimmered with the last of the slowing rain. "But what I feel is simple. I love to fight. That feeling of being alive, of being tested with your life on the balance... that’s life! That’s fun! But you... it’s like you get some sick satisfaction out of torturing yourself."

"Please spare me your uneducated and ridiculous theories." Byakuya’s voice was wintry.

"You wanted Kuchiki Rukia dead less than anyone, but you even told everyone to their face you’d kill her yourself. Honor, duty, blah blah blah, Kuchiki! You’ve never been the obedient little captain before. Since when are you afraid to speak your mind and tell the rest of us how backward and dumb we are? Since something you want is on the line?"

"What difference could it possibly make to you, eleventh division captain Zaraki Kenpachi?"

Kenpachi grinned. "Because I liked you," he said, "when you were fucking interesting. And guys who shove nails in their wrists to get off are boring as hell."

It was so ludicrous, and tension had been singing in him for so long, that something completely unexpected happened. Byakuya laughed. It was nearly noiseless, and the curve of his mouth wasn’t big, but his shoulders quivered and a short burst of gentle laughter graced the air.

Then Kenpachi laughed and it was a harsh burst of noise, and he slapped Byakuya firmly on the back. Byakuya was caught off guard, and actually pushed forward a step, before he turned with widened eyes.

"What’s left of 11^th division are busy getting drunk. O-teru’s has the best sake in Soul Society. Why don’t we join ‘em?"

"Apparently you’re insane as well as stupid," Byakuya murmured, but after the laughter he was too preoccupied to put his usual sting into the words.

"That’s right," Zaraki agreed, in a quite mellow tone. "And seems you’re afraid of my men and I outdrinking you as well as outfighting you."

Byakuya’s eyes narrowed. "I very much doubt you uncultured swine could tell the difference between good sake and sweat, but very well. Perhaps we’ll test both of your assumptions tonight."

"See?" Zaraki laughed, leading the way down a nearby alley. "That’s why I like you, Kuchiki!"

"The best sake in Soul Society" was, as Kuchiki Byakuya had expected, largely a matter of opinion. The 11^th division preferred warm sake, which should be taken in fast shots and was served so near body temperature that its inebriating effects were quicker. He himself would have preferred a fine cold sake, sipped from an attractive square vessel, over which he could take his time, enjoying perhaps the aromatic scent of the liquor in a place of peace and near-silence.

O-teru’s did not seem to be a rowdy establishment at most times. Its servers were clean and smartly dressed, most not overly provocative, and there were a few lonely flower arrangements in the corners. Unfortunately, the place was full of Zaraki’s division, more thugs than Shinigami, picked for brute strength and fighting ability rather than the proper balance and discipline. They were raucous, obnoxious and clearly enjoying themselves. All were sporting the same signs of recent injury as Kenpachi and Byakuya, but small fights broke out randomly nevertheless.

The best part of it was that the 11^th division fukutaichou was not present. Knowing Yachiru, it could not have anything to do with the lawfulness of her entering a sakeya. Perhaps she simply did not enjoy the taste of sake.

The worst part of it was that Zaraki was clearly going to outdrink Byakuya.

There was simply no question. Once they began laying back the strongly-flavored, hot drinks Byakuya began to feel warm, and were it not for the chaos around him, possibly relaxed. It occurred to him that accepting this particular challenge had been an act of foolish impulse: Kenpachi was known for his stamina and was clearly more used to this kind of drinking than Byakuya. The 6^th division taichou considered simply getting up and walking out. The atmosphere did not appeal, nor did the prospect of losing. But something in Zaraki’s almost-evil grin made his stubbornness flare. He was not going to give up so easily.

By his tenth cup, Byakuya had begun to care very little how loud the 11^th division men were being. He did absently shove one back into a fray when he fell toward them, but other than that, it was quite simple to ignore them and to concentrate on Zaraki. Was the man human? He was not betraying the slightest sign of even mild intoxication.

By his twentieth cup, Byakuya’s reflexes were slowing down. He rose to excuse himself for a natural reason, and found that though he could still walk steadily, it took effort to control his body properly. What a foolish thing to have done. What a farce. What difference could it possibly make if he could outdrink a beast like Kenpachi? He was disgusted with himself.

When he re-entered the bar, it was simply to walk right through it. He passed Zaraki without a word. He was, however, unsurprised when the larger man followed him out into the street.

"Is it time for our battle, then?" he asked coldly.

Kenpachi raised his eyebrows. "Right now, bouchama, I think you’d bore the hell out of me. I want to fight you in top shape, not drunk and wounded."

"Of course," Byakuya said. "I had forgotten how much you worship defeat."

"Say that to your mirror, Kuchiki."

"How dare you." He did not shout it. He said it softly, with all the icy intensity of the emotions lost inside him. Byakuya stalked forward and grasped the front of Kenpachi’s shredded haori. "You have no understanding of defeat, Zaraki Kenpachi. What is it to you? Being unable to fight further? Dying? Meeting an opponent of greater skill? These things are trivial. It is so simple for you, and I despise you for that. You have no honor, so loss of honor is impossible. You resist responsibilities so you are never responsible for anything you dislike. You have no self-awareness, so you have no self-doubt, and there can never be a moment when you become aware of a hateful thing inside yourself. Why don’t you draw your blade so that I can cut you into ribbons and end the pointlessness of your existence?"

Kenpachi stared down into Byakuya’s eyes, then calmly replied, "Why don’t you drive a few more nails into your palm? What kind of crazy moron martyrs himself like you do?"

Byakuya swung his right fist up against Kenpachi’s jaw with all the force in his body. The larger Shinigami’s head snapped back, and Byakuya’s hand exploded into dull pain as though it had been broken.

Kenpachi smiled. "Hah," he said. "I knew there was a real man under that prissy little bouchama."

His anger was still there, but the energy was seeping out of him like blood. It was as if the tension had finally broken, and there was nothing left to even hold him upright. He sagged, and, refusing to either allow himself to fall in the dirt outside a sakeya, or to be caught by Zaraki Kenpachi like some swooning woman, grabbed Zaraki’s haori again and, twisting it in his grasp, hauled himself upright.

"One day I’ll show you your place," Byakuya snarled. And then, as if it were some sort of dream, or some impulse he no longer had the control to even analyze, much less resist, Byakuya gripped one of the wire-wrapped extensions of Kenpachi’s hair and pulled his head down roughly, lips and teeth closing over the other man’s mouth, biting and licking.

Byakuya had never kissed like this. He knew it existed, this anger translated into sex, but he had never allowed himself to feel it. He had only been thinking that Zaraki’s smile insulted him, that he wanted it gone, and when the punch hadn’t erased it, he had done something else.

But there was a warm sort of pleasure, a heat that filled him slowly, with sex like this, like a battlefield. The world went away. He did not need to concern himself with what Kenpachi wanted, he would just take from that strong proud body whatever he felt like taking.

Kenpachi’s hands closed around his waist hard enough to bruise, and the wide rough mouth opened against his, forcing and fighting for control.

But not, Byakuya thought, in an alley-way like some common whore. He shoved back, tasting blood from a cut lip, and slammed the hilt of Senbonzakura into Kenpachi’s ribcage. "An inn. Now. Or it’s over."

Zaraki shook his head and laughed softly. "And miss the chance to fuck Kuchiki Byakuya? Don’t worry, I know an inn nearby."

"I didn’t realize you were capable of fucking anyone," Byakuya replied, annoyed at the assumption. "I thought the one sword was in as poor shape as the other."

Kenpachi slammed him suddenly into the wall, biting roughly at his throat. "I bet you’re dying to find out if I use them both as well."

Byakuya muttered an invocation and the larger Shinigami was pushed back off of him. "I won’t receive, Zaraki. I will not repeat myself."

"Fine, fine," Kenpachi pushed open a nearby door and lead them into a cheap inn. It smelled of smoke and mold, but at the moment Byakuya was not particularly bothered or interested. "You do take the fun out of everything."

Buying the room was a blur. If they had paid or not paid, who Kenpachi had spoken to, left the memory instantly. It was unimportant. The room was unimportant. Clearly there was a bed. Sometimes they were upon it.

Sweat-slicked, clad only in bandages, they bit and kissed, wrestled and even caressed, in long hard touches that felt hot and good but never gentle. Hands grasped firmly the other’s erection and pumped, slipping roughly up and down, each trying to hold back the longest until they were forced to admit their pleasure in a gasping and trembling explosion of orgasm.

Byakuya found himself on top of Kenpachi, resting in afterglow, and staring at the numerous scars marking the other man’s dark skin like an illegible map. He began to draw his tongue over them, and then his teeth, rising up animalistically, his hair falling forward free of its usual confinement, the scent of the camellia oil he used on it rising up through the room, mixing something like gardenias with sex and dust.

Kenpachi moaned, and Byakuya kept up what he was doing, giving every scar save those beneath the fresh bandages special attention, even the ones on the legs, pushing the other man up to cover his back with nibbles and fingernail touches and the slow hot movement of his tongue.

"I really, really like you," Kenpachi murmured, and something broke inside Byakuya suddenly. He turned the man’s head and kissed him, deeply. He let the other lips close over his and the tongue plumb his mouth, sucking on it with abandon.

They were both hard again. Byakuya allowed himself to be swung over Kenpachi, thighs straddling the other man’s thighs, so white against his skin. Kenpachi’s long hand curved over both their cocks, pressing them together as he rubbed. Byakuya nodded and started to move up and down on his knees, increasing the friction and the pace. His head arched back. Both hands rested lightly on Kenpachi’s shoulders. They both began to moan and growl at the same moment, and increased their pace and pressure. Kenpachi’s breathing quickened. Byakuya’s spine arched.

Kenpachi came first, but the feeling of it sent Byakuya immediately spiraling over the edge, and his cries hissed through his clenched teeth at the intensity of it. Kenpachi sucked and bit at his throat and shoulder again, and he shivered as they fell together.

Byakuya, exhausted, rested there a while and then somehow returned home. He would never have to speak of this, and never regret it.

I got gift fic!

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 04:11:00 GMT

My birthday fic from the divine Melanie is now up, and all I can really say is guh. Lindsey MacDonald, knee-high boots and boot worship, riding crops, masquerades and candle wax. Plus in addition to my request, some unbelieveably hot d/s crept into this. It's just beautiful

Paper Faces on Parade

Recipes: Haole (White Hawaiian)

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 05:04:48 GMT

I come from Hawaii so it's fun to work with the Kahana Royale Macadamia liqueur.

White Hawaiian

1 oz kahlua
1 oz Kahana Royale
Fill with milk.

Cold as Stone Angels | Fire

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 02:53:20 GMT

Title: Cold as Stone Angels
Chapter: One / Fire
Fandom: Harry Potter (DH Epilogue)
Pairing: Scorpius/Albus
Rating: PG
Warnings: Since movies are now rated PG for ‘scary situations’ so is this. It’s also getting slashier.
Notes: CaSA is a Scents-ibility fanfic, designed with the challenge of choosing new and interesting pairings or looking at existing favorite pairings through the lens of sensual aromas. The scents involved are Merlot and Sage. Betaed by the absolutely smashing

smoldering_wit

Albus coughed. He could breathe only acrid, oily smoke and feel only bruises, the pantry stairs beneath him and the growing heat rising from the store shelves as they burned. Again, he forced himself to his feet and slammed his shoulder to the wood. His voice was nothing more than a whispered croak no matter how he tried to scream.

"Scorpius! Somebody!"

The dried out wood of the shelves had already caught a fiercer blaze, but because of the sick dark colour of the smoke, even what illumination the fire should have cast was dulled. Albus didn't dare descend the steps to search further for his wand since he had barely beat out the fire that crawled up his trouser leg the last time he'd tried it. Tears streamed down Albus' cheeks as he fought desperately to breathe.

"Scorpius, damn you . . . " He rested his sweat-soaked forehead against the door. "Where are you?"

***

As Albus stirred, the potion in his cauldron quickly became transparent, the last smoky clouds vanishing with each able stroke.

Professor Slughorn paused, thumbs hooked in the new braces that had been a gift from a very influential friend and which he now displayed at every opportunity. "Excellent," he intoned. "Just like your father! The delicacy required to manage the transformation so quickly is so very rarely found in boys your age."

Albus lowered his eyes, ignoring the snickering that rose up behind him. Frankly, their jealousy amused him. It served them right that they would never receive such compliments, if all they thought about was lowering others rather than lifting themselves.

"Thank you, Professor."

He did not fail to notice Scorpius tap his wand almost absently against his own knuckles, the tip pointing coincidentally at the snickerer who had the most interesting things to say about Albus Potter’s delicacy. He also didn’t fail to notice how said snickerer suddenly shut his trap. He smirked, most of it hidden under the chin-length black hair that fell forward when he tilted his head.

"I really wasn’t bothered, Scorpius," he murmured.

As usual, his gentle, calm tone irritated Scorpius. Which was an added bit of amusement. The sharp grey eyes, which should have been glacial but instead flashed like mercury fire, narrowed in Albus’ direction. "Well, I was."

Malfoy’s stirring stick clinked against the edge of his own cauldron. "How is anyone except a prodigy like you expected to concentrate with all that whinging and yapping?"

Albus leaned further, pretending to concentrate so that his smile wouldn’t show. "Do it slowly and keep to the center. Try to form a miniature whirlpool."

"Sometimes I wonder who is the protégée," Scorpius grumbled, but he wasn’t displaying any of the symptoms of real annoyance, so Albus ignored him. He noted that Scorpius was paying close attention to Albus’ work, and even making some alterations in his own potion.

"Only in Potions," Albus replied. Then his soft lips formed a wicked smirk, and he let Scorpius see the edge of it. "... and Charms, and Herbology . . . "

"Defense Against the Dark Arts is after this," his friend purred. "Apparently you have a craving for humiliation."

"I might cry."

"If you weren’t smirking, I might believe that."

***

Looking at the two of them, it would be difficult not to jump to conclusions. Albus Severus Potter was of average height for his age, slim and not athletic. He had strong, regular features and extremely pale skin, almost translucent with the bluish shadows of mother-of-pearl that are usually found only in the skin of true redheads. The freckles on his face were so faint that you had to be centimeters away to notice them, but the ones on his shoulders were far more visible, assuming you caught him in swimwear or on a swelteringly hot day.

In contrast to the pale skin, his hair was black and wild, though the length of it added enough weight that it didn’t usually look so rumpled as his father’s or his brother’s. His eyes were vibrantly green. He was extremely popular among the girls, because in addition to his beautiful face, he was never uncomfortable around the opposite sex. He had started out in Slytherin awkward and unhappy, always second guessing himself, and had been humiliated his first day of Flying Lessons when he shocked the entire class by failing to get his broom to rise until his fifth try. However, as the years went on, Albus bloomed into a soft-spoken yet confident young man who was the favorite for Head Boy in two years.

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was tall and lean, the sort of boy who looks thin with his clothes on but beautifully-muscled with them off. His features were sharp, but the large eyes and lips transformed them from being pointed to being overly sensual, and together with the fact that his hair reached halfway down his thighs, could cause him to look astonishingly feminine. However, Scorpius had the Malfoy pallor, more alabaster in colour than Albus (and actually not quite as pale or prone to sunburn), and between the nearly white blond of his hair and the eyes, as storm grey as carbon steel, there was an ephemeral intimidating quality to him.

He spoke in an unusual way, placing biting emphasis on certain words, and was a natural expert at cutting others down to size. Almost all of Slytherin was afraid of him, and many in other Houses as well. He wasn’t fond of company at all, except for Albus.

***

"Well, class, that concludes the lesson. Enjoy your summer holiday." There was a susurrus of closing books, bags and robes rustling and a rising din of conversation. Amid it all, Scorpius reached out and caught Albus just above his elbow, pulling him out of the way of the throng.

"You’re not hungry, then," Albus observed, noting the direction of their feet.

"It can wait." Malfoy pulled a folded piece of heavy vellum out of his sleeve, leaning casually against the wall as he opened it. "I received this at breakfast, but I wasn’t fool enough to open a note from my father there." He glanced up, searching Albus’ face for an expression, but all he received was a nod of acknowledgment. He puffed out a little hiss and continued: "It seems my grandparents have opened the villa near Pompeii. My father has invited me, but he has business to discuss with Grandfather, so he’d rather I go directly to the government Portkey in San Felice Circeo and take a brief cruise round the island first. I think it sounds a good plan, but I want you to come with me."

"Really?" Albus’ eyes lit up. "A cruise in Italy, and then a villa near Pompeii? And we could see the ruins?"

"Yes, of course." It was evident how much pleasure Scorpius took out of being able to promise things Albus wanted. It made Albus always want to tease him a little, but usually Albus refrained.

Usually. "And we could make love in the ruins . . . " He continued, not altering his tone.

"Y-" Crimson burned in Scorpius cheeks suddenly. He recovered admirably. "I wasn’t planning on inviting any of your little tarts. Now go and owl your parents; ask if you may come."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy sir," Albus laughed, doing an admirable impression of a House Elf. "Alby is going!"

***

Harry waited as his wife set down the letter. He searched her face. Her expression was open, reflecting his own thoughts. A troubled line formed between her perfect red eyebrows and her jaw set.

"The Malfoys," she said.

Even after twenty-three years it was hard to forget and more difficult yet to trust. Frankly, Harry would have tossed an invitation from Draco Malfoy without looking at it, and responded to one from Lucius Malfoy with even more disgust. He’d been initially surprised that his most sensitive, shy child had been Sorted into Slytherin, although a part of him considered it almost a tribute to Snape. Sometimes lying in bed at night, he toyed with the suspicion that the Sorting Hat had intended it as some sort of homage to the man’s heroism, which had never been disclosed to the world.

Ginny spoke his thoughts aloud, in that easy way she had: "If it were just Scorpius, I’d feel differently."

Harry nodded. He had not expected Albus’ best mate to be anything other than a small carbon copy of his father, as he’d looked the first time Harry caught sight of him on Platform 9 3/4. They’d expected the worst the first time he’d come to visit. Ginny had even been heard making low threats of particularly embarrassing hexes if Scorpius insulted her cooking or the accommodations.

Scorpius had surprised them. At first he was distant and a little stiff, but no more so than anyone else in that awkward first meeting. Albus began to tease him, and James joined in, and soon he had warmed into a sort of dominant sarcasm that reminded Harry, a bit eerily, of Sirius Black. He had rough edges, of course. There was the Malfoy attitude, certainly, but Harry found himself thinking of it more as regal than priggish once Scorpius had completely won him over.

This had happened when James, completely forgetting he’d promised Lily to help her practice for the Quidditch tryouts, double-booked a date with one of his many lovely girlfriends.

Scorpius had stood up and walked to the door, lifting one of the old spare brooms casually in one hand.

"Don’t tell me you have a date too," Ginny had said.

Scorpius smiled. "You play Chaser, Lily?" he asked.

The girl, barely eleven at the time, nodded, her long red hair bouncing.

"Come on then." Scorpius gestured with a quick jerk of his chin. "I’ll give you a chance to practice against the Slytherin Keeper. Perhaps you’ll even learn some inside secrets."

It had meant a great deal to Lily. She practiced with her mother or father almost every day, but she confided to Harry that she thought her brothers and their friends considered her to be a stupid baby and avoided her. Out in the field, Scorpius had treated her like a complete equal, except when he paused to give her advice. Harry never heard what he said, but once he heard Lily’s voice rise back with, "Ooh, mum told me that too."

Dinner that night had been more animated, and Ginny made sure both Scorpius and Lily got extra helpings.

Harry glanced again at the letter. "We have to say yes," he sighed.

"Fine," Ginny pulled a fresh piece of paper out of her desk. "You respond, while I tell Malfoy all the dreadful things that will happen to him if our son so much as stubs his toe."

Harry laughed and scrawled a brief reply on the bottom of Albus’ note. He was just fixing it to the leg of the owl when Ginny said, "Should I list it alphabetically or chronologically?"

***

Albus noticed Draco Malfoy’s close scrutiny as he climbed into the Ministry car beside Scorpius. It was not precisely insulting, merely focused in a way that did not quite tell Albus what Draco was thinking. Those pale grey eyes, so much like his son’s, had an opacity that Scorpius’ lacked. However, Albus noticed Draco’s fingers twitch lightly at his side, and the conversation he held with Scorpius was not as relaxed or frank as usual. Something was not right, and he held himself silent, listening to the nuances of their voices as they spoke of daily matters and minor annoyances.

The conversation trailed off as their driver parked the car, stepping smartly around to open the door for Draco and then, coincidentally, Albus. They emerged into wan London sunlight, ignoring the occasional odd glance of a Muggle at their unusual attire. It was only a block to the entry point, a somewhat seedy-looking hotel with stained grey awnings over its glass and bronze doors. Draco led them in silence to an incongruous electronic photo booth, which the three of them squeezed into uncomfortably. Albus could smell expensive cologne drift subtly from Draco, while Scorpius smelled almost subliminally of bergamot.

A flash of light. The floor lowered until they were in the featureless center of a lift descending quickly and smoothly to the dark and busy entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic. Here, many wizards called greetings to Mr. Malfoy, which he responded to with absent grace.

They took a second lift, crammed full of wizards and witches as well as flying multicolored memos, to the Department of Transportation and International Affairs, where Draco filled out a waiver for use of the Italian Portkey for Albus and Scorpius.

He then turned to Scorpius and rested a hand lightly over his son’s pale hair. "Take the proper precautions. The ship is the Napoleon. Its master knows you are arriving. Don’t waste too much time in San Felice. You have the map and the token?"

"Yes, Father," Scorpius said, with what Albus considered for him to be inexhaustible patience. "Thank you." Scorpius kissed his father on the cheek, turned smartly and dragged Albus forward by the wrist. "We’d best be off."

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Albus murmured.

Draco smiled faintly and nodded, then was gone in a flash as Scorpius’ hand closed around a chipped plaster bust of Cromwell.

***

Albus, who had little knowledge of geography, had expected something similar to the Ministry in England. When the dizzying flight suddenly ended, he found himself rocked nearly off his feet, falling against Scorpius’ chest. When he straightened to look around, he found himself in a wide yet small room with tiled blue floors, white stucco walls decorated with ancient peeling frescos, and a slanted roof. The thin rectangular windows let in streams of Italian sunshine, wilder and brighter than that of the day they’d left in London. The room was entirely empty except for an X chalked onto the floor near where they stood and piles upon piles of boxes, scrolls and envelopes.

"This is just a drop off point for transactions from the Ministry in Italy," Scorpius explained. "My father is the first person who ever thought of using it for human transport."

Albus smiled at the pride in his voice.

They exited the tiled room, coming out down a short passage to the street. It was drenched in sunlight and the smell of the sea and of citrus trees drifted in the air. Albus immediately began unbuttoning his robe, feeling the heat press against him in a palpable caress. The robe was of silk, a few shades darker than his eyes, and he laid it over his arm as they walked.

Scorpius, glancing his way, untied the knotted black cravat beneath his chin and opened his silver brocade robe nearly to the waist, but did not remove it. He did, however, use the cravat as a wide, makeshift ribbon to pull his mass of hair up and off his neck.

Albus noted the stares as they passed, but his Italian wasn’t good enough to tell what they whispered to each other. He leaned in and murmured to Scorpius, "What are they saying?"

Scorpius frowned. "As near as I can tell, they believe we’re doing some sort of modeling photography."

Albus laughed. "How flattering."

The city was absolutely beautiful, and quite unexpected. Albus drank it in, eyes wide and rapt. The labyrinthine streets took them through cottages and piazzas, many ancient and of white stone with bright tiled roofs.

The San Felice Circeo morning was quiet and refreshing, nearly soundless compared to London. At one point a lime tree bent its bough over the low wall of a nearby villa, and the enticing scent invited Albus to reach up and pluck a firm green fruit. As they walked on, he listened to the low music of Scorpius’ amusement as Albus peeled half the skin off the lime and bit into it, relishing the sharp, sun-warmed tartness.

The walk was too soon over, for their steps quickly led them to the dock. Row upon row of boats, some old-fashioned but most bright and new, flashing metallic in the morning light, moved sluggishly as they were rocked by the dark turquoise water. They walked together up and down the line until they were able to read the words "Napoleon" printed on the finialed aft of a mid-sized ship. The ship was all of polished wood as far as Albus could see, in deep auburn and gold, with a large mast hung with riggings and gold-edged sails.

Scorpius reached into his robe and withdrew a silver chain, at the end of which was a coin bearing the Malfoy crest. The nearest person aboard the Napoleon, an elderly lady with strong brown biceps bared by her white blouse, leapt down upon seeing it, and, bowing deeply to Scorpius, proceeded to help them up into the ship

"I hope you remembered a charm against sunburn," Scorpius remarked, glancing upward at the heavy yellow sun.

Albus raised his eyebrows, slipped his wand out of his pocket and spoke the charm. He pointed his wand at Scorpius and repeated it. Scorpius laughed.

"Though I’m not nearly the lobster you can be at times, I appreciate that."

They watched as the crew began to get the ship ready, doing things that Albus didn’t understand with ropes and shouts and casual banter. In order to get out of their way, Albus led Scorpius to the forecastle, where they stood near the rail and looked back up over the city. Albus noted the strange rock formation high in the mountain above San Felice Circeo, and pointed it out to Scorpius, who was irritably holding his hair in one fist so that the wind wouldn’t send its long ends, despite his ponytail, whipping into his face.

"It looks a bit like a lady’s face, doesn’t it?"

Scorpius nodded. "The village is named partly after the witch Circe. This is one of the locations her island of death was meant to be. They say that face is hers."

"Circe, hm? She was the one who turned men into pigs and controlled them by draining their blood as they slept?"

A sharp laugh was his response. "There are potions," Scorpius mused, "that require a few drops of the blood of the imbiber. That is very dark magic, however, and most people don’t know how to manage it."

"What do they do?"

"One of them ages the person that drinks it. He would become gnarled and old and die within days. The other is a love potion."

"A love potion is very dark magic?" Albus watched the water as the ship began to drift slowly away from the dock. The top portion of it was semi-transparent, and flecks of grime and drifting weeds speckled the deep green waves.

"The Imperius Curse is an Unforgivable, yes?"

Albus nodded.

"Well, then. If it is Unforgivable to compel a person to act only according to your desires, than it must be very dark magic indeed to force someone to desire to do only as you wish."

Albus nodded, staring pensively into the water. "But I wouldn’t call that a love potion, Scorpius. More like . . . an enslavement potion."

"From one end," Scorpius agreed. "From the other end, it is a love potion. Just a very nasty one."

***

By noon they were far enough into the sea that the coastline was a glimmering necklace of green and platinum, and all around them the sunlight cast sharp silver shadows on the water. It was hot enough that the sun was a weight against Albus’ skin, and he felt flushed and uncomfortable. He retired to the cabin a bit earlier than Scorpius, who paused to make brief conversation with the captain. Scorpius was being clipped and cool, which made Albus think the captain’s manners didn’t impress him.

His steps assaulted the stairs down into the cabin, and Albus rolled over on the bunk, making room for his friend to sit down. Scorpius ripped his robe front open and began to fan himself with the heavy fabric as he leaned back. His feet were pointing the same direction as Albus’ head, and vice versa. Albus reached over and picked up one of Scorpius’ large, long hands. He began to massage the palm with both hands, fingers working gently into the muscles and crawling up his wrist. Scorpius let out a soft hiss and relaxed into the hard bunk mattress.

"You have the fingers of a god."

"That’s true, but they’re on loan," Albus agreed. "You won’t be able to enjoy them forever."

Scorpius swatted him with the tail of his robe. "The single discordant aspect of your otherwise agreeable personality is that smart little mouth. I remember with nostalgic fondness when you would barely speak your mind around me and look at me with those wide, innocent little eyes."

Albus smiled softly, arching his neck as he blew at a strand of black hair that had fallen across his lips. His fingers worked their way from Scorpius’ forearm down to his hand again, massaging each individual finger. He stared up at the sloping roof above them.

"Scorpius . . . "

"Hm?"

Albus was silent, waiting until Scorpius turned to look at him. His eyes were absolutely intense, and Scorpius’ grey ones widened in response, his lips parting as if to speak. Albus brought Scorpius’ hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the center of the palm. His eyes burned.

Scorpius stared at him. Albus, feeling a coldness run over his skin, settling unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach, turned away, letting his hair cover his face. His fingers dropped away from Scorpius’ hand.

"Albus."

"It meant nothing!" Albus snapped.

Scorpius reached up, grasped Albus’ forearm and pulled, moving the slimmer boy into a sitting position, staring into his face. He pushed Albus’ hair out of his face and held it there, fingertips just behind Albus’ ear.

"I know that’s a lie," he said quietly. "What I need to know is, what did it mean?"

Albus squirmed, and Scorpius’ grip tightened so that it was nearly bruising. "That hurts."

"Then stop making it hurt." Scorpius’ eyes were like limitless glaciers, and the dim golden light trickling in from the deck above lay over them, giving them a feral quality.

"Let me go."

Scorpius did not obey, but Albus’ posture was tight and pensive, his body quivering. He suddenly looked up and his eyes were cold and furious. "I said let me go, Scorpius. Now!"

Scorpius’ lips skinned back from his teeth. "What is wrong with you?"

Those emerald eyes lowered again. "I’ll go get us some lunch. We can discuss this later."

Malfoy’s fingers slowly unclenched. "Very well," he said, moving his legs so that Albus could get off the bunk. "But we will discuss it. I don’t forget things."

Albus cast him a sardonic smile as he stalked up to the deck.

The deeply tanned old lady was tying off a knot near the edge of the ship, her strong hands working with quiet competence. Albus approached her. "Excuse me, ma’am. I take it since we’re to take a several day long cruise, we’re provisioned for meals?"

She looked at him and smiled, showing several gold teeth. "We’ve a full pantry. I’ll show you." She led him to a set of dark stairs, a bit more weathered than those to the cabin. Albus descended quickly after giving her thanks, and wedged the door open with his shoulder. Past the door was another brief flight of stairs, and then shelves full of foodstuffs, as well as heavy barrels.

Albus let the door close behind him, withdrawing his wand from his pocket. "Lumos," he murmured, gazing across at his options with the glowing tip held as a lantern. He turned to examine the spigot of a barrel, turning it lightly and smiling as the scent of wine rose up into the air.

He was nearly fast enough. He heard a whispered phrase, clearly a spell, though none he recognized. He whirled, and saw nothing. Something struck him violently in his stomach and he doubled over, dropping his wand. The sharp pop of Apparation sounded just as the shelves nearest him flared into flame. Falling to the ground, he felt for his wand, coughing as the first coils of noxious smoke inundated his lungs.

He gasped as a tongue of bright yellow flame crawled up his trouser leg, and, beating at it, climbed up the steps, distancing himself as much as possible from the blaze. Pounding on the door, he found it would not open.

"Scorpius!" He shouted. "Somebody!"

***

Scorpius’ jaw clenched. His head pounded and he pressed it against the wood wall, wishing it was cool against his skin. Albus had confused him, and he despised the feeling of helplessness that confusion brought. He despised even more the way Albus had looked at him, upset and clearly hurt. It had all gone by so fast. First that soft and clearly romantic kiss, and then, mere moments later, Albus’ uncharacteristic explosion.

He had not done anything to imply a rejection, had he? He couldn’t remember much except his surprise, but the kiss had pleased him. Had Albus disliked it?

He sighed and stalked up to the deck. Foot barely above the stairs, he froze in place, his wand snapped out of his sleeve. Something was wrong. The sails flapped oddly. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, like burnt bacon, and no banter or laughter from the crew. Scorpius looked around.

The body nearest him was that of the old woman, but soon he realized all of them were the same. When he rolled them over, they were horrible things, with bulging eyes and faces covered in the blood that had poured from their every orifice.

He smelled it again. Burning . . . "Albus!" The words exploded out of his mouth in something very close to a scream. Scorpius gritted his teeth and ran about the deck, opening every door he could find. At last he came to one that was locked, and his stomach clenched with rage as he heard a soft coughing behind it.

"Alohomora," he shouted, and he flung the door open. Albus was lying prone on the steps, just visible before a wave of oily black smoke covered him. Scorpius hurried down and knelt beside him. Albus seemed half conscious, coughing weakly as Scorpius got an arm underneath him. It was not easy to lift the other boy, but he managed to get him up onto his feet. "Albus?"

Scorpius shook his friend lightly. "Albus, answer me!"

"Sco-" Malfoy’s name was cut off as the fire behind them suddenly flared. Scorpius reacted instinctively, turning his body so that it protected Albus. Searing pain screamed its way across his arm. Albus shifted underneath him, and together they raced up out of the pantry. The ship was creaking around him and the center, near the mast, was all ablaze.

Scorpius skinned off his robe and tossed it into the water. The pain in his arm was so immense that he could hardly think. Albus was supporting himself with one arm upon the rail and, holding Scorpius’ wand, casting jets of clear water into the blaze, but it was no avail.

Scorpius grabbed his arm. "It’s no use. Have you a water breathing charm?"

Albus nodded. "I’ll get us both." He seemed to notice Scorpius’ arm then and gasped. "Scorpius!"

"Worry about it later. For now, the charm. Our lives are at stake."

Albus nodded and spoke the words, moving Scorpius’ wand in an intricate sort of way. He repeated it for himself. With one last glance at the burning gold-edged sails of the Napoleon, they wrapped good arms around each other and leapt into the frozen water.

The Art of Picking Up Faith in a Hotel Room

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 22:08:07 GMT

Title: The Art of Picking Up Faith in a Hotel Room
Series: Angel the Series
Pairing: Faith/Lilah
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit f/f sex, bondage, knifeplay (of a sort)
Notes: Set in "Five by Five." The bunny would not let go of me.

Her lipstick shimmered in the dim blue bar light. Crimson and rich. With the pearls resting white against her slender throat and the tailored black suit, she looked classic. Classy. For some reason, it pissed Faith off, although the woman had good taste in alcohol. The good taste being not to skimp on expenses when she was buying someone else a drink.

It had been a long time since she’d had good tequila, and as long as the chick was buying, Faith intended to drink it down to the worm. Always assuming tequila this good had a worm. She shook the bottle a little, but couldn’t see one floating in the bottom of the silvery glass. She glanced up. "Hey, princess."

It had been awhile since another chick had invited Faith home. Even though this was clearly a hotel and not home, it had been equally long and maybe never since another chick had invited Faith to a hotel room. It had kind of intrigued her. She’d already noticed the woman’s watch, a Rolex encrusted with small diamonds, and was definitely going to take it. Probably the earrings too. Definitely her wallet. But hey, maybe the lady’d get a fun time in exchange for all of it, instead of a hard right cross to that pretty little mouth.

The chick was watching her, pale blue eyes framed in long jet black eyelashes. "Yes?" she said.

"What cha wearin’ under that coat? Silk blouse, right?"

She nodded, never taking her eyes off the knife Faith used to slice up the last half of the lime, even as her long and slim fingers began to unbutton the coat, revealing a pearl-colored blouse that clung to her body and through which Faith could just see the lacy top of her bra.

Faith poured another shot of tequila. Slipping the shot glass and salt shaker between her fingers, she moved over to the other woman, shaking a little bit of wild hair out of her face as she leaned in close. "Take it off," she purred. Close enough she could watch a little bit of surprise and... fear in those blue eyes, as well as a natural dilation of pleasure. Huh. Fear? And here Faith had been thinking she did this sort of thing all the time.

Maybe not with chicks. Not with that body language. Then what was her angle? Faith decided to push a little harder and see if she could find out.

Those pretty fingers were already opening her blouse. Her skin was very pale, especially in the soft fullness of her breasts, pulled high and together by the bra. Faith straddled her lap easily, leather creaking and slipping slightly over the wool of the other woman’s skirt. "What’s your name, lover?" she whispered against the woman’s soft brown hair.

"Lilah," she said. Her voice was deep and rich, a little husky. Kind of a turn on.

"Okay, Lilah, just lie back and let me tell you how we do this." Faith slipped the shot glass between Lilah’s breasts, running her thumb lightly over the top of one before scattering salt on the other. She shifted her weight as Lilah shivered. "Ever been with a woman before?" Faith asked, lowering her mouth to let her tongue graze the salt. The flesh beneath added a warmer thrill to the taste.

A soft breath eased its way through Lilah’s parted lips, only flavored with the faintest of sounds. "Once. In... high school."

Faith slipped the lime into that mouth, smiling as red lipstick visibly colored the light green rind. She bent, closed her teeth around the shot glass and threw it back, the burn running down her throat like a fugitive down an alley. Turning her head in a sharp arc so that her hair flew as wild as if she were dancing, she spat out the shot glass and claimed the lime in one fluid raw attack. Their teeth touched roughly as she bit hard into the lime, tearing it out of Lilah’s mouth. Tart liquid squeezed into her mouth, and then she spat the spent fruit toward the shot glass, licking her lips and tasting Lilah’s lipstick. Yummy.

"That was fun," Faith admitted, stepping off the other woman. One hand raked her mussed hair out of her face. Her own lipstick had already darkened what was on Lilah’s lips, and it looked good. Smudged and dark, but good.

"You wearing knee highs, baby girl?" Faith had noticed the stockings. She was betting knee highs. She was betting the panties matched the bra.

Lilah nodded. She had moved a little on the chair, delicately fixing her hair. Uh-huh, nice try, chickie. I’d have pegged you for dynamite in the sack, Faith thought. So why’re you holding back so hard after getting me all the way up here?

"Take them off." Faith smiled after she said it. "Man, I’m starting to sound like a broken record. If you have any ideas at all of your own, feel free to raise your hand."

Lilah smiled. It was smoldering, rising from the core of her pale eyes to the white teeth slowly revealed by the slow curve of her lips. She bent over, showing how her full breasts sat in the silk cage of her bra, and slid her skirt up her thigh. Faith whistled as she slowly rolled dark nylon stockings down her long, gorgeous legs.

"There’s that dynamite girl I thought I saw."

Lilah’s smile widened. She pointed her toes as she slipped the nylons clear, moving a hand gracefully to lay them over the edge of the nearby table. Faith picked them up, testing the strength and pliability of the fabric between her hands. "You want to stand up for a second?"

She obeyed, as usual. Only this time, Lilah’s hand rose to Faith’s shoulder, her long nails curving into the skin bared by Faith’s top. She leaned in and pressed a deep kiss to the side of Faith’s neck, tongue moving softly over the skin as she sucked at it gently. Faith growled as the Harley engine between her thighs started to heat up. She ripped the skirt and jacket off Lilah’s shoulders and tossed them aside, fingers massaging the muscles of the other woman’s lower back as she returned the deep neck kiss. Hers wasn’t gentle, though. She wanted to bite, yeah, just a little. Suck on that sweet throat, close her teeth just a little till she could feel Lilah’s pulse hammering and hear her make that little sound- yeah, there it was, only throatier and deeper than Lilah had ever heard it,- just that little gasp that means a woman’s nipples have suddenly gone hard and raw sensitive.

Faith unzipped Lilah’s skirt and let it fall to the floor. The woman stepped out of it gracefully. She was running her nails lightly up and down Faith’s back, nibbling through the vinyl top toward Faith’s nipples. Faith’s growl rose to a dark purr. "You about ready to ride, baby girl?" She cupped Lilah’s hip, running her thumb down lightly beneath the silk panties in a soft semi-circle.

Lilah moaned quietly. Faith suddenly moved both her hands to the woman’s shoulders, pushing her back down in the chair. She straddled her lap again, firmly, unhooking Lilah’s bra as she sucked and nipped at Lilah’s earlobe, tasting freshly washed hair and not caring. Faith moved Lilah’s hands behind her back and held them with one hand while she firmly knotted the bra around. It wasn’t easy to use as a restraint, but not impossible either.

"This is how it’s going to be?" Lilah murmured.

Faith stepped back, hunkering down in front of her at about eye level. Her hands rested lightly on Lilah’s cool bare thighs. "You got an objection?" She cupped Lilah’s chin and stared into her eyes. "Somehow I get the feeling you don’t entirely trust me. Maybe that hurts my feelings."

Lilah was silent. Faith parted her legs and tied each ankle to the chair leg. "So here’s the deal, lover girl." Faith ran her tongue around one of Lilah’s nipples. She sucked the softness of it into her mouth and nipped, running her tongue hard against it to press it against the top of her mouth. Mmm. Lilah’s breathing hitched.

Faith’s fingers glided down Lilah’s stomach, teasing soft circles lower and lower until they stretched the fabric of her panties away and slid underneath, moving lower over soft trimmed hair until they parted Lilah’s labia and slipped over the clit, holding still there as Lilah gasped.

"I appreciate the nice drinks and I appreciate the thoughtful venue, but you don’t give me anything." She turned her wrist so the palm was facing up and began to rub, slowly and lightly, up and down. Where Lilah’s breathing told her that it felt the best, she concentrated her attention but slowed further, teasing and stopping completely every time she noticed Lilah’s body begin to tremble. She watched soft tears of pleasure forming in the pale blue eyes.

Suddenly, Faith slammed three of her fingers into Lilah’s pussy. Lilah moaned. "Oh, you like it like that, huh?" Faith observed. "Good. Cause like I was saying... you don’t give me anything." She moved her fingers in and out, hard and rough, while her thumb pressed firmly on the sweetest spot on Lilah’s clit. Her fingers curved inside Lilah, searching for her g-spot, getting rougher and firmer and faster as she searched. Lilah’s moaning and panting was getting her so hot she was just about ready to just give it to the girl with a few quick strokes of her thumb, but she wanted the orgasm to be hotter than that. She wanted marks on Lilah’s body where the orgasm had jerked her against the restraints.

"I take it," Faith hissed, just as she found the right spot and left her fingers curved, slamming them deep inside Lilah. Simultaneously, she flicked her thumbnail down across that cultivated spot on the clit.

Lilah screamed in that heady, amazing bedroom voice, raw and deep and delicious. Her head came back, her body came up off the chair as the first wave of orgasm hit her. Faith kept going, firmly manipulating her into further and further orgasm until Lilah’s body slowed into faint shivers.

"Good one, huh?" Faith said with a quick flash of a smile, slipping her fingers out of Lilah’s torn panties and moving to the kitchen. She rinsed off her hand and glanced at the lime on the counter, beside which was resting the wide kitchen knife.

"Hey, Lilah. You want to try something kinky?"

Lilah was still breathing hard, and her voice was hoarse but impressively level. "You mean... compared to what we just did?"

"Uh-huh." Faith grinned and leaned over, undoing her pants. It took a long time due to all the lacings and zippers and buckles necessary to keep them so tight they were like a softly shimmering second skin. When she was finished, she unlaced her top. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and she smiled as she strolled with a slow languorous strut toward her bound lover. Lilah counted the newly visible tattoos with her eyes before she noticed Faith was carrying the knife.

"No, please," she whispered.

"Oh, relax, bitch. I’m not going to cut you." Faith rolled her eyes. "I’m in a creative mood, and besides, this isn’t exactly the knife for shallow cuts." She flicked her wrist up and down to show Lilah the weight and balance of it.

"Then... what?" Her eyes were still wide, with just that amount of fear her stoic beauty could not quite hide. Faith turned the chair toward the table and untied Lilah’s hands. Then she perched on the edge of the table and spread her legs.

"I’m guessing you’ve never given head to a girl," Faith said. "Bi-curious at most, right?"

Lilah nodded.

Faith slid a hand into Lilah’s hair, making a fist to pull her up into a rough kiss. The twin lipstick colors smeared over her mouth looked like blood.

Faith slipped the knife, on its edge, on the seat underneath her. "You’re going to sit back and lean forward, without moving your ass off that chair. The knife won’t cut you unless you squirm. Just press your hot pussy against that cold, cold steel. Then you’re going to do me with your tongue. I’ll give directions, but it’s pretty fucking hard to do it wrong."

Lilah flushed, but leaned back, and gasped in a little surprise at the sensation.

"Don’t squirm," Faith warned. Lilah nodded.

She leaned forward tentatively, her mouth parted, and began to lick upward on Faith’s clit. As Faith had said, it really felt amazing no matter how little experience you had. She began to give soft, terse commands and arched her back, fingers closing on the edge of the table as Lilah listened. Damn, the girl had a talented mouth! She was kissing and sucking at just the right places, getting up good pressure with her tongue, first fast and rough on the clit and then slow as it slipped as deeply as it could into the hot cave of Faith’s pussy. She used her teeth accidentally on the clit and Faith’s thighs trembled, the edge of the table groaning beneath her grip.

"Do that again. And use your tongue. Hard."

Lilah obeyed, getting her jaw into it. As Faith began to shiver into orgasm, Lilah sucked her clit harder, her tongue moving faster than anyone’s Faith had ever slept with. The fake wood tore beneath Faith’s hands as her body spasmed into delicious waves of pleasure.

"Damn, girl," she said, her voice huskier than usual. "You’re a natural." Faith slipped off the table and slipped the knife out from under Lilah, using it to cut her free. "Now I’m hungry."

Lilah rose, slipping off her panties and jewelry. "I’m buying. But first a shower."

"Sounds like a plan."

***

"I think you misunderstood my intentions," Lilah said as they walked down the street toward dinner, wherever that might be.

Faith thought, of course. I was just a kinky one-night-stand for some rich society chick with money and a diamond watch. Why do I let myself get attached to these people? And she suddenly wanted to hurt somebody until their outside felt like her inside.

And later, after a boring conversation with boring people and one confusing slut of a lawyer, she decided Angel was as good as anyone. Hell, maybe he’d make her outside feel like her inside and rid her of all that confusion once and for all.

Nameless

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 04:48:45 GMT

but in the heartless jungle of a thousand dark regrets
full of morphine kisses and the burns from cigarettes

hypnotized, you draw to me the leather on your thighs
parted just to play for me the puppet I despise

and if I choose to draw cold fingers down your throat
open all your essence with a sanguine farewell note

then let you kiss the knife I pressed to tangle you in lies
you'll never see a drop of satisfaction in my eyes

for I am trapped in aftermath and drowning in perfume
an idiot to act this way, with this slave, in this room

a useless pantomime designed to spark some lasting flame
futile as the echoes of a long-forgotten name.

Cold as Stone Angels | Prologue

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 02:30:03 GMT

Title: Cold as Stone Angels
Chapter: Prologue
Fandom: Harry Potter (DH Epilogue)
Pairing: Scorpius/Albus
Rating: G
Warnings: My God, I can't believe it. It's funny and heartwarming. Did I write this?
Notes: CaSA is a Scents-ibility fanfic, designed with the challenge of choosing new and interesting pairings or looking at existing favorite pairings through the lens of sensual aromas. The scents involved are oak-aged Merlot and Sage smoke. Eventually, when this becomes more than pre-slash, these aspects of the characters will emerge. The low-impact dazzle of a smooth, medium strength wine for Albus, with notes of oak, clove and leather. The dominating, overpowering scent of sage, simultaneously sweet and bitter, whose strength is from fire and is associated with ritual and healing: Scorpius.

If Albus Potter didn’t stop crying, Scorpius was absolutely certain he was going to get up and smother the brat with a pillow. He could picture it. He would slip out of bed, pick up the eider-down pillow he brought with him from home, sling it over Potter’s sniveling little head and press down.

No, on second thought, he wouldn’t want to sleep on his pillow once it had snot and tears on it. He’d slip out of bed, yank Albus’ pillow out from under his face and press it down on top of him. Yes, good. Scorpius entertained himself with that mental exercise for a minute or two, but it was hard to concentrate with the sound of the brat’s infernal sniffling and sobbing.

Finally, he let out an explosive sigh and rolled heavily on to his back. "Potter."

Albus’ sobbing stopped with a snort, and then devolved into helpless hiccups, his slight frame shivering like a hairless dog Scorpius had seen once at a ball held by one of his cousins. He’s not cold, the lady had said, stroking the smooth skin, he’s nervous.

"For Merlin’s sake, what can the matter be?"

Potter was silent, alternately sobbing and hiccuping and gasping for breath. It was as if he was deliberately trying to find something more annoying than the crying. Then he said, "They’re going to hate me."

Scorpius opened his mouth, but before a word could emerage, Albus continued: "My family’s going to hate me. Especially James and Lily. I know Dad said that it was okay if I wound up in Slytherin, that some of the bravest people he’d known came from Slytherin, but-"

"Your father said that?" Scorpius could not quite believe it. It certainly didn’t fit the impression of Harry Potter he’d always been given.

"Yes, but-"

Scorpius sighed, swung his long legs off the bed and stood up. "Potter."

"Y-y-yes?"

Malfoy approached lightly, bare feet picking their way with ginger distaste over the cold floor. "Does your father make a habit of lying to you?"

"N-no, but-" Albus was lifting his face. It was tear-streaked, but a little pretty, and Scorpius could not pretend he didn’t enjoy the rapt expression in the brilliantly green eyes, almost glowing and focused entirely on him. Nervous like a skittish foal about to race away, but rapt.

Scorpius sat down deliberately on the edge of Albus’ bed. "Or perhaps he often tells stories? Says things he doesn’t mean?"

"No, but-"

Scorpius cupped Albus’ face in his hand, giving the boy a hard stare. "Do you actually have an addendum to add, or are you just saying ‘but’ in order to argue with me?"

Albus swallowed and shook his head. "But... all my family have been Gryffindors. What... how would you feel if you hadn’t been a Slytherin?"

The question surprised Scorpius so much he threw back his head and laughed. "Me? Not a Slytherin? That was never going to happen."

Potter’s lower lip pouted out and his jaw set. It was the first bit of backbone Scorpius had seen from the other boy. "You’re not answering my question."

Scorpius shrugged and let his hand fall to the mattress, where it smoothed the sheet absently. "I suppose," he said after a moment’s deliberation, "I would feel a bit silly. I mean, how would you react to a Gryffindor named Scorpius Malfoy?"

Albus laughed. The sound was childlike, but also fluid and warm.

Scorpius tapped him lightly on the cheek with his palm. "But I wouldn’t be crying about it. Now stop being so melodramatic and go to sleep." He stood up and was halfway to his bed when he heard Potter’s voice again, through slowing, stifled last gasps of tears.

"Malfoy? Thank you."

"Mmhmm." Scorpius smoothed his own sheets, making certain he would not have to kick them around to be fully covered.

"Can I... ask you for a favor?"

He glanced over at Albus. The boy was slightly flushed. "If it will get you to shut up so that I can sleep."

"I always have nightmares after I cry. Normally, I’d go sleep with James. You know, to keep the nightmares... but since it’s just you and me..."

Scorpius slipped into his bed and gave the other boy a cold, intense stare. "Are you joking?"

The tremble of the lower lip made it clear that he wasn’t.

"You’re a helpless crybaby who can’t sleep alone at eleven years old? Why in Merlin’s name are you in Slytherin?"

Sniffle. Sob.

Malfoy sighed again, turned on his side and lifted the sheet invitingly. "If you wet the bed, I will kill you."

Albus came shyly over, moving carefully. He was obviously nearly as uncomfortable as Scorpius, but then he relaxed and leaned back. Scorpius froze, unable to move for a moment because of the sheer strangeness of a warm back pressing against his chest and the shampoo scent of hair in his face. He inwardly cursed and reconciled himself to not getting any sleep at all.

"You could have been in Gryffindor," Albus murmured happily against Scorpius’ eider-down pillow.

"You’re here to sleep," Scorpius growled. "One more word and you’re on the floor, full body bind cursed for the rest of the night."

As the boy next to him nuzzled into the pillow on his way to sleep, Scorpius could have sworn he heard him purr. Manipulative little Potter prick.

flash fic: disturbingly erotic

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 06:17:38 GMT

Disturbingly erotic. That was the only thing he could think, and for a moment all the carefully laid atlases and constructed mazes of his mind went blank, replaced by the singularly incongruous image of those brown, tobacco-stained fingers, grime caked black on their short flat nails, against the pristine feathers of his fan.

"Damn!"

His arm moved of its own volition, and when the fan was once again in his grasp it moved again. Two quick strokes as the mind recovered. And didn't the good Lord know he wanted Jack dead now, but first he wanted him chained down and begging.  He wanted that rare body with its addictive beauty, beauty unlike everything else in the world, subjugated to him again. First to touch, then to kill.

And because he wanted it, he entertained the idea of making it reality. He created and unravelled scenarios in an eyeblink. Negotating with Jack Sparrow had its own rhythm, and it never did to dominate negotiations too much. He mingled the ludicrous with sheer brilliance to keep everyone off balance.

Beckett stumbled, and came on to deck too late. Jack Sparrow. What was uncontrolled, what failed to see its place, must be destroyed. Such a shame he wouldn't have the pleasure of catching his upper teeth over that mustache again... but nothing to the shame of a poor business decision.

Practice for my Cutler Beckett/Jack Sparrow epic.
A flash fic, rated PG for sexuality and some references to violence.

it takes a few posts to make a journal look right

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 05:30:09 GMT

So for starts, a few cocktail recipes.

Sabaku Sousou

1/2 oz light rum
1/2 oz dark rum
1/2 oz brandy
Fill with orange-pineapple juices or orange-pineapple-guava juices mixed.
Shake.
Serve in martini glass.

Orange in Your Stocking

My Christmas drink, it turned out much better than expected.

One shot, or however you like your rocks drinks poured, Absolut Mandarin.
Fill with cranberry juice.
Stir.

Waikiki Iced Tea

Brew fresh jasmine tea. Chill.
Add 1 oz Kahana Royale Macadamia Nut Liqueur,
1 oz white rum
Shake with chilled white tea.
Garnish with fresh grated ginger.