1. sons of anarcy; gen; jax-centric. 2. batman; joker/harley; joker/batman. 3. millenium trilogy; fluff; lisbeth/mikael. 4. the great gatsby; nick/judging you; jay/daisy; jay/nick. 5. x-men: first class; au; charles/erik. 6. supernatural; r; dean/cas. 7. sherlock; gen; sherlock/john. 8. #ysm; #kaitzin; 9: #ysm; wing!fic; #dirtypathogens
1. jax breathes out and it's on days like this where a carton of cigarettes isn't near enough to calm him the fuck down. he takes a swig, sucks on the filter, breathes in, and waits. his head feels heavy. his life feels heavy. the nicotine thrills his blood, warms him a bit. it's never ice cold in charming, but somedays, it can get damn freezing.
2. despite what others might think, joker's all about romance. he likes the idea of love. the way it croons at him through the bulletproof, shatterproof, fiberglass reinforced vinyl windows of his cell. he wants to hold it in his fingers (when he finally gets the threading in his shoulders loose enough to rip out of this alabastersnowwhitetightstraightjacket) and pet it like a bird, wring its neck with his two longer fingers, feel the snappy snap of death with the warmstickyjuicytasty redred blood drop through his fingers. he wants the finite feeling that encompasses the stickysick love he often feels deprived of. he wants dr. harleen quinzel wrapped in velvet, soft enough to pet, soft enough to bruise, soft enough to chew. he wants the bleeding, raw, defrosting kind of love. he thinks about bats and the love he must have missed out on and thinks, joker thinks he could find it there too, under the cowl, behind those eyes, somewhere in the bulbous, beautiful, bright brain of the bat. he loves love, really. joke's on everyone else, they don't know what they're missin' out on.
3. she's typing and typing and the click-clacking is her way of letting you know she's okay. she's warm. she's alive. she can feel you staring and the click-clacking stops suddenly. through her short bangs, her brown eyes cut into yours. she's a sucker for affection, and most of the times, you can't help but acquiesce to what she wants. you like it better that way, when she doesn't ask, doesn't say a word, but instead she just needlessly wants yet her pride just refuses to follow through. it could be a power play, you could use it over her, take advantage of her trust, her feelings, but you don't even linger on that thought. you just give yourself to her. you watch her blink, assess the current moment. she moves so that she's no longer laying under the covers, but sitting with her legs crossed. the inked 'salander' pokes through her hole-riddled t-shirt and it rides up when she moves, exposing her tattooed hip. she's still staring at you, wondering what you want, why you're still there. you move to the bed, pull away the sheets, and then you're on your knees, bending towards her, pulling her skin to your mouth and biting the subtle convex line of her hip. she scoffs, at first, but when you bite down harder, she's laughing with her small, white hands in your hair and you think, there isn't a single place you'd rather be, then here, with her.
4. nick doesn't say much. jay doesn't push. just leads. he leads nick like he was born to lead, like he was made of value and monetary worth. of course that isn't the case. it's a habit that he's had to work very hard to make feel like second nature rather than earned knowledge. nick is that wallflower sort of type, inquisitive, but silent, curious, but judgmental. at times, he is jay's only friend. which is why nick isn't angry when jay gets back from the buchanan's at around 4pm (before tom gets home from work) and seeks him out in the halls of his mansion. jay's hands are calloused, from years of service, he's pretty sure. nick could be wrong. all he does is assume, anyway. jay smiles at nick, and nick recognizes the smell of scotch from his breath, and then there's jay's warm mouth on nick's, and nick stops thinking, stops judging, stops recollecting altogether.
5. professor xavier wishes it would just stop. he wishes he were younger. or that his pupil would be ten years older and then maybe, this would be okay. but it isn't that way at all. his hands are longer than the boy's, the skin of them hard, and thick. erik's are limber, long still, and dirty, charcoal underneath his finger nails, scars along the purlicue of both hands. charles is supposed to be watching erik's fingering technique, making sure that the keys are pressed with correct timing, but instead he's caught on the grooves of new skin where the scars are formed, and before he can tell erik that he's not spacing his fingers out enough, he's asking about his scars, his own thumb running along the back of erik's hand. erik stops playing. charles can see from his vantage point (erik may be tall, but charles is still taller, and that shouldn't sting, but it does all the same) that erik's grinning marvelously. he doesn't tell charles about his scars, won't divulge anything real about himself ever, and maybe that's why charles keeps wishing impossible things. (he knows he could never stop this. couldn't even if he wanted it just a little bit.)
6. in retrospect, dean should have seen it coming. he's one to flirt, of course, but most people just flirt back. (mostly ladies.) the rest roll their eyes. (the dudes.) (he hasn't gotten laid in years, not since anna, not really anyway. hurried blowjobs in the back of the impala that were less than satisfactory don't count.) but of course, cas isn't most people. hell, he isn't even people. so yeah, when cas still has a boner after all that pizza man porn and meg, of all fucking things, dean casually jokes if cas needs a helping hand, and yeah, maybe cas takes jokes too literally, because the next he knows, cas is all blue eyes and aching warmth at his side. dean underestimated cas' strength once, he's not about to do it again, but cas isn't forcing himself, he's asking. and dean can't even muster up the pretense to roll his eyes when he holds cas' shoulder with one hand and the other hand is palming over his angel's dick. it doesn't take much, cas grunts a few times, grips tighter onto dean's jacket, his baby blues get brighter as he gets closer, and when he's actually there, dean has to hold his breath because jesus fuck the way cas' eyes are devouring him wholly, the way cas' throat swallows around dean's name as it has to work its way out of cas' throat with such reverence. dean comes shortly after, without a finger to his person, and cas holds him up, the way he always has done, and always will.
7. john wears stripes because he likes their simplicity. he sees the irony in that when sherlock is in the room. but he also wears stripes because he's always wanted to be a pirate. hearing mycroft say the same thing about sherlock's ambitions as a toddler throws him out of his zone and he has to stifle a laugh and a smile. he imagines them then, an uncanny pair: captain holmes and his first mate watson, sailing the arab sea on their ship, the scheherazade. he still sees sherlock playing his violin. dreary melancholy sonatas while the sky is dark and clear so the stars sparkle like diamonds and gold ore in the heavens. he imagines sherlock would still be as insufferable, would still be ruthless and surprisingly cutthroat. a perfect pirate. and then sherlock growls, and it echoes through buckingham palace, shattering john's thoughts. (AND THEN ERIN SAID TO SCRATCH ALL PREVIOUS REQUESTS AND WRITE HER WING!FIC. SHE SUCKS.)
8. kaity is small, tamzin notices. she is tiny and warm, and tamzin freaks out for a second, wondering if she could really deal with this actual human being in her life, and if she could deal with the magnanimity of knowing that kaity belongs to her in no small part. when kaity blinks her eyes open, tamzin still watches her, but only because she's been caught and to pull away would be awkward, and she doesn't want to be awkward. kaity smiles and tamzin smiles, and it may already be noon, which means that their time together is getting shorter and shorter, but they're here right now. and tamzin feels light, open, and all of it is because of this small adorable girl and she is never letting her go. time be damned.
9. erin isn't an extrovert by any means, but she's not exactly shy.
not around alex, not around lucy/sarah or ramona/nicole. so, when she excuses herself from lunch without so much as a precursor or an explanation, alex shrugs. when erin refuses to come down for a game of life, alex tries not to think much of it. but when erin bails on their movie date, alex worries. she's the one that usually can't make it. it's never been the other way around. ever.
luce tells alex to wait it out. but alex doesn't do waiting. not about things that worry her anyway. there are a million things that alex fails at and waiting sits at the very tippy-top of the list. she paces the kitchenette, skirting around the rest of the girls with a feeling of unease.
she texts erin but after three hours and no reply, alex says fuck it to no one in particular and while she usually allows a modicum of privacy when erin wants it, she has no qualms about opening the door to their room.
erin's not there. she's not under the bed, she's not in the closet, she's not behind the dresser, or behind the michael fassbender as magneto life size cut out. when alex pulls herself out from under the bed, she reaches for her phone in her bra and dials erin's number. the panic is starting to hurt, sends small shocks of adrenaline through her and then she hears erin's ringtone from outside the window, and alex swear she's going to go to jail for killing her girlfriend. but by the time she's out the window, she's forgotten everything ever.
someone sits perched on the edge of the roof sheathing, or at least alex figures it must be someone because she can't really tell because whoever it is is covered in black, sleek feather. it's human, that much is for sure. toes are sticking out of the end of the wings, dusted by feathers. where the wings form out the skin of the back, they're pale, nearly translucent, but as they near the edges, starting at the secondaries, they're dark as nature can allow. alex exhales a fuck, and suddenly, feathers everywhere, fluttering, flapping, and it is so very much erin. alex doesn't know what to say. erin just looks disappointed, and alex knows that nothing she could ever say would mean anything as much as erin needs it to mean, so she just puts one foot in front of the other, trying to focus on balancing on the 25-degree angle roof, and getting to her girlfriend as quick as she can. and when she's there, erin steps back and alex rolls her eyes and moves to hug her anyway, tries to let her know that she didn't have to hide. erin's wings feel like blankets and they smell like linen when they pull around alex's back. alex really hopes erin understands. she hears the small 'sorry' come from erin's lips and alex presses a kiss to her collarbone to tell her that it wasn't necessary at all.
after a couple weeks, it's like erin's always had wings. they're not always there. which is convenient (for erin,) and also disappointing (for alex, because for some reason, alex really likes that her girlfriend has wings like a harbinger of death.) but they resurface when erin's emotions are too much to handle. (unlike x-men's archangel, alex notes. to which erin just rolls her eyes as if to say, "really, alex, you just want to say you're dating an x-men. i'm sorry i'm such a disappointment." and then alex has to grovel for a week, even though erin's not really upset. in her mind, she's totally a mutant. even if her wings don't shoot feathers out when she's feeling threatened, also unlike a certain archangel.) either way, some days they wake up and erin's wings are out and she feels cramped, being in bed for so long, that alex will wake up, get their things, pack a lunch, and they'll take the day off to go to the abandoned quarry, or sometimes, the beach. it's good exercise for erin, to get some wind beneath her wings. alex takes pictures with christin's camera and when erin feels relaxed and ready to land, it always takes alex's breath away.
then again, everything else erin does has the same effect.
10. there, you horrible wench, mellamonaranja.