_beetle_:

Stuff and pimp!

2008-03-23T20:01:30Z

ETA: Where Angels Fear To Tread. More Myrtle/Lilo slash for the slashthedrabble challenge "fool(ish)".

Computers problems? So not fun. I think the lifespan of whatever it is that makes computer come on is a lot closer to a day than to a year. Which'd suck, but--meh. England prevails! And by England I mean me :)

Yes, I've been watching too much "V For Vendetta", but whaddaya want, it's not like I get a lot of net time, anymore.

Whatever's wrong with it--and I'm pretty damn sure it's the hard drive and possibly the motherboard--I could get the parts for cheap . . . er than most people, but I wouldn't be able to install them. Well . . . probably a hard drive, if I got walked through it, but not a motherboard. A tech would probably cost me a few hundred bucks.

It's enough to send a bug slinking to bed with a quart of vodka and box of pecan sandies. . . .

No, but seriously. I hate pecan sandies.

Work's been busy, lately. Far too busy. I used to be able to get writing done between calls, and on breaks, but now, there's nil time between calls and I'm so frazzled, all I want to do on my breaks is walk around Tech City, pretending I don't have to go back in fifteen minutes or half an hour. What is it with spring--this is my third one there, and people just to seem to go on breaking-shit sprees that result in higher call volumes.

And what the fuck is with some of my coworkers? It's like a few--probably not most--don't know policy and haven't worked there for more than a month and a half. All the mistakes I see and the angry customers that call in saying every time they get through to our dept, then get xfered because we can't process their orders. But then all that's needed is the exact same information on the customer's receipt, which they more often than not have. These are orders that can be placed--information entered manually instead of instantaneously popping up--which takes about two minutes longer, but results in a happier customer (not to mention commission) than if we xfer them willy-nilly to consumer relations.

Argh!

It's times like that that I realize that--while I may not be the best rep at my job, I'm a pretty damn good one =)

I still can't wait to move out of this town. My coming here was tinged with defeat and loss, and that trend has continued. I think a lot of the discontent and black, lowering despair I feel is partly because I feel trapped here, like I'll die here. Though I'm sure if I stay here long enough, death'd be a relief.

I can't wait for it to get warmer. Caterpillars and rain aside, Spring isn't totally loathable. And I can hope that, by fall, I'll be out of this place. But then I say that every year.

But no! Must think positive--I'm on this probably-bullshit-but-what've-I-got-to-lose kick--Even if I'm still in Kingston in the fall, I seriously doubt I'll be here this time in 2009.

I can totally hold on for another year, if only to spite this shitass town and everyone in it.

If I have to, I can do another year, easy.

PIMP! and "Waiting To Happen" (1/1)

2008-03-18T06:51:55Z

ETA:

PIMP!

Read this: The Moon Is On The Sea

I stumbled across the author while trawling for last minute icons to go with this post, and ah! Providence!

My computer problems? Aren't virus-related! They're hardware related. I think this goes back to October, that power surge that made me have to do the first recovery (why, oh, why didn't I have a surge protector).

I'm pretty sure the problem is the hard drive, and possibly the motherboard. But I'm hoping just the hard drive. Turning the computer on at all is a total crapshoot--even odds it'll stall, or ask me to ctrl alt del, ad infinitum--or actually come on. I'm hoping it can hold on till I can either have it repaired or replaced. I'm kinda attached, so I'm hoping for the former.

Been away from LJ for most of a fortnight--can't access it at work and I refrained from turning the computer on for days at a stretch. Even if it came on I was either fighting with it, or running innumerable--that turned out to be pointless--virus scans.

In short, I was not having fun cruising the information superhighway. But hell, if the diagnosis I eventually got was correct, this thing could keep running for another year, or die on me tomorrow, if I leave it as is. Que cera cera (sp?).

Okay, the first finished fic of the seven on my plate. I've lost drafts and drafts of this--it bears little resemblance to the fic I originally wrote, but . . . maybe that's for the best =D

Waiting To Happen
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: Lilo & Stitch (shut up)
Characters: Myrtle, Lilo, Stitch
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm not the Mouse.
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: SET TEN-ISH YEARS IN THE FUTURE! If you've ever seen the movie or a commercial for it--you're all set. Spoilers for the movie I guess, though not the series. Pre-slash.
Summary: Mild angst, of the teeny-bopper variety. A prequel to An Exercise In Forgiveness and Where Angels Fear To Tread. Inspired by Radiohead's "There There".

"Howsit, Myrtle?"

"Nyagh!" Startled out of a not so light doze--falling asleep on one's front porch swing? Not a smart thing, even in a town as small as this--Myrtle Edmonds nearly falls out of the swing, which creaks reprovingly. But there's a warm, steadying hand placed on her shoulder.

"Easy," a familiar voice says, rich with repressed laughter. It makes Myrtle blink away the fog in her brain and her eyes to glare at--

"You!" Myrtle slaps at the hand on her shoulder, and Lilo grins and bears it without budging an inch. "What are you doing here?"

Lilo Pelekai--ever so fashionable in a sail-sized, haole-tourist Hawaiian shirt, flapping open over a black bikini top and worn cargo shorts--nods at an old, scuffed guitar leaning on the porch railing. "I was practicing on the beach."

"Then you decided come here and scare the Cheez Whiz outta me? How considerate of you."

"Someone's in a mood." Lilo rolls her eyes, but sits down next to Myrtle, pushing heavy wet hair behind her ears and over her shoulders. Her ears are small, and don't stick out even a little, and she always smells like woodsmoke and fabric softener, grass and the ocean.

It's no wonder Myrtle can't stand her.

"Well, someone was minding her own business when a crazy girl snuck up on her and--ACK!" A warm, fuzzy, damp weight makes itself at home on her left foot.

Lilo's ugly mutt is--grinning up at Myrtle from it's perch.

Only, well, dogs can't grin . . . a fact which hasn't stopped Lilo's dog from grinning at Myrtle quite often over the past ten years.

Sighing, she tries, to no avail, to lever it off her foot.

"You look so . . . peaceful, when you sleep." Lilo's leans forward and smiles at her dog, too-long bangs hiding her eyes. Of course it's too much to expect that she'd correct its bad behavior. "I wasn't trying to scare you, I just. . . ."

"Wanted to take five years off my life?" Myrtle demands, crossing her arms. Lilo glances at her, that small smile still on her face.

"Something like that," she replies. Just the sort of oddball answer everyone has come to expect from her. Myrtle sighs.

"Yeah, well, not that this hasn't been fun, but don't you have a porch swing of your own to loiter on?"

Lilo shrugs, swinging her legs. In the moonlight, Myrtle can clearly see sand crusted on her toes and flip-flops. She's sitting back in the swing, and her feet don't quiet reach the ground. "Not tonight, I don't. The twins are at a sleepover party and I figured that was my cue to give Nani and David some . . . alone time." That last bit is said in a ridiculously sotto, wink-wink voice. "But I get to spend the night at Uncle Cobra's, so--score!"

"At where?" It sounds like a biker bar, or tattoo parlor. In other words, not like the kind of place anyone normal would want to spend their time.

So of course Lilo's thrilled about going.

"You know . . . the uncle that used to be in the CIA," she prods helpfully, when Myrtle simply stares at her. Her eyebrows are waggly commas above exclamation point eyes.

"Oh. That uncle. As opposed to the uncle that's an alien scientist or the uncle that's an alien bureaucrat."

"Yeah." Lilo and her ugly dog nod at the same time, then snort at the same time. It's kind of creepy. "And yes, I know you think I'm crazy."

Myrtle sighs again, wishing she had the energy or inclination to throw a tantrum--anything that'd drive the headache-waiting-to-happen off her porch, never to return. But neither of them are six anymore, and besides . . . Myrtle's always been curious about the depths of Lilo's delusional insanity. What better time to indulge said curiosity?

"If you know then why do you say things like that?" Myrtle watches Lilo's profile closely for tics or giveaways that she's about to fly into a fit of screaming and / or biting. But aside from her lips pursing briefly, Lilo's face is mildly impassive. Which is unusual for a girl who normally wears every emotion out loud and in living color. "I mean, if you can tell the difference between what you say and what sane people say, why don't you just--not say crazy things?"

"Just cuz something sounds crazy, doesn't mean it's not true." Another there-and-gone glance with no laughter in it, just desperate intensity. "Everyone thought Galileo sounded crazy."

"But you're not Galileo." Lilo's consistently mediocre grades in math and science bear out this observation.

"When you think about it . . . neither was Galileo, till everyone sat up and took notice."

"That's not--that doesn't make any sense at all!"

Lilo's face scrunches ponderously. "Well, I suppose from an Existentialist point of view, it might not--"

"Argh!" Myrtle screeches. She finds it's the best way to end an unwinable argument. Read: any conversation with Lilo.

And it seems to work, though Lilo is now eying her warily, biting her lip as if Myrtle's the crazy one. The dog is looking up at her with spooky, avid intelligence.

"Maybe we could agree to disagree," Lilo announces with the air of someone making a grand concession. Myrtle knows that underneath this amiable peace-offering, Lilo's just as stubborn as she's always been. Perhaps as stubborn as Myrtle, even.

"You're not crazy. You're just a girl that likes to say stupid, nonsense-things to annoy people! It's no wonder you don't have any friends." This isn't said meanly--at least no more meanly than Myrtle ever says anything to anyone. Yet as soon as she says it, she wants to take--well, the second half of it back.

Lilo's legs are are swinging fast enough that the swing would be moving, if not for the dog arc-welding Myrtle's foot to the porch. "I have friends," she says softly.

"Friends besides your dog and your alien uncles?" It's like Myrtle can't edit herself, not that she's ever had to or tried to. Not that there's any reason to start, now. Only. . . .

Even a couple of years ago, Lilo might've shoved Myrtle off the swing. Or bitten her . . . or pulled her hair . . . or punched her in the face. Or all three. That she isn't doing any of those things--hasn't bothered to rise to any kind of bait for the longest time, come to think of it, makes Myrtle surprisingly sad.

Lilo doesn't get worn down. Weird though she's always been, annoying though she's always been--crazy though she's always acted . . . she's the buoyant, irrepressible one. The kind of person who's the brightest light in any room she's in, even if that light's strange and mostly unacknowledged.

Or so it's always seemed to Myrtle, and that's yet another reason she's never been able to stand her. And this unaccustomed stab of . . . commiseration isn't helping. Just because they're both relatively friendless doesn't mean they have anything in common, or a reason to stop disliking each other. "Look, all I meant was--if you ix-nayed alk-tay about the aliens-ay, maybe more people would want to hang around with you. You're not totally creepy and uncool, you know."

"Thanks. It's always nice to hear from a fan." The smile is back up and--not running at full speed, but walking at a decent clip, and with a bounce in its step. "But lying about things and having to keep track of what I said would be . . . tiring. Don't you think?"

"Meh." Myrtle doesn't make a habit of lying--why should she, when the truth can be so much more devastating--but when she does, she tends to keep it simple. "Why are we even having this discussion? Or any discussion at all? We don't like each other, remember?"

"Oh, I like you, plenty," Lilo says, clearing her throat and studying her sandy toes again. Myrtle blushes and tries to cover it with a scowl even though Lilo's not looking at her.

"But that doesn't mean I like you, or want you hanging around," she says, only to feel that unaccustomed stab of--something that's deeper than commiseration when Lilo shoots her an incredulous look. "C'mon, it's not like you thought we were best friends, or something, jeez. Don't look like I just kicked your stupid dog!"

"If you kicked my dog, you'd probably break your foot." Lilo stands up, hops off the porch and picks up her guitar. Shoulders it and shoves her hands in her pockets. She does all this without so much as a glance at Myrtle. "See ya around, hey? C'mon, Stitch!"

She starts down the driveway, but the mongrel isn't even moving. He's gazing up at Myrtle solemnly, accusingly. Or would be if dogs were capable of either solemnity or accusation.

Lilo's already halfway down the drive, hair and shirt streaming out behind her.

"Hey--I didn't mean that the way it sounded!" Myrtle calls anxiously, though she immediately reassures herself that she meant to say: Don't forget your mutt!

But suddenly, she doesn't want Lilo to walk away hurt. Angry, maybe. Anger is their weapon of choice when it comes to communication. But hurting her feelings seems kinda . . . wrong.

Lilo slows, stops, but doesn't turn to face her. Doesn't call her dog, either.

"You've always been really candid with me," she says, and her voice, though not deep, carries enough that she doesn't have to raise it to be heard. Not that Myrtle's waiting with baited breath to hear her reply. "I guess that kinda honesty is one of the things I like about you: I can count on you to tell me exactly what you think and how you feel--to not spare my feelings."

A wry, smile takes hold of Myrtle's face. "Uh-huh. Is that just your lolo-way of saying you can count on me to be a bitch?"

Lilo looks over her shoulder. Her gaze is dark and measuring even from this distance, even though Myrtle'd left her glasses in her room.

"Look, I'm not sparing your feelings, okay? I'm--attempting to be more tactful." As quasi-apologies go, this one is fairly painless, and feels more like a compromise. Anyway, only a dog, and the one person who's more of a social outcast at school than Myrtle are around to witness it. "I don't hate you. And . . . it wouldn't be totally awful if you hung around for awhile. If you want," she adds. But Lilo's already drifting back toward her, that smile making a shy, slow reappearance.

"Careful, Myrt. You might strain a muscle," she says dryly.

"Funny. If I have to be tactful, so do you. And don't call me Myrt." She tries moving her leg a little to see if the dog'll budge now that its mistress is coming back. No dice. It only lolls its slobbery tongue at her . . . before said tongue goes straight up its nose.

"Fine. Myrtle. I like you, and you . . . don't find me totally creepy and uncool. So I guess I was wondering--"

"Am I seeing things, or is your dog's tongue up his nose?" Myrtle asks, unable to drag her eyes away from this horrifying sight until Lilo's--well, not looming over her, not really, when she's all of 5'5--eyes shining behind grown-out bangs. "Th-that's the grossest thing I've ever seen."

"Then I won't burden you with how infrequently he washes his hands." That grin and those eyes are too close, even though they're not really that close. "So what exactly is your problem with me? I've been trying to figure that out--figure you out since we were little, but lemme tell ya . . . I'm gettin' nowhere."

"Maybe you should find a new hobby, then," Myrtle rasps. That woodsmoke-ocean scent is everywhere, parching her mouth, making her crave water despite the moderate, slightly humid weather.

"Maybe I should," Lilo agrees, sitting again, just a trifle too close, eyes straight ahead. A light breeze picks up briefly, wrapping that scent around Myrtle's brain, sending a few wisps of straight dark hair to tickle Myrtle's face and arm. "But I doubt it'd prove as rewarding as this one might."

"Your hair smells like seaweed."

Lilo laughs, nodding like she knows something Myrtle doesn't. She's still not looking at Myrtle, but at the sky, at the rising moon.

"I get it, you know: Rome wasn't built in a day. Considering that you used to tell everyone that Leprosy was eating my brain--considering that I used to beat you up and sic my dog on you, well. You allowing me to share your porch is . . . progress," she says.

Or insanity, Myrtle thinks, but doesn't say. She edges further away, not feeling at all put out when Lilo proves distracted enough to neither follow, nor call her on it.

"And it may not happen tonight, it may not happen this summer . . . but I sense that beneath your sarcastic exterior, deep down, you want the whole nine. Us to be best-forever-friends. We'll have hijinks, our kids'll go to the same schools, and when we're old we'll share a room in the same nursing home."

Lilo looks down just as Myrtle's looking away. Up at the moon. Anywhere but at the girl sitting next to her. She has no answer to this. At least none that wouldn't send Lilo marching off again in a cloud of wounded pride, or leave Myrtle looking as desperately lonely as she sometimes feels.

"I never know how to take the things you say: can't tell if you mean them, or if you're laughing at me, or what," she says--means to huff it as indignantly as possible. But it comes out strangely frustrated and vulnerable. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No, I'm not." Lilo scoots a little closer, till Myrtle can feel the brush of still-damp clothing along her arm. "All I meant was that I like you a lot. And I think that if you let yourself, you might like me, too."

Almost against her will, Myrtle finds herself looking at Lilo. Really looking at her for the first time in a long while.

She's not lovely, persay--not like her sister, Nani. Her eyes are a little too large and round for her face. Coupled with that radioactive-bright smile, there's something endearingly cartoonish and wholesome about her.

Something about Lilo's face, about her that's always made it hard for Myrtle's eyes to stray for long. Made Lilo immediately the center of attention in any room Myrtle happened to be in. Makes her skin tingle and prickle. . . .

"Myrtle?" Lilo asks, leaning closer. Or maybe it's Myrtle who's leaning closer, though it would be farther if she hadn't run out of swing to scoot on.

Her scrambling brain quickly reminds her that, despite the lack of scooting room, she can still turn away. And she does so quickly, clearing her throat. Pretending she doesn't feel the soft gust of air on her cheek before Lilo reluctantly creates a little more space between them.

"You remember that time, when we were still in halau. When you punched me in the face, then bit me?"

It just popped out--from left field, it seems. Myrtle hadn't realized she was going to say it till it was said, but now that she has said it, she feels some of that old, familiar resentment clearing away the calm certainty of Lilo's eyes, the brush of her sleeve and hair (which doesn't smell like seaweed at all . . . if only it did).

After a few moments of silent disbelief so large, Myrtle doesn't have to look to see it, Lilo sighs. "You mean that time when we were seven?"

Myrtle crosses her arms and stares holes into the night. Into the kukui nut tree her mother planted at the edge of the driveway. So she's fairly surprised when Lilo snatches her left arm and begins pawing at it.

"Hey! Get off me!"

"There isn't even a scar!" Lilo declares, doing some glaring of her own. "That means I didn't even break skin, you big baby! See?"

She runs smug, calloused fingertips down and up Myrtle's arm, not breaking eye contact to do so.

"I--I--" Myrtle stammers, so intelligently. And to add to her complete mortification, wherever Lilo's fingers brush leave goosebumps and tingling in their wake.

This is not happening. Not now, please, not now--

She yanks her arm away. Cradles it against her as if Lilo had threatened to bite it again, and narrows her eyes till Lilo's just a brown and black blur. "It's my arm! Just because you can't see the scar doesn't mean I don't have one!"

Which is exactly the kind of weird, stupid, nonsense-thing Lilo might say. So it's no surprise, of course, when the reply is:

"I guess maybe you're right." Lilo shakes her head again, looking vaguely miserable, somewhat defeated. "I had--have a short fuse. But that's no excuse to hit you. Or bite you."

"Or. Pull. My. Hair," Myrtle adds icily, tossing said hair off her shoulders. A repressed smile tugs at the corner of Lilo's wide mouth.

"Or . . . or pull your hair. I really am sorry."

Apology not accepted, is on the tip of Myrtle's tongue, sharp and barbed and poetic. But before she can let loose with it, strong hands are taking her arm again--still determined, but also gentle. Those same calloused fingertips brush her skin so lightly it makes every hair on Myrtle's body stand up.

"I'm sorry." Cool, soft lips press the apology into the restless, overheated skin of her arm twice, lingeringly. And in the general area Myrtle recalls having been bit, too.

But all too soon, Lilo's straightening up, her face neither amused nor smug, but settled into something questioning and hopeful.

"Better?" she asks quietly, as if she really wants to know the answer, as if something important hinges on the knowing.

"I--" Myrtle can feel the blood rushing from everywhere else to her face, turning it a blotchy, unflattering red that no doubt clashes with her carroty hair. It happens whenever she's angry or embarassed or confused. She's not sure which of those three Lilo brings out in her more. "You really are one eggroll shy of a pu pu platter, you know?"

Which earns her that quirky, knowing smile, and the hand holding Myrtle's--when, exactly, had that happened?--squeezes gently before letting go. "Yeah, I know."

"My house isn't even between the beach and town. Don't think I haven't realized that. You went out of your way to come here."

"You're right. It's not. I did." That smile transforms into the unrepentant grin that reminds Myrtle of the mongrel whose weight is killing off all feeling below her left ankle.

"So why did you come here?" Myrtle demands, suddenly impatient and at the end of her rope. This, at least, hasn't changed.

Lilo bites her lip. "Stitch's been telling me I should man-up and bury the hatchet with you. I guess I finally got sick of hearing about it." On Myrtle's foot, the dog makes another strange snorting sound. Probably just as a response to its name.

"You . . . get advice from your dog? Advice that you follow?" Myrtle rolls her eyes when Lilo nods. "If only I were surprised."

"Oh, Stitch gives all sorts of practical advice: 'buy low, sell high' . . . 'boil that before you drink it' . . . 'bury the hatchet and ask her to come with you to Sherri Shimata's sweet sixteen luau this Saturday' . . . 'just because you can pilot an escape-pod doesn't mean you should skip Driver's Ed again this year. . . ." Lilo sneaks a glance at Myrtle--who's certain she's heard wrong--from the corner of her eye. "He's turning into a real buttinsky."

"Waitaminute, you--you got invited to a party thrown by the most popular girl in our school? You?"

Lilo sighs. "It's a good thing I don't offend easily. And actually, I got my first paying gig at a party thrown by the most popular girl in our school." Unmistakable pride in her voice. "Anyway, I'm allowed to bring a friend, and hang out when I'm not playing. I . . . thought you might like to come with me if, you know, you aren't busy."

Myrtle tilts her head as if in consideration. Lets the silence draw out just long enough for Lilo to fidget--for some of that beach-bum, Jimmy Buffett-cool to crack. "Fine. But you have to promise me one thing or no dice."

"Consider it promised!" Wide-eyed surprise that underlines the fact that Lilo's not nearly as sure of herself as she pretends to be. At least not where this whole . . . friendship-thing is concerned. Which makes two of them.

"You have to promise not to bite me, and keep your dog from mauling me." Myrtle shoots the dog a forbidding look that's largely ignored.

"Deal-ski!" Lilo grins again, and there's enough grin for ten people, really. (Myrtle wonders what it means that something as silly and inconsequential as Lilo's grin is actually worth sitting through medlies of Elvis's Greatest Hits.

Then decides it just means she's been bored out of her mind for an entire summer and is in desperate need of a party.)

But after nearly a minute of staring at each other, Lilo's grin gets a little . . . goofy. And Myrtle could swear there's a blush somewhere under that complexion. Something red enough to match her own.

"Um. I should, uh, go," Lilo says suddenly, her voice briefly cracking up into--whatever register is higher than soprano. Her eyes seem to say something completely different, though. "Uncle Cobra . . . he worries--"

"Yeah. I, um, don't want you to get into trouble or something." Apparently they both turn into bibbling idiots after ten o'clock. "I mean--get off my porch before I change my mind about the stupid luau."

Lilo smiles that knowing smile again and bumps Myrtle's shoulder with her own before standing up and stretching: a short, sturdy girl in baggy, worn clothes that have probably never been in fashion--at least not the way Lilo wears them.

"You're gonna wear something . . . nicer to the party, right?" Just because they're being all tactful, and attempting to be friends, doesn't mean Myrtle wants to look homeless-by-association.

"It's a luau, not tea at Buckingham Palace." Lilo laughs when Myrtle huffs. "Relax. I clean up nice, you'll see."

"Sure you do." Exaggerated, dripping sarcasm, the kind that Lilo knows not to take to heart, and she doesn't. She hops off the porch, picks up her battered old guitar and looks back, as if she wants to say something else.

Nervous sweat prickles and gathers on the small of Myrtle's back as eternal moments tick by.

"So I'll pick you up at seven?" Lilo finally says, all easy confidence again. Myrtle nods once, managing to keep her own brand of cool, even when Lilo's eyes light up in a way that makes her flush hot and cold. "Cool. See ya then."

She pulls the guitar strap over her head, not noticing when it tangles in her heavy, damp hair. One small, shy wave, then her sandy legs take her quickly down the drive. Halfway down she pauses, turns back, and waves again. Myrtle's returned the wave before she can stop herself, and she can see that wide white grin even from this distance, even without her glasses, even in the not-so dark.

"Vamanos, Stitch!"

It's only then that Myrtle notices the dog is still parked on her now numb foot. And is once again gazing up at her, no canine grin in sight. It's eyes are dark and curious--like Lilo's--and for a moment, it stops being just shy of absolutely hideous and is almost . . . cute.

If something that looks like the mutated love-child of a koala and roadkill could be called cute.

In Myrtle's current mood, it could be.

"Okay, maybe you're not the ugliest thing I have ever saw," she admits wrinkling her nose. The dog makes a dry chuffing sound that's eerily like a laughter, and clearly grins at her.

Licks her calf, leaving behind thick, sticky--and oh, dear God, green?!--slobber.

"Augh!" Myrtle starts trying to shove it off her foot, but it's no use, the damn dog weighs a ton for all he's a runt. "Get off--go to Lilo before I scream for Animal Control!"

Another chuffing laugh and the dog takes his sweet little ol' time sauntering off her porch, bat ears swiveling around in that creepy way that they do.

"C'mon, slowpoke, or Jumba and Pleakley'll eat all the poi again!" Lilo calls from the end of the drive, and that gets the little mongrel running. When it catches up, Lilo hitches the guitar up a bit and ambles out into the road.

Though she can't make out the words, Myrtle can hear her talking to that dog every step of the way. And it almost sounds as if the dog's answering her--

Well, that's just silly, Myrtle thinks as the well-matched pair dwindle into the distance. Dogs can't talk. Not even mutant ones.

She settles back into the swing, shaking her leg to get some feeling back into it . . . ignoring the viscous slobber pooling around her left foot.

The spots her arm that Lilo kissed still feel slightly warmer than the rest of her. Long after the tingling, and the pins and needles have faded, she's still staring up at the moon, and smiling.

At least until she realizes her left sandal is missing.

*

--"The Prodigal" SPN pilot revamp
--~~"Waiting To Happen" Lilo & Stich pre-slash~~
--"And Red Ribbons For Your Hair" Firefly fic (requested)
--Untitled Prisoner!verse ficlet
--Untitled Dead Man on Campus mega-angst fic, possibly as a sequel to "Study-Break" (requested)
--"On A Pale Green Horse" (DM-verse, long, looooong-since requested)
--Tentative plans for an HP fic (collaboration)

Voice Post

2008-02-14T04:22:43Z

Restored. Should be up and running like normal by Saturday.

Who brought the funny? Squishy did!

2008-02-08T02:33:16Z

Sometimes, CSRs get restless at work. In fact, it's safe to say that unless we're being bitched out by irate customers, we're pretty bored. So sometimes, just sometimes, we get creative.

Behold! The masterpiece of one John T. (also known in my LJ as "Squishy")! Presented with his permission (click on the pic to make it larger):

Just to make you smile =D

MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF PIMP . . . and random ridiculousness

2008-02-06T04:00:40Z

ETA:
In Which Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle

Seriously, go read. Even if you're not a part of the SPN fandom. Even if you've not read the previous stories in the Wolfpack 'verse.

This fic is just--brilliant, amazing. Some of the best damn writing you'll ever read.

And . . . just one random, unimportant reason I love my friends. . . .

Yesterday, Scott (the sainted soul who took a that Halloween pic of me dressed as Hermione) was kidding me over the company Jabber about me for once wearing a dress. Sending me links to these EGL dresses--saying I'd either have to come into work wearing a dress, or only take calls from customers of, well, let's just say a certain retailer based in TX and LA. (Suffice it to say, I chose the dresses.)
::clears throat::

Anyway, today, this bit of Jabberness happens:

Scott
you wearing your dress today???

rachel
I'm wearing three dresses, in fact

Scott
three??
sooo, how exactly are you wearing 3 dresses? one over the other?

rachel
can't a lady have some secrets?

Scott
no

rachel
through highly advanced alien technology, I'm wearing all three dresses against my skin at the exact same time (time being relative). the alien tech keeps shifting my consciousness slightly out of phase with this universe and into two others. two other universes in which I'm wearing two other dresses.
it's kinda like "Sliders", only with fashion

Scott
so, in other words....you're crazy

rachel
ROTFLMAO

It's moments like that that make my day and remind me with gentle waves of warmfuzziness why I love my friends. They know me so well, and like me anyway. Take me in such stride and aren't ashamed to be associated with me. They set the tones of my days for the better, and against all my silly struggling. And not just the ones in RL.

::bearhugs friends::

In a related bit o' postscript, this was the theoretical dress I theoretically chose over handling only calls from that TX/LA based retailer. Seriously, I couldn't deal with those fucking accents on a constant basis. It's hard enough not to tell customers to go fuck themselves without that damn twang. I'd rather wear nothing but GothLoli dresses for the rest of my life than that.. . . .

Voice Post

2008-01-25T00:16:48Z

Voice Post

2008-01-03T00:22:25Z

I got home, relatively unfroze =D

Seasons Greetings and HP fic: "His Brother's Keeper" (1/1)

2007-12-25T10:52:33Z

A hearty "Bah! Humbug!" to all.

I come bearing fic. The icon is from the wrong fandom, but--meh =D

His Brother's Keeper
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: HP
Characters: Dennis,Colin. Dennis/OMC, Mentions of Dennis/Harry UST.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Theft is the sincerest, and illegalest form of flattery.
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU. Set in the Prisoner!verse, a companion piece that takes place eight years before Heavy Words, And Lightly Thrown. I was reaching for dark irony, but if you haven't read the rest of the 'verse, this is pretty light-hearted fare.
Summary: Coitus interruptus at four a.m.. Colin's chasing the biggest story ever, and Dennis is simply trying to get off.

Dennis awakens to the annoying mechanical warbling of his mobile, and the much less annoying sensation of a very enthusiastic tongue licking his cock.

"Well, good morning, me," he murmurs, grinning at the ceiling for a moment, before opening his eyes and remastering the fine art of reaching for his night table. He manages nothing so much as knocking the Muggle-style alarm clock to the floor and upsetting the small table lamp.

Not like it's doing such a bang-up job of illuminating the room, anyway.

The ringtone--'Flight Of The Bumblebee', so it's Colin--is coming from much closer, it turns out. From his jeans, which are half off the bed. One of these days, he's just going to start sleeping with the blasted thing under his pillow.

"Let it go to voicemail, then," says a sexy-petulant voice from near about Dennis's nether regions, before the mouth, which seems a thousand times hotter than the tongue, closes around him.

It's not quite morning, but last night's nameless club-boy is still here. How . . . potentially awkward. Though less than it would be if he didn't have a mouth like a vacuum.

"When I want your opinion on anything, I'll . . . well, I'll be a monkey's uncle then, won't I?” But he runs his hand through Nameless's messy dyed-black hair as encouragement. If he's going to be hanging around till daylight, better Dennis make use of him, then.

And what a chore that'll be.

His hand closes on his mobile and his jeans slide the rest of the way to the floor. Four-oh-nine a.m. Christ. He's more than tempted to take the unsolicited advice, let it Col leave a message, and let Nameless suck him to hardness before riding him into the sunrise. . . .

But even Colin doesn't ring him at four a.m. for no reason.

Sighing, he flips the phone open. "Appnin'?" Ugh, has he been in Cardiff for too bloody long.

"It's me, Denn."

"And who else'd be ringing me at four in the morning? What's up, brother-mine?"

"Erm--the sky? Clouds? Birds? You, and on your way to Dorset?"

“Mm. Clever. Wait--what?”

“Well--” Colin launches into an enthusiastic explanation while Nameless launches into blowing him off again, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock, balancing on Dennis's left knee with the other. Dennis remembers Nameless doing the same thing earlier: swallowing half of him, then all of him shortly thereafter.

Dennis came so hard he saw stars . . . then drifted in sweet semi-unconsciousness till his mobile rang.

Colin. Right.

He exhales slowly, so as not to moan, rightly doubting Colin would appreciate a blow-by-blow of his brother's sex life--pun very much intended. When he can speak without his voice shaking, he asks: “Back up, a bit. What's in bloody Dorset at bloody too-bloody-early in the bloody morning?"

“Weren't you listening? Harry Potter!”

“Right. . . .” Of course. Who else?

He's a grown man, and heartily tired of hearing about or helping his older brother chase down every Harry Potter-related bit of gossip Colin--and incidentally The Spyglass sees fit to print. It's all so damn Third Year.

Dennis has his own dead-end Muggle-style job, his own Muggle-mates, his own mediocre brand of Muggle-routine, the brightest light of which is enough opportunities for meaningless sex--with Muggles--to satisfy even the hardiest libido.

None of this life he's carved for himself has anything to do with Harry bloody Potter or the wizarding world.

And this nameless bloke--Mitchell? Chaz? Raoul? Who knows?--is apparently going for his merit badge in cocksucking. He's currently doing something with his tongue that probably isn't illegal, but most definitely should be.

". . . since the news broke yesterday. My source in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement even managed to get me a copy of the suspects list and . . . they're really grasping at straws," Colin sounds personally offended, as if DMLE ineptitude is perpetrated sheerly to brass him off, as opposed to being an institutional malady that has spread Ministry-wide.

"Right, right." Dennis barely stifles another moan as Nameless Bloke pulls off of him with a scrape of teeth to straddle his legs expectantly, placing Dennis's hand on his cock with pointedly raised auburn eyebrows. Dennis rolls his eyes, but strokes without hesitation. It's only fair, after all. "By 'source', you mean that sad bird that pushes parchment in HR? The one who's got a crush on you?"

He can practically see Col bristle. "Doris hasn't got a crush on me, and--she's not sad! She's--she's--"

"Exactly your type, mate: big dark eyes, demure, sweet ickle Firsty voice . . . general air of kicked puppy about her. No curves worth speaking of--" Nameless is making needy little whimpers, pushing into Dennis's hand and wiggling around till head of Dennis's cock slides past his balls.

If only the poor bastard weren't so dashed shy, Dennis might be able to suss out what it is he wants. . . .

”--ironic coming from the family poofter.”

“Better--Christ--than being the family git.”

Nameless's impossibly wide, kohl-ringed eyes meet his, lock onto them. “Getting fucked sometime this century would be smashing,” he says, not loud, but very clearly. Hopefully not clear enough for Colin to make out.

“Berk.”

Well, thank God for that. “Twat.” Lube in the night table, he mouths. The nameless bloke rolls his eyes and leans over, managing not to upset Dennis's hand.

“Tosspot.”

A few seconds of rummaging and the half-used tube slaps down a wee bit maliciously on Dennis's chest. After tonight, he's going to start sleeping with his mobile and lube under his pillow. “Tsk-tsk, let's leave sweet Doris out of this, alright?”

Colin starts to retort, probably with something snippy and far too true about Dennis's equally dodgy taste in blokes, then laughs. “I've just told you I know who kidnapped Harry Potter and you're taking the piss over a girl I don't even see socially. A re-sorting of conversational priorities is long overdue!"

“No need to get shirty!” He has to stop his stroking to flip the cap open. Suffice it to say Nameless also isn't pleased when Dennis squirts the just-this-side-of-unpleasantly cool gel straight onto his cock. The pout fades once Dennis takes up stroking again.

(“I don't top,” Nameless says, but doesn't stop the slippery slide of Dennis's hand.

And I don't bottom. Shut up, he mouths back, brushing his thumb lightly across the tip of Nameless's cock. He finds that to be one of the most effective methods of shutting up any nameless club-boy.)

“So, are you gonna tell me why you think Harry's in Dorset? According to your girlfriend, the DMLE has no real leads.”

“The DMLE didn't happen to be out having a drink at The Three Broomsticks with some mates from The Spyglass, when who should stagger in, already drunk as six lords, but Draco Malfoy!"

"Wait--you think that arsey little git got the drop on Harry Potter . . . and has him stashed away in Dorset?"

"Malfoy and Theodore Nott!"

Dennis adores his older brother beyond reason, but can't help a little sarcasm: "Yes, well, I see where that makes total and perfect sense--in this universe and any other."

"Kindly refrain from taking the piss for a moment, and hear me out, Denn. Malfoy looked like death, practically fell on me trying to get to the fireplace. He could barely say where it was he wanted to go--probably would've wound up in Kathmandu if my mate, Terry Binder, hadn't wrestled him away! Malfoy--the worm--tried to hex Terry for his troubles, but could barely hold his wand arm steady.

"Finally the lads, er, showed him out. Of course I went after him, followed him to an alley, but there was no one there. He must've Apparated. And before Terry tackled him, I'm pretty sure the destination Malfoy was trying to slur out was 'Nott Manor'. So that's where I am."

Dennis freezes, mid-stroke, and receives a raccoonish glare that he ignores. "You're on Theodore Nott's property? Alone?!" And so obviously Muggle-born.

”Not on the property, but close. And I can pop over to Cardiff, get you, and we can Side-Along back here before dawn!"

"To do what, exactly? Have you forgotten this isn't the DA? We can't go rushing off into the unknown, armed with nothing more than our boyish good looks and a Patronus Charm!” Dennis is stroking again, faster and ruthlessly now that chafing isn't a worry. Nameless grabs the lube, covering his fingers and reaching behind himself without ever breaking eye contact. Dennis can actually feel the blood leaving his brain for all points south.

This is what he brought the nameless bloke back to his flat for. This is why the nameless bloke--who actually does have a name, but Dennis hadn't been able to make it out over the din of the crowd and the horrid techno blare--had agreed to come back here. The vibe between them is strong, and strangely pure. A quick, dirty screw against a public lav wall wouldn't have done it justice.

'Justice' isn't going to happen until Colin's off the mobile and safely ensconced in his London flat . . . far, far from the children of Death Eaters.

"Look, I told you yesterday, Col, I don't even believe Harry was--you know. And certainly not by those two,” he says, albeit breathlessly. Slippery fingers brush the tip of his cock and Dennis hunches his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear, freeing his other hand to reach behind Nameless, who shivers prettily when Dennis takes over preparing him.

”Then what do you think happened to him?”

“Oh, I don't know--he's probably on holiday on some small, Unplottable island in the South Pacific.” It's becoming really difficult to concentrate on this conversation. Nameless is hot and tight and obviously gagging for it. Any other night, Dennis would've already obliged him twice and be either sated and alone, or resting up for round three.

“He's not on bloody holiday! First, he wouldn't take off like that without telling Ron and Hermione--who look as if they haven't slept in weeks--and second, have you ever even heard of an Unplottable Holiday?!”

“Well. . . .” Nameless is on his knees now, positioning himself over Dennis's cock. His chest is heaving gently, hairless and washed pale-gold in the meager lamplight. There's a tattoo over his heart of a dove being consumed mid-flight by leaping blue flames. “I'm sure there's an explanation for--”

“It's called a cover-up, my dear dullard. Doris says Magical Law Enforcement's been running itself ragged trying to locate him for weeks!"

"Look, have you ever considered that Harry probably just--needed time away . . . from you lot with your . . . asinine questions about his favorite colors and--who he's d-dating and what it was l-like toooooo . . . you-know-what old You-Know-Who?"

Nameless had been lowering himself slowly, centimeter by centimeter onto Dennis, a compelling look of tight-lipped concentration on his face, nostrils flaring. Dennis, in a rare moment of poor impulse control, has decided to help matters along by clutching Nameless's waist and pulling him down, causing them both to groan.

Which does not go unnoticed.

”Erm, Dennis--are you alright? You keep moaning, and you sound like you're . . . panting?”

Nameless's eyes are shut again, his head back and lips parted slightly, thighs quivering minutely. It's not the first time Dennis has been cause of, and witness to such a glorious sight, but it still remains one of the sexiest things he's has ever seen. He runs his hands up Nameless's sides and down his chest. Over his thighs to still the shaking then back to his waist, ready to assist whenever Nameless is ready to move.

“I'm not moaning or panting, I'm--uuunh--erm . . . just feeling a bit under the weather. It'll pass,” he finishes in a high-pitched blurt. Those innocence-wide hazel eyes fly open, shining with laughter, his mouth--still tinted with the remains of translucently scarlet lip gloss--stretching in a vulpine grin that Dennis returns.

“Hmm. You've got Pepper-up on hand, haven't you?”

“Loads, mum.” Which is a lie. He hasn't been to Hexagon Alley since the last time mum had come to Cardiff and practically dragged him there. And he certainly can't be arsed to brew it himself.

“Brilliant, sonny-boy. That means you'll be well enough to come to Dorset.”

Dennis squeezes Nameless's waist questioningly, receiving a slow nod, so he bucks up somewhat weakly, unwilling to move in such away that he drops the phone. Not with Colin poised to go charging off into the night, into the serpents den alone.

A few more half-hearted, apologetic thrusts and an unhappy expression settles on Nameless's foxish features.

“Oh, c'mon. . . .” Despite the leveling of Dennis's most charming and conciliatory smile, Nameless has fairly leapt off of Dennis--off the bed, and is searching the floor for his clothes, muttering angrily. Dennis is tempted to let him just go--path of least resistance, and all that. Plus, Dennis Creevey crawls for no one. . . .

”C'mon, yourself! Even after Malfoy changed sides, he still hated Harry! And Nott may hide it well, but I highly doubt he's forgotten Harry was responsible for the death of his father and most of his friends! Between the both of them, they've got more than enough motive."

"But not the bollocks to actually try anything.” He doesn't crawl, he really doesn't. But as Nameless bends over to grab his trousers . . . Dennis realizes a bit of compromise may be in order. “Nott's a schemer, not a doer. And Malfoy's just--ineffectual at anything that isn't Potions or Quidditch. And nance as two pink galleons, if you ask me. Oi, maybe he and Nott are making the wizard with two backs? Did you ever think of that?”

“Augh! I'd really prefer not to, if you don't mind.”

"Maybe it's the wizard with three backs, if Harry's really been in Dorset all this time. Nott, I wouldn't bugger with someone else's prick, but Malfoy's always been easy on the eyes. Half the animosity between he and Harry was probably repressed sexual attraction,” Dennis drawls, and between picturing Harry and Malfoy together and the nearness of Nameless he's actually wanking while on the phone with his brother.

This will not do. Certainly doesn't when there's a perfectly fit bloke not five feet away.

He waves a little to get Nameless's attention, and when he has it, Dennis turns on his best smile and crooks his finger. The coolly unimpressed glance he receives isn't a deterrent.

Heel, boy, he mouths, smirking a little. When Nameless glares at him and starts wrestling tight black vinyl jeans up long pale legs, Dennis mutes the phone, laying it on the bed and out of Nameless's reach, just in case. "I'm nowhere near done with you, yet. Just hang out for a bit, okay? This is my brother, and it's a--semi-important matter, so gimme a minute, and then you can go back to fucking yourself on my prick. Right?"

"You're a crude bastard, you know that?" But those rather too bony shoulders blades relax a little, come out of their offended hunch, and Nameless kicks off his jeans and flounces back to bed. Pointedly laying flat on his back, arms crossed and staring up at the ceiling. He's still hard--uncomfortably so it looks like.

"Be patient and I'll make it up to you." Victory makes Dennis feel magnanimous, so he stops wanking himself and starts wanking Nameless. Kisses his neck and one prominent shoulder blade, nibbling just hard enough to make a few teethmarks. In seconds, he finds himself covered in ten stone of pouty-mouthed, kohl-eyed club-boy, who's returning the love-bites with interest.

“You need to fuck me like you mean it, or I need to leave,” he says around a mouthful of Dennis's collarbone. It's an utterly ridiculous place to have an erogenous zone, but there you go.

Dennis grabs one of his pillows and shoves it between himself and the nameless bloke. “Get on your stomach, then.”

“Last of the great romantics, you are.” Nameless snatches the pillow and puts it back on the bed. Gets to his forearms and knees with a challenging look back at Dennis. “I bottom, but I'm not submissive. Let's get on with it.”

Admiring both the bravado and the display--there's not much to the bloke, but what there is is very nicely proportioned and arranged--Dennis gets to his knees between Nameless's pale legs. “You know, low-rent and high maintenance never mix well in the same person. Stop being difficult.” He grabs the phone . . . and the lube after a bit of thought. Wedges one between shoulder and ear, uncaps the other.

"--two years ago, after all,” Colin is saying and that is definitely not the tail end of a rant about precious, vestal Harry. Dennis frowns, laying a hand on Nameless's lower back--there's another tattoo there, some sort of Celtic knot design that makes Dennis's eyes hurt to follow it--before sliding lower.

"What did you say?" Then has to say it again when he remembers he hasn't turned off mute.

"Dennis." Colin sounds like Concerned Older Brother now. "You know good and well what I said. And if you take a moment to think about it, you'll realize I'm right. It's unfortunate that Harry didn't return your feelings, but it's past time you stopped wallowing and move on--"

"Wallowing? Hold on a minute! I got knocked back; it happens. But I didn't go home, burn my hope chest, then cry into my little lace pillow! My pride was a bit dented, but that was all. No big deal,” he says offhandedly, guiding himself back into Nameless's body with care . . . for the first glorious inch, or so.

Then Nameless pushes back hard, hissing in pain, pleasure or both, his back arching, every muscle in his body strung torturously taut.

Bloody size queen, Dennis thinks, biting his lip hard enough that he should draw blood, but doesn't. He clutches at pointy hipbones hard enough to bruise, but only to still them. It's a fight not to start thrusting his way happily, selfishly to completion until Nameless once again forces his body to relax. But one of them has to have a lick of common sense. . . .

”It was your first kiss. It should be a big deal.”

Nameless is fighting the enforced stillness--seems bound and determined to batter and break himself on Dennis's prick. Dennis is this close to simply letting him. “If I was a big girl's blouse then it would've been.”

Which I most certainly am not, he thinks, pulling out almost completely, only to slam right back in. Gives Nameless a moment to recover before repeating. His body knows this dance very well, can do it without thought or prompting. A good thing, too, as his mind is most assuredly Elsewhere.

For two years, Dennis has refused to dwell on the lingering coolness of that spring night two years ago, or the way the crescent moon and stars reflected off the Lake. The way Hogwarts loomed comfortingly, protectively in the middles distance, the perfect romantic backdrop.

He's refused to dwell on the way Harry--fresh out of Auror training--gently ribbed him about being four months shy of his seventeenth birthday despite being a full wizard. Or the tipsy-lovely sparkle of his eyes. Refused to remember the feel of Harry's lips--always a bit chapped from biting them--and that they'd tasted of butterbeer and dark chocolate.

He definitely doesn't recall, on a daily basis, how perfect that moment had been, until Harry's surprise passed and he'd pulled away, avoiding Dennis's eyes. . . .

I am a ponce of the first water, Dennis thinks, just as he had two years ago, while watching Harry turn away from him and back to the Leaving Feast. Thence, presumably, to continue schmoozing Dennis's friends and classmates into putting in for Auror training.

Harry'd been dispatched by the DMLE to the previous Year's Leaving Feast for that same reason.

The silence has on both ends of the conversation has officially gone on for far too long. The things Colin isn't saying ring loudly between them. Dennis had meant to distract him from silly kidnapping conspiracies featuring the three remaining Slytherins from Harry's year. But not quite like this.

Nameless is still writhing below, and clenching around him, a fine sheen of sweat on his back, a furious flush sweeping down his body. He's stroking himself slowly, but roughly--something Dennis should and would be doing if he wasn't fucking the bloke on autopilot.

Reach-around isn't just a city in Indonesia, after all.

"Look, maybe Malfoy and Pansy are having an affair, did that ever occur to you? There were always rumors about them while we were in school.”

"Dennis, there's more to this than some sordid affair--"

"Think about it: while poor Theo's off earning his daily bread, Malfoy's rogering his bored, insipid wife." Words that fall on thrusts are clipped, and noticeably emphasized. "Simple, and it makes sense. Or if you prefer convoluted, maybe all three are plotting to overthrow the Ministry together." And that last . . . still makes a hell of a lot more sense than those two spoilt bastards kidnapping Harry Potter. "Maybe--a lot of things, but I don't . . . think they've got Harry chained up . . . in a dank cellar somewhere."

"I've heard rumors there are dungeons on the Nott premises, actually, and--blimey, Denn. I'm really worried about him. Everyone is, except you!”

Dennis sighs. Holds Nameless still again and strokes his back. He can feel every vertebra, every rib. Can feel the rabbit-fast patter of Nameless's heart.

It's tempting, of course, to give in to the Harry's-gone hysteria, if only because he's tired of pretending to himself that days, even weeks go by when he doesn't think about Harry Potter. But the fact is, Harry's the most powerful wizard alive, and if he's disappeared without leaving word, it's because he wants to, not because two of his year mates made it happen.

And as for the matter of Colin sneaking around in Death Eater territory--"You really believe Nott and Malfoy are involved in Harry's . . . absence?”

”Yes.”

“Then you need to get the DMLE involved. Now. Get as far away from that place as possible and let the Aurors handle it.”

”Like they've handled it so far?”

“Bugger the DMLE, then! Go to Ron and Hermione! I'd take either of them over a squad of Aurors, any day!”

Col laughs. Not the real one, but the one that's more nervous giggle than laugh. "Denn, he's in there, and they've had him for over a month. If they haven't killed him already, they will have shortly. And even if I told Ron and Hermione, they wouldn't believe me in time. You don't even believe me."

Which is true, but stings nonetheless. And still Dennis doesn't believe for a second Nott or Malfoy could've or would've taken Harry.

He does, however, believe they could and would take Colin.

But he's clean out of obstacles to bar his brother's snooping, isn't he? “Alright, then. If you'll wait five minutes--" Nameless gives him an evil look over his shoulder and meets his next thrust fiercely. Dennis's eyes flutter shut and a bitten off gasp escapes him. "Erm, I mean half an hour or so, you can come get me and we can sort this out together, just . . . promise me you won't do this alone."

“Dennis--”

“Colin. Promise me.” Colin occasionally doing something rash and fairly stupid is one thing. Colin doing it without Dennis to watch his back is just not bloody on.

Suddenly the phone is snatched away from Dennis by a fine-boned hand with neatly-kept black lacquered nails. Nameless flops down on his stomach, seemingly oblivious to Dennis's frozen shock.

“Hullo? Colin, is it?” His voice is composed, but husky. The kind of voice one doesn't want one's family to ever hear in any regard to oneself. “Daniel Davies. And I don't mean to be rude, but Dennis'll have to ring you back in a little bit." A pause. “Well, yes. Pleased to meet you, too . . . yeah, we were sort of in the middle of--yeah. Yeah.” Nameless--Daniel laughs a little. “So if you'd be good enough to promise to let him help you with whatever no doubt strange situation your friend Harry is in, he and I can finish up here and he's all yours.”

“Oh, blimey,” Dennis exhales, sitting on his heels. He squinches his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose--tries not to imagine the expression on Colin's face, nor the drubbing he'll receive about this later.

“Brilliant! Thank you, I--well, that's entirely up to him, isn't it? But . . . yes, I look forward to meeting you in person sometime, too. Right. Right, here he is again.”

Dennis opens his eyes as Daniel holds the phone out satisfied sigh, then pillows his face on his hands when Dennis snatches it back, apparently content to wait. Mortified beyond telling, Dennis puts the phone to his ear.

“Erm,” he begins, with no idea where to go after that. But Colin is chuckling quietly.

"So, that would be the weather, then? He's a pistol.”

Dennis pinches Daniel's arse hard enough to make him yelp, and doesn't care if Colin hears. ”Yeah, that's the word for him.”

“At least your taste seems to be improving. Finally.”

“Oh, sure, leaps and bounds, mate,” Dennis snorts, soothing the offended area with a fleeting caress. “But I'm deadly serious. I'm not gonna let my brother have an adventure without me. Thirty minutes from now, I'd better hear my mobile ring, or you're gonna be in the shit next time I see you, understand? Creevey brothers against the world, remember?”

”How could I forget?” Colin laughs a little. The real laugh. ”But you're not just my little brother anymore, are you? You're a man now, with your own life, and loves, and pursuits. I . . . tend to lose sight of that sometimes.”

Colin's voice is fond, proud, somehow light years older than the two years between them should account for. Dennis doesn't hear that voice, that quintessential older brother voice often, but when he does, it's always made him stand a little straighter, try a little harder. Be a little better.

Such a strange and wonderful thing knowing that, no matter how old he gets, Colin will always be older--always be his big brother.

"My own life, yes. But no-one and nothing comes ahead of you, right?" And that is a question, because suddenly, he's not so sure Colin knows this simple fact anymore. Not deep down, where it counts. The thought that he mightn't is . . . dismaying. "I can be dressed and out the door in under a minute--"

”Nah, nah. Look, you, just--enjoy the weather and I'll try not to do anything too stupid, okay? Talk to you later. Love you."

"Wait, Colin--"

Nothing but dial tone. And when Dennis hits redial, it goes straight to Colin's voicemail. “Wanker!” He has to resist the urge to hurl the phone at the wall. Colin will call back, after all. He may not be thinking clearly, but he has to be compos enough to realize that getting himself captured and possibly killed wouldn't help Harry at all.

And once Colin Apparates to Cardiff, well. Dennis'll sooner body-bind him than let him waltz into that nest of Slytherins.

In the meantime. . . .

Daniel's pushed himself back up to his knees, and is watching Dennis curiously over one pale, lightly freckled shoulder.

“Your brother's sweet. Are you two related by blood?”

He bites his tongue to keep from calling the presumptuous little blighter some choice names, and lays his mobile on the night table. “You're not Colin's type, if you're angling for a hook-up.”

“Well, I can see which of you got blessed with the lion's share of charm and tact.”

Dennis contemplates the creamy expanse of skin below him, ignores the twist of unease in his gut, lets desire overwhelm it completely. “Mm. Sadly, I've had to make do with blinding intelligence and an enormous cock: truly, life hasn't been very kind to me.”

“Must you be such a crude bastard?”

Dennis smiles fleetingly, grabs the lube and reapplies to them both, winning appreciative murmurs from Daniel. This time, there's no resistance when Dennis takes him, no flinch, no tiny pained noises. Just a relieved sigh. Holding himself up with one arm, he covers Daniel's body with his own. Lays his chin on a pointy right shoulder. “If I wasn't a crude bastard, you'd never have looked twice at me.” And that's pure truth, the way Dennis sees it. He need look no further than his own past or his brother's present for proof that nice guys get laid last.

Those pretty hazel eyes flash back at him measuringly; Dennis half expects some sort of catty retort and dramatic exit, but in the end, Daniel shuts his eyes and pushes back against him needily, angling his face for a snog.

Dennis turns way, instead burying his face in hair that smells of shampoo and cigarette smoke. Yet another bit of street wisdom Dennis had to learn after the fairy-tale that was Hogwarts ended: the more indifferent he is to a certain type of person, the harder they seem to work for his approbation.

It's an axiom that he finds holds especially true in the sexual arena.

He pulls Daniel's narrow hips back on his next thrust. Daniel squeaks, his hands scrabbling for better purchase in the sheets. Dennis doesn't wait till he finds it before pulling out and repeating. And repeating until the only sounds in the room are the slap of skin on skin and moans that don't resemble words in the slightest.

Until Daniel's a boneless sated sprawl beneath him and Dennis's arms are shaking with strain.

Until something molten in him coils and tenses for release. Every object in the room--including the bed--is shaking. Minute cracks are forming on more than a few surfaces.

Dennis has pulled them both upright, on knees that seem inadequate to the job of holding them up. His arms are wrapped around Daniel's waist, and on the very periphery of his awareness, he knows that Daniel's hard again, and just as unable to come.

“What . . . oh, God, I can't--please, touch me, Dennis. Touch me,” he moans, pulling Dennis's hand to his slippery erection.

Dennis obliges, though Daniel's hand over his does most of the work. In moments or eternities, he does come, spilling hotly over both their hands, his voice ringing hoarsely off the walls. . . .

But no such relief for Dennis. He can feel pressure building within him, but nothing as prosaic as impending orgasm. This feeling is more like the way he'd felt the first time he'd held his wand. As if all his life there'd been this energy growing inside him, unfocused, waiting, till Mr. Ollivander handed him the proverbial light.

The dusty, creepy shop had fallen away, till all there was was Dennis, his magic, and the realization that he was nothing but a vessel. One that'd finally been given the tool to pour out its contents.

And no matter how much of it got poured out, there'd always be more to take its place.

But Dennis hasn't been pouring it out, lately. Hasn't cast anything other than the odd cleaning charm in months and all that magical energy is . . . restive, welling up to a painful crescendo on the back of the most intense sexual release he's ever had. Ready to burst from every pore—the sort of unfocused wild magic practicing wizards never experience after having a wand for a few months.

Dennis isn't unpracticed, hasn't been since the Battle of Hogwarts. The magic in him has been used to hurt and hex; to curse--and once even to kill.

His is no longer the innocent magic of a child.

“Contenerum!” he grits out, the simplest, strongest spell he knows for containing wild magic, because the energy within him could, without proper focus, do anything from turn his hair blue, to reduce him--and possibly Daniel--to a pile of ash. “Contenerum!”

All that unused power hovers just below his skin, buzzing aimlessly, like uncertain fire ants. Filling him like hydrogen, ready to burn away everything that he is with just a single spark--

"'Sokay . . . come,” Daniel breathes against his jaw, more of a sloppy, sweaty kiss than anything else, grasping at Dennis's hips and meeting what turns out to be the last thrust. The energy suddenly spirals inward, to the very core of him and he comes so hard and so long it hurts. Every nerve ending in his body is confused, screaming in pleasure and pain until they go numb and he's left prone and leaden on top of Daniel.

The awful tension that's been building in him--for months, maybe since just after he left Hogwarts--is gone.

Long minutes later, it's all he can do to disengage, and roll off of Daniel, who makes a disagreeable sort of huff and somehow shifts over so he can throw one leg over Dennis's.

He doesn't find the possessiveness objectionable—can't quite remember why he should. Nor does he know what time it is, only that more than half an hour has passed.

Colin hasn't called and Daniel hasn't said anything.

“Listen, are you . . . alright?” His voice is raspy, harsh. He's afraid to open his eyes and see the state of either of them.

“Alright? 'M bloody spectacular,” Daniel laughs, his own voice shaking and muffled by his pillow. “I'd applaud you, but I seem to 'ave misplaced m' bleedin' arms.”

After a horrified few seconds, Dennis lets out a sigh of relief when he realizes this is hyperbole. ”Good. I'm . . . glad you enjoyed it.”

“That's the understatement of--ever. My God, I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.”

That's worth summoning the energy to turn his head and open his eyes. Daniel's still on his stomach, eyes still closed, soot smeared all around them--dyed hair going every which way. He looks like a sexy, but exhausted clown till he opens them. Then he just looks . . . like himself, only well-fucked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Exactly what planet did you spend the nineties on?” Daniel asks, grinning. He suddenly looks uncomfortably younger than Dennis's original guesstimate of twenty.

“I was at boarding school,” he says lamely. It's his blanket response for times when the gaps in his pop-culture acumen become noticeable. This is one of those times, he suspects.

“At boarding school . . . on this planet?”

“Tosser.”

Daniel laughs and shifts closer, forsaking a perfectly good pillow to lay his head on Dennis's shoulder. His hair is soft, damp, and starting to curl slightly.

“So . . . who's Harry Potter?”

Dennis groans, trying to find irritation, ire--something to fend off this seemingly simple question . . . who's Harry Potter?

All he finds is old regret and scabbed-over hurt. Something he's got no interest in picking at. “I've relaxed my rule about letting . . . guests spend the whole night and already I regret it. How unforeseen!”

“Doestoevsky said 'sarcasm is the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded,'” Daniel says thoughtfully. Then: “But seriously . . . should I be jealous?"

"Er . . . why would you be?" This, at least, is genuine, if weary curiosity, and Daniel levers himself up to gaze at Dennis incredulously. Humor and playfulness dance in his eyes, at war with the jaded facade Dennis can still see if he squints a bit.

“Lessee . . . enormous cock I'll grant you, but blinding intelligence?” Daniel makes an apologetic moue, leaning in for a kiss. At first Dennis merely lets it happen, as he's not one for snogging--period, full stop. But Daniel is insistent, unhurried, and eventually Dennis is reciprocating. Then bemused and vaguely disappointed that it ends. “Sorry, mate. You're thicker than London fog, you are. Good thing for you I like 'em hung, cute, and clueless.”

“Best. Afterglow. Ever. I may never get out of bed,” Dennis dead-pans, running his hand down Daniel's warm back, lingering at the tattoo on the small. Upside down, it still stymies his eyes, but he has a feeling his tongue would have no problem following every twist and turn.

“He will ring you back, you know,” Daniel finally says, amidst a titanic yawn, tucking himself under Dennis's arm as if that's his right. No one's ever done that before, and Dennis isn't sure how to respond. By the time he decides he's not entirely unhappy about this development, Daniel's already made himself quite unshiftable, turning his face away from the false-dawn coming in through the window. “It'll all be fine. You'll see.”

Dennis doesn't reply, merely continues to stroke Daniel's back as his breathing evens out. It's comforting in the way petting a dog can be comforting.

It makes the time pass faster, anyway. Though the silence is deafening, somehow mocking.

“You . . . you don't have to be gone when I get back, you know,” he whispers, his face red despite the fact that Daniel can't see it. . . .

Despite the fact that Daniel has apparently fallen asleep.

Well, then. No time like the present. Especially since he doesn't fancy being glued to his sheets.

“Accio, wand.”

One moment there's a faint tug from underneath his mattress. The next, there's twelve and one quarter inches of sturdy English Yew--with a dragon heart-string core--sitting in his palm. He's taken by a sense of rightness he hasn't felt in a very long time. The magic seems to bubble up within him, like an overeager puppy rather than a roaring dragon, now. It's eager to be of use, to effect change. . . .

“Scourgify,” he murmurs, swishing and flicking at himself and his bedmate. There's a momentary tingle across his skin--Daniel mutters a bit, cuddles closer, but doesn't wake up.

By now, Dennis's eyes are starting to get terribly heavy. A glance at his mobile tells him it's half six.

You'd better not. Not without me, he thinks. Barely manages to grab the mobile, and tuck it and his wand under his pillow before sleep claims him.

*